Chapter 13 Ronan
RONAN
The sound of my father’s Mercedes SUV pulling up into the courtyard in the morning makes me swear aloud in the silence of my office.
I hadn’t known he was coming back, and I’m sure that’s by design—it’s possible that he never left Boston after the meeting yesterday, just to make me think I wouldn’t have to have another conversation with him for a while, so he could spring it on me.
I watch from my office window as he emerges from the backseat, his silver hair gleaming in the weak December sunlight. Even at sixty-two, he carries himself like the king he's always been in this world—spine straight, shoulders back, every movement projecting power and authority.
He should have gone back to Miami. I know that’s where he’d prefer to be. But he’s here, and that means that my morning has just gotten a whole hell of a lot worse.
Padraigh doesn’t bother knocking, just walks into my office like he owns it. Which, technically, he still does. "We need to talk."
"I figured as much, or you wouldn't still be here. Did you go back to Miami at all?"
He ignores me, taking the seat across from me in front of my desk. He unbuttons his expensive overcoat, but doesn’t remove it. The message is clear—this won't take long.
"I've been thinking about our conversation yesterday. About the situation with the girl."
I draw in a heavy breath. "Her name is Leila."
"I don't care what her name is." His voice is sharp, cutting. "What I care about is that my eldest son is making decisions with his dick instead of his brain."
The crudeness of the statement is designed to provoke, to make me defensive. It's an old tactic, one he's used since I was a teenager. But I'm not sixteen anymore, and I don't rise to the bait.
"My reasons for protecting her have nothing to do with sex."
"Don't they?" He leans back in his chair, studying me with his sharp gaze. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're willing to risk everything we've built for a piece of ass."
“Don’t talk about her like that.” The words come out harder than I intended, loaded with warning.
Padraigh's eyebrows rise slightly. In thirty-seven years, I've never spoken to him that way. Never challenged him so directly.
“Watch your mouth, son,” he orders quietly. “You’re speaking to your father.”
We stare at each other across the mahogany expanse of my desk, the air thick with tension and unspoken threats. Finally, he speaks again.
“I heard she tried to leave the property last night. That she used up resources and time that could have been better spent, trying to find her.”
“It took half an hour. She went for a walk too far from the house. We’ve discussed it.”
“So she’s clearly stupid.” His jaw tightens. “She’s a liability, Ronan. A problem that can be easily solved.”
“I’m not giving her back to him.”
“I’ve been talking to our associates. The people whose opinions matter at times like these.” My father’s gaze is unwavering. "The consensus is clear, Ronan. You're in an untenable position."
"Because I won't hand over an innocent woman to be tortured and raped."
"Because you stole something that belongs to Rocco De Luca, and now you're refusing to make restitution." His voice is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather. "In this world, perception is everything. And right now, the perception is that you're weak. Emotional. Compromised."
“You hate what Rocco does as much as I do.”
“Yes.” His voice is flat. “But we’re not waging a war on his business.
We’re settling a vendetta because he killed your wife and child.
This girl is a distraction, a complication.
It muddies the waters of why you’re doing this.
Everyone from the council to the lowest man who works for us can agree that Rocco should die for murdering your pregnant wife.
There are plenty of questions about whether or not it’s worth going to war over some girl who Rocco bought from a loan shark.
No one will die for that, Ronan. Your reasons for taking out the Italian don need to be clear, straightforward, and they no longer are. ”
“The Russians will back me.”
Padraigh gives me a level stare. “Ilya is on the fence. He doesn’t want to be dragged into this over some girl he doesn’t know.
Rocco is foaming at the mouth because you’ve stolen from him.
You're playing this all wrong. You're reacting instead of acting, letting De Luca call the shots because you're too attached to this girl to think strategically. You made a snap decision, and it’s complicated everything. "
If only he fucking knew. "I'm thinking perfectly clearly,” I lie, keeping my voice even.
"Are you?" He leans forward, his gaze intense. "Because I see a very simple solution to this problem."
I take a deep breath. "I'm listening,” I say, even though I know he’s going to tell me whether I want him to or not.
"You give the girl back to De Luca."
My teeth clench together. "Absolutely not."
"Hear me out." He holds up a hand. "You give her back, publicly. Make a show of it. Apologize for the misunderstanding, claim you didn't realize she belonged to him."
"She doesn't belong to anyone."
"In his world, she does. And in our world, what matters is that he thinks she does.
" Padraigh's voice takes on the tone he used when I was young and he was explaining some complex business concept.
"You give her back, you restore the peace.
