Epilogue
Atara
"Dominic," I say, tapping the stylus against the glass whiteboard. "If you look closely at the fourth column, you’ll see a six percent discrepancy in the Las Vegas logistics report. I don’t care if you’re routing the cash through slot machines, dummy corporations, or a chain of artisanal dog washes.
You do not leave a paper trail that looks like a toddler’s drawing. "
The sub-basement war room is completely silent. Dominic, a fifty-year-old capo with a scar running from his eye to his jaw, actually shrinks back an inch in his leather chair. He looks at the digital spreadsheet like it’s a bomb.
"I... we had a system, Atara," Dominic mutters, adjusting his heavy gold watch. "We’ve used that shell company for three years."
"And for three years, you've been overpaying your state taxes by twelve grand annually because you didn't account for the regional depreciation of your transport fleet," I counter, crossing my arms. I lean back against the mahogany table, the cotton of my blue maternity dress stretching tight over my massive stomach. "It’s bad risk management, Dominic. It’s practically a charitable donation to the IRS, and I do not run a charity. "
Echo lets out a quiet snort from his seat by the door, quickly covering his mouth when I cut my eyes to him. Kieran is leaning against the back wall, systematically cleaning a blade with a rag, a faint grin on his face.
"She's right, Dom," Kieran says, not looking up. "You're bad at math. We've established this."
"I am a capo, not an accountant," Dominic grumbles, crossing his arms.
"Well, currently, I am both," I say, stepping forward to transition to the next slide. "Now, if we look at the—"
I stop.
The sentence dies in my throat. A sharp, sudden, and incredibly rude squeeze right in the lower half of my abdomen makes my lungs completely freeze. My hand drops to the edge of the table, my fingers digging into the polished wood to keep my knees from buckling.
Oh. That’s... that’s not a drill.
"Atara?" Echo asks, his chair scraping against the concrete floor as he stands up. "You okay? You went white."
"I am fine," I say, keeping my voice perfectly level. I take a slow, shallow breath, waiting for the squeeze to pass. It takes twenty agonizing seconds. "I am completely fine. However, we are going to have to pause the briefing on the transport depreciation."
Kieran stops cleaning his knife. "Why?"
"Because my uterus is currently executing a hostile takeover," I say, closing my laptop with a quiet, decisive click. I look up at the room full of men who are paid to erase people for a living. "Someone go get Lorcan."
For two seconds, nobody moves, the war room filled with silence.
And then, the panic hits.
It is, without a doubt, the most humiliating display of collective cowardice I have ever witnessed in my entire life. These are men who have faced federal indictments, rival syndicates, and active gun battles without so much as a twitch in their jaws.
Dominic jumps out of his chair so fast he knocks the leather seat over, the heavy wood crashing into the floor. "What do you mean? Now? Is it happening now?"
"Her water didn't break!" Sean yells from the back, his face going a pale, sickly shade of green. "Sean, you idiot, does the water have to break first? I don't know! Google it!"
"Echo, call the clinic!" Kieran barks, dropping his knife onto the table with a clatter. "No, wait, call the boss first! Where’s the phone? Who has the secure line?"
"I'm dialing! I'm dialing!" Echo shouts, his fingers flying across his tablet with a frantic, trembling speed that is entirely uncoordinated. "Fucking hell, the screen is locked! What’s the bypass code again?"
"It's my birthday, you giant, brainless gorilla!" I yell over the noise, my hand still clamped onto the table as a second, smaller contraction twinges. "The code is my birthday!"
The door to the war room is shoved back on its hinges with a violent, booming crash that rattles the light fixtures.
Lorcan stands in the threshold. He is in his charcoal trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his face is completely devoid of color. He looks wild, his hair a mess, his smoke-and-ice eyes locked onto me with a frantic, terrifying focus.
"Atara," he says. His voice is a low, raspy vibration that carries absolutely zero of his usual Don-like authority. He is shaking.
"Hi, Lorcan," I say, offering him a small, tight smile. "You're thirty seconds late. I was about to start docking your pay."
He crosses the war room in three massive strides, ignoring his lieutenants, ignoring the knocked-over chair, and stops right in front of me. He reaches down and, before I can even draw a breath to protest, he scoops me up into his arms, lifting my heavy, pregnant body off the table.
"Lorcan, put me down!" I shriek, my hands flying to his shoulders. "I have legs! I can walk to the garage! This is incredibly undignified!"
"Shut up, Kisa," he growls, his chest heaving against my side as he turns toward the door. "We're going."
"We are in the middle of a strategic planning session!
" I yell, looking over his shoulder at the war room.
Kieran, Echo, and Dominic are standing in a huddle, watching us go with expressions of pure, unadulterated relief.
"Kieran! Take notes on page nine! Dominic, do not touch the shell accounts until I get back! "
"I won't! I promise!" Dominic shouts after us, sounding like a kid whose teacher just left the room.
Lorcan carries me through the foyer, his boots slamming against the marble with a rapid, relentless pace. My hands are bunched in the collar of his shirt, my nose pressed against the side of his neck. He smells like sandalwood and pure, high-octane panic.
"If you drop me, O’Shea," I murmur as we hit the garage, "I will personally audit you into bankruptcy from my grave."
"I'm not dropping you," he mutters, sliding me into the passenger seat of the armored Suburban. He climbs in after me, slamming the door, and hits the engine.
The ride to the private medical clinic is a blur of desert road and Lorcan driving like a getaway driver after a bank heist. He has one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the other wrapped tightly around mine.
He is pressing his thumb against my knuckles, over and over, a repetitive, frantic motion.
"You're cutting off my circulation," I say, looking at our joined hands. "I need my fingers to count the hospital bill."
"I don't care about the bill," he growls, eyes fixed on the empty highway. "Breathe, Atara. The doctor said you have to breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm actually very good at it. You, on the other hand, look like you're about to have a stroke." I shift in the seat, wincing as another contraction ripples through my abdomen.
This baby is definitely early, I think, my mind running the numbers. Ten days early. She’s already ignoring the schedule. She’s definitely yours, Lorcan.
By the time we reach the clinic, the staff is already waiting. Lorcan doesn't let them wheel me in; he carries me through the doors himself, his jaw set so hard the muscle in his cheek looks like iron.
The next few hours are chaotic, painful, and entirely noisy.
I am sitting in the delivery bed, my hair a wild tangle of curls, sweat dampening my collar.
I have said several highly specific things to the lead obstetrician about his medical credentials that I will absolutely not repeat in front of my daughter.
Lorcan is standing beside the bed, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, looking like he’s just gone through a war. He hasn't left my side once. His hand is still holding mine, and at this point, my fingers are completely numb.
"Atara," he whispers, his forehead resting against mine as I squeeze his hand through another contraction. "You're doing good. Almost there."
"If you say 'almost there' one more time, Lorcan O’Shea, I will throw this medical monitor at your head," I gasp, my breath coming in short, ragged hitches.
The door to the delivery room clicks open, and a nurse slides inside, looking slightly terrified. She walks over to the side of the bed and holds out a small, folded piece of paper.
"What is that?" Lorcan growls, his eyes snapping to her.
"A... a message, sir," the nurse squeaks, keeping her eyes on the floor. "From the young lady in the waiting room. She said it was urgent."
I snatch the paper from her hand, unfolding it with my one free hand.
Maeve.
I read the messy, uneven handwriting:
Dear Atara, Maeve says to tell you the baby better have dark hair because yellow does not suit our family. Also, Kieran let me eat three ice creams. Love, Maeve.
A small, breathless laugh escapes my throat, the tension in my chest easing just a fraction. "She’s commandeering the nurses, Lorcan. Your daughter is officially running the clinic."
"She’s your daughter too," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. "Which means the hospital won't survive the night."
"Push, Atara," the doctor says from the end of the bed. "One more. Let's go."
I just grip Lorcan’s hand with every ounce of stubborn, fierce strength I have left in my bones, and I push.
And then, the room is filled with it.
It isn't a quiet sound. It is a loud, incredibly opinionated, and highly indignant scream that rings off the sterile walls of the clinic.
The doctor lifts the baby, and for a second, the entire world goes completely, beautifully quiet.
Lorcan’s hand goes loose in mine. I look up at him, and the ruthless, terrifying Don of the West Coast is standing there with his mouth slightly open, his grey eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden, heavy wetness he can’t lock down in time.
He goes completely silent, the specific, heavy silence I’ve learned means he is feeling something far too large for words to carry.
"It's a girl," the nurse whispers, wrapping the screaming bundle in a pink blanket and laying her on my chest.
She is tiny. Her skin is flushed pink, her head covered in a thick tuft of dark, ink-like hair, and her eyes are squinched shut as she lets out another furious wail. She is perfect. She is a disaster. She is ours.
Lorcan slowly sinks onto the edge of the bed, his large, rough hand trembling as he reaches out to touch the soft, damp curve of her cheek. His thumb, usually so good at holding weapons, is incredibly gentle.
"She has your mouth," he whispers, his voice thick and cracked.
"God help you," I breathe, my eyes filling with tears as I look from our daughter to him. "You're going to be outnumbered, Don O’Shea."
"I'm aware," he says, a slow, genuine smile finally spreading across his face, the one that reaches his eyes, turning the woodsmoke into gold. He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my skin. "You’re extraordinary, Atara."
"I know,"
I look around the room. I look at the dark curls of my husband's hair, the tiny, screaming miracle on my chest, and the quiet desert night burning bright outside the window.
Two years ago, I boarded a plane to Ireland in a graduation dress, thinking my trajectory was ruined. I thought I was a variable someone had solved and discarded.
I had no idea what reclaiming myself would actually mean. I had no idea that the numbers would lead me here, to a concrete fortress, a six-year-old who looks for fairies, and a monster who became my anchor.
I reach up, my fingers tangling in the dark curls at the nape of Lorcan’s neck, pulling him down for a slow, deep kiss that tastes like salt, sweat, and home.
The crown still fits. It just got a little heavier.
In the best possible way.
The End.
Thank you for reading The Irish King's Obsession. Your support means everything to me.