Page 24 of When Kings Rise

As we finally reach the bottom of the hill, the cemetery gates loom before us, a threshold between the past and the present. For now, I focus on the steps ahead.

I don’t reset until we no longer bear the weight of the coffin and it’s lowered into the ground.

As we gather our family and Andrew’s friends around the grave, the world seems to hold its breath.

“Diarmuid,” Victor's voice cuts through the patter of raindrops, his tone carrying an edge of command that bristles against my already frayed patience.

I turn to face him, schooling my features into a mask of neutrality. “Victor,” I reply, my voice steady despite the storm raging within. “A fitting day for a funeral, wouldn’t you say?”

His eyes, sharp and calculating, meet mine. “Indeed. The heavens themselves seem to mourn the passing of an O’Sullivan.”

I nod, turning away to hide the flash of anger that I know flitters across my face. This is neither the time nor the place for his rub, reminding me that he suspects I am the one who put Andrew in the ground and will one day return for him.

A few more prayers are said over the grave before we all start to leave and find shelter from the harsh rain.

The dim lighting of our usual spot casts shadows across the table where Lorcan, Ronan, and I sit, nursing our drinks in silence. We have all removed our suit jackets and ties. Our shirts are a bit damp, but the heat in the bar will soon warm us up, and the brandies will heat our blood. It's a private corner we sit in at The Church bar, the usual spot we always meet. Today, it is our refuge from the chaos of our lives outside.

Movement close by has us all turning around. Wolf stumbles towards us, his gait uneven, a clear testament to how much he must have drunk already. I glance at Lorcan, and his features tighten.The two women trailing Wolf struggle to match his erratic pace, their expressions a mix of resignation and discomfort.

He opens his arms wide, and a smile that shows his teeth stretches across his face.

"Meet my escorts: $4000 and $3000," he slurs as he gestures to the women.

Lorcan raises an eyebrow, his response dry. "Clever names."

Wolf's grin widens, unfazed by the sarcasm. "I’m being realistic. It doesn’t matter what I call them because all I will ever see is what they cost."

Ronan leans forward, his tone laced with disbelief. "I didn’t think a man in your line of work would need to pay for prostitutes."

Wolf's laughter is loud, drawing glances from nearby tables; a wave of my hand has them looking away. If they keep looking, I’ll have them removed from the premises. "They are not for me, my beautiful cousins. They are yours. My wares. I brought them for you."

"How generous." Lorcan's reply is as sharp as a knife.

Wolf's expression shifts, the drunken facade slipping momentarily to reveal the cold businessman beneath. "I’m not being generous. I am paying you."

Ronan's eyes narrow. "This is a business transaction?"

I remain silent, observing the weight of the moment settling in. Wolf's actions are a grim reminder of the world we inhabit, where everything has a price, and everyone is a commodity. The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken questions and the harsh realities of our choices, of my choices. If he knew I took his father’s life, what would he do?

"They killed my fucking father!" Wolf’s sudden outburst slices through the murmur of the bar like a gunshot, silencing conversations mid-sentence. His pain, raw and unfiltered, hangs heavily in the air, a stark contrast to the drunken haze that had clouded his actions moments before.

Reacting swiftly, I snap my fingers to catch the attention of a nearby waitress. When she approaches, I give her a pointed look and a quick, discreet nod toward the women accompanying Wolf. "Take them to the main part of the bar," I instruct quietly, "and close the door behind you." She nods, understanding, and guides them away with practiced ease, leaving us in a bubble of sudden privacy.

As the door shuts with a soft click, Lorcan guides Wolf to a vacant seat at our table.

"Perhaps she should bring some coffee and water in, yes?" Lorcan suggests eyeing Wolf with a mix of concern and caution.

Wolf's reaction is immediate, a mix of anger and defiance. "Fuck