The Bratva stays on our side. Ilya and the council see that you can be reasonable, that you're willing to make hard choices for the greater good. "
“And then what?” I glare at him. “You’re asking me to feed an innocent woman to a monster.”
"And then you take him out on your terms, not his.
" My father's expression is cold. "She is nothing, Ronan. What matters is that you are seen as strong. That others see your reason for killing Rocco as revenge for your wife, not for a dispute over some worthless girl. Rocco will take it as an olive branch, and you can make your plans without him putting pressure on you. You can move from a position of power instead of reacting to his violence.” His voice hardens.
"And if you can't see that, then maybe you're not ready for the responsibilities of leadership. "
The words cut deep, hitting exactly where he knows they'll do the most damage. I've spent my entire life trying to prove myself worthy of his respect, worthy of the O'Malley name. But not like this.
"I won't do it." My voice is hard as steel, and my father’s expression reflects the same.
"You won't do it, or you can't do it?"
"Both."
Padraigh stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "Then you're a fool."
“Better a fool than a monster,” I bite out. “At least I have a conscience.”
"Conscience doesn't keep your people alive, Ronan. Conscience doesn't protect your territory or maintain your alliances. Conscience is a luxury that men in our position can't afford."
"Then maybe I'm in the wrong position."
The words hang in the air between us like a challenge. I’ve never said anything like that before. Never even dared to think it. My father goes very still, his hard eyes fixed on my face.
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me." Even as the words come out, I know they’re not wise. Without my position, I can do nothing for Leila or her mother. I’d be in as much danger as her if my father disowned me and took back what he gave me to inherit. From the look on his face, he’s considering it.
"I heard you talking like a child having a tantrum because he can't have his toy." His voice drops to a dangerous register. "But surely I didn't hear the heir to the O'Malley legacy suggesting he's not up to the job."
"The job doesn't require me to sacrifice innocent people."
"The job requires you to make hard choices. To put the family above your personal feelings. To think beyond your own immediate desires." He moves closer to the desk, looming over me. "All things your wife's death should have taught you, if you'd been paying attention."
"Leave Siobhan out of this,” I snap.
"Why? Because it's uncomfortable? Because it reminds you that your emotional decisions have consequences?" His voice is brutal now, every word a blow. "Your wife died because you were too distracted to protect her. Are you going to let this girl be your distraction now?”
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, my hands flat on the desk between us. "That's enough."
He straightens, smoothing down his suit jacket. "You ignored her because you didn't love her, didn't want to deal with the complications of an unhappy wife. So she went looking elsewhere for attention, took risks she shouldn't have taken, put herself in dangerous situations."
"That was her choice." My jaw clenches. “I made mistakes, but she made the choice to put herself at risk. She wasn’t helpless or brainless. She wanted to hurt me, and she put herself in danger to do it.”
"Enabled by your neglect. And now you're doing it again, but from the opposite direction. Instead of ignoring this girl, you're obsessing over her. Either way, you're not thinking clearly."
The comparison stings because there's just enough truth in it to hurt. But this is different. Leila is different. I’m going to make sure it’s different.
"I made things worse for her by taking her from De Luca," I say quietly. "I put her in more danger, not less. I'm not going to compound that mistake by throwing her back to the wolves."
"Even if it means war?"
“Yes.” My voice is flat, final.
"Even if it means losing everything we've built?"
"Yes."
Padraigh stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the exact moment when disappointment transforms into something colder, more final.
"Then you're not the man I raised."
“Maybe that’s not who I want to be.”
He sniffs. “You don’t mean that. I’ll give you two days to think about it, Ronan. I’ll talk to the Russians. I expect you to rethink this decision. The girl goes back to De Luca, one way or another."
The threat is unmistakable. My own father is threatening to hand Leila over against my wishes, to undermine my authority in front of everyone who matters.
"You won't touch her." I bark the words, like I’m speaking to someone under me, and my father doesn’t flinch. He knows as well as I do the power he still has over me.
"Try to stop me."
We stare at each other for a long moment before he turns and leaves, his steps measured and precise—not storming out, just leaving.
I drop back into my chair, trying to process what just happened.
In thirty-seven years, I've never directly defied my father.
Never refused a direct order, never challenged his authority so completely.
The realization that I’ve just done so is terrifying.
I’ve never considered the difference between being a good son and being a good man. All my life, I've assumed they were the same thing. My father raised me to believe that family came first, that personal desires were secondary to the greater good of our organization.
But what happens when the family is wrong? What happens when the greater good requires sacrificing someone who doesn't deserve it?
I can’t hand Leila over.
I won’t.
No matter the cost to myself or to everything I’ve spent my life working toward.
I won’t let another woman die because of my mistakes.