Page 53 of When Kings Rise

I’m flustered as I enter the lobby. My parents stand together,with no sign of Ella. She will be with the production crew celebrating tonight.

My mother is the first to spot me. I blush, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Where were you? I want to get home,” she says.

I scramble to find an answer.

But she’s so caught up in her own thoughts that she waves me off. “The car is here, let's go.”

I follow my parents out of the theater and take one final look at the milling crowd in the lobby, but I don’t see Diarmuid. I hope I won’t have to wait long to see him again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Diarmuid

I'M DRIVING HOME; the night air is cool against my skin, and my mind is a tumultuous sea. The last remnants of Niamh's taste linger on my lips, and unconsciously, my fingers trace them, seeking more of her, more of that sweet, intoxicating essence. The streets are nearly empty, lit by the occasional streetlamp.

Three women. Each one is so different.

Amira. Her mistake was a crack in the otherwise impeccable facade she presented to the world. But who among us is without fault? My hope by placing her on the driveway the other night was to let her cool down. I need to go check on her and see if she has, in fact, calmed down.

Then there's Selene. Fierce doesn't even begin to cover it. She's a fortress with walls I've been trying to scale since the moment we met. Her resistance only fuels my desire, turning every encounter into a battle of wills I'm determined to win. There's something about the chase, the constant push and pull, that's exhilarating.

And Niamh. Sweet, delicate Niamh. Every moment with her is a tightrope walk between joy and despair. She's fragile, not in body but in spirit, and I fear the world I inhabit will shatter her. She deserves so much more, and I'm caught between wanting to give her everything and fearing that I'll be her undoing.

The ring of my cell phone cuts through my reverie like a knife. It's one of my men. “Boss, we've got a problem. The shipment's delayed.”

Right, the business. My life isn't just consumed right now by my Brides; there's the ever-present weight of my empire. Between juggling alliances and unearthing traitors, I’ve had to lean heavily on my crew. The O'Sullivan arms trade doesn't run itself, after all.

“There's more,” he hesitates, and in that pause, a cold shiver runs down my spine. I hear a murmur in the background, a voice that shouldn't be there. A voice I know.

Wolf.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather groaning under my fingers. Wolf's presence is never a harbinger of good news. He's the shadow in my already dark world, a reminder that there are always bigger predators lurking, waiting.

The turn of my wheel toward the Dublin Docklands is a decisive one, pulling me away from any lingering thoughts of checking in on Amira. Priorities constantly shift in my line of work, and the call involving Wolf demands immediate attention. The road stretches before me, leading to a place that blends day-to-day commerce with the undercurrents of a world unseen by most.

The Dublin Docklands, with its bustling activity and scenic views, is a veneer of normalcy and tourism. It's almost laughable how one of the country’s vital arteries, handling the lion's share of Ireland's imports and exports, doubles as a stage for criminal enterprises. Tourists flock here, oblivious to the underbelly, drawn by the promise of leisure and the charm of waterside eateries and sporting events. They wander, dine, and celebrate, all under the watchful gaze of cranes that toil in the distance.

I pull into a private space beside The Silent Prince Tavern, a pub that’s mastered the art of camouflage. Its exterior is a careful construction designed to appeal to tourists with its quaint charm and the allure of an old-world tavern. The sign swaying gently in the night breeze—a young prince, crowned and commanding silence with a finger pressed to his lips—is a fitting emblem for the secrets it guards.

Inside, the atmosphere is rich in Irish culture. The air is alive with the strum of folk music, a melody that's both balm and a blade, cutting through my thoughts. Around me, tourists and locals laugh and chatter. Televisions flicker with the vibrant greens of the Croke Park football field.

Alan, the head bartender, catches my eye from across the room. He signals to one of the bartenders and begins to make his way over. His approach is a casual saunter. No one gives us a second glance as we move together toward the back of the pub, the world of drinks and banter falling away with each step.

The door to the back office closes with a soft click, sealing us away from the lively pulse of the pub.

The office gives way to a hidden world behind a false wall. The sound of hissing kegs filters through as the front continues its normal operation of serving drinks. Inside, the air is cooler, filled with the scent of wood, and a quiet tension seems to fill the room. Organized crates line the walls while a group of men stand huddled around a table in the center.

Without hesitation, I address the matter at hand, my voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “Where's Wolf?”

“He just left before you arrived,” Alan says with a frown, like my line of questioning shouldn’t matter.

One of my men steps forward, worry clear in his expression. “The ship was supposed to have our order, but it arrived empty. Clients are waiting, Diarmuid.”

I approach the table, poring over the logs laid out before me. Two possibilities unfold in my mind: either our contacts faced unexpected trouble, redirecting our cargo to one of two alternate ships, or our shipment has been intercepted and stolen or discovered. Neither scenario bodes well for us.

“Who's on this?” I ask Alan.

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