Page 23 of When Kings Rise

Hands of the King Edict Five

Any member of the order must be committed fully to the order. Personal goals must be cast aside. We live for the order. We live for the betterment of humanity.

THE RAIN FALLS in that persistent, unyielding way that only Irish weather can muster. Standing in the cemetery just outside of Dublin, my men cluster around me, their faces somber, their suits clinging to their bodies as the rain soaks everything. It's a scene straight out of a cliché film, yet here we are, living it in real-time. Only in Ireland would we stand in the rain like this and not think it odd.

The service at St. Gertrude’s was a grand affair. Victor's voice, steady and somber, had filled the church, recounting tales of a man whose life had been as complex as the family he left behind. The pews were packed with the O’Sullivan clan and our captains. Among the sea of mourners, I caught glimpses of the Hand of Kings members, their presence a stark reminder of the dual life my family led.

This gathering of secret societies, one hidden within the other, was a testament to the complicated legacy my uncle had woven around us all. And there, amid it all, was Aunt Alicia, her tears flowing with a practiced ease that bordered on theatrical. I knew her grief was expected. Andrew had never shown her kindness, ye, here she was, mourning him as though they'd been close.

Now, as we wait for his final arrival, I can't help but think of my uncle's last demand: a tour of Dublin before his burial.

A final power play from beyond the grave, I think bitterly. He always had to have the last word, even in death, ensuring we'd all be here, drenched and waiting, bound by duty and respect for tradition.

I'm pulled from my thoughts by the approach of one of my men, a newcomer whose name I'm still committing to memory. He rushes over, his apology for lateness nearly lost to the sound of the rain hitting the canopy of umbrellas above us.

"Everything came in just fine, Diarmuid," he says, catching his breath. Rainwater drips from the brim of his hat.

"And who is receiving it tonight?" I ask, shifting my focus to the matters that never seem to pause, not even for death. It reminds me of a poem by W.B. Yeats: in death, he had demanded that all the clocks stop, but time stops for no man.

"O’Boyle’s on it," he replies, oblivious to the immediate frown his answer draws from me.

"O’Boyle is on my shitlist," I snap. "Send him for collections. Have Hayes receive instead. We can't afford slip-ups, not now."

"Yes, sir," he responds quickly, turning to relay the instructions.

As he walks away, I turn my gaze back to the cemetery gates, anticipating the arrival of the hearse, my thoughts wandering back to my uncle's life and the intricate web of loyalty, betrayal, and power plays that define it. Even in death, he is still commanding us all. As we stand here, waiting to lay him to rest, I can't help but wonder about the future of the O’Sullivan clan and the secrets we're all bound to keep. Secrets I can’t let anyone find out about. My mind reels, thinking that maybe someone in this churchyard knows exactly what I have done.

The rain, relentless in its pursuit, turns the world into a blur of grays and greens by the time Victor arrives. His entrance is, as always, marked by an air of command. He is surrounded by his personal guard, a small group who are loyal to him to a fault and could take out most of us here.

Victor seems to move with deliberate slowness, or maybe it’s caution. The ground beneath our feet is slick with rain, glistening like a treacherous carpet under our footfalls. The slope that leads down to the O’Sullivan plot shouldn’t be used today, but we have no choice. Andrew has to be laid to rest.

I hope he never rests; I hope the demons are chasing him relentlessly through Hell like he deserves.I watch Victor navigate the slippery descent, and a part of me, dark and unforgiving, wishes to see him falter, to witness himfall and snap his fragile neck, yet the thought is fleeting, chased away by the deeper, more insidious desire that when Victor falls, it will be by my hand and not Mother Nature’s.

As Victor passes, the crowd parts, heads bowed in reverence or perhaps fear, whispering "Father" with a mixture of respect and obligation. The title, one he wears as both a mantle and a shield, grates on me. It’s a reminder of the power he wields within our family, a power that has shaped our lives in ways both seen and unseen.

The moment is broken by the arrival of the hearse, a sleek, somber vehicle that seems to absorb the light around it. Following close behind is a limo, from which Aunt Alica and Wolf emerge. I step forward, Lorcan and Ronan at my side, to meet them. Aunt Alica’s face, usually so composed, betrays a hint of the turmoil beneath, her eyes red-rimmed behind the veil of mourning. Wolf appears stoic, and he offers me a nod of acknowledgment.

As a further insult, Andrew named me as one of his pallbearers. I’m not sure if he knew all along I would take him down, and this was a final slap, or if he truly trusted me enough that he wanted me to carry the weight of his death.

Either way, my men step back as the coffin slides out with ease from the hearse. I’m ready to get this done and over with. I walk to my position, and when we are all ready, I heave the coffin onto my shoulder, and I begin the march toward the grave with the other pallbearers.

Rain drips into my eyes, and it drips off the coffin into the neck of my shirt.

As we make our way down the steep, grass-covered hill, the world seems to tilt beneath my feet. The weight of the casket on my shoulder is too much to bear with the slippery surface beneath. My footing completely slips.

Panic flares within me, hot and immediate. The casket lurches, threatening to escape our grasp and turn this procession into a farce. My legs strain against the sudden imbalance, muscles screaming in protest. In that heartbeat of chaos, a memory crashes through the dam of my consciousness.

I'm back there again, on the cold, unforgiving ground. My uncle's voice, a harsh, grating sound, bellows at me to rise. "GET UP! DAMN YOU, GET UP!" he screams, each word a lash against my already battered body. Pain is my world, a relentless sea in which I'm drowning. The threat of unconsciousness looms, only to be shattered by the cruel cold of a bucket of icy water.

In the shadow of that memory stands Oisin Cormick. He, the hitman whose quiet voice once suggested mercy might be mine. But his words were always lost on my uncle, drowned out by the roar of his own rage. The beatings never ceased, each one a test of my resolve to remain on my feet, to not give in.

But here, on this hill, with the weight of my uncle's casket threatening to drag us all down, something shifts within me. My foot turns sideways. My leg, the one still loyal, pushes against the earth with all the strength borne of years of enduring and overcoming. Muscles I didn't know I could still summon bulge and flex, and miraculously, the casket steadies.

The moment passes in a blur of effort and adrenaline, allowing the other pallbearers to regain their footing. We continue our descent, a bit more wary, but intact. The irony of fighting so hard to prevent the man who taught me about pain from tumbling into disgrace isn't lost on me. As much as part of me would have relished the fall, I can’t draw suspicion to myself. Everyone would wonder why I allowed it to happen.

And especially not today, with eyes watching. Always watching.

Someone among the gathered mourners knows the truth of what I did to my uncle.

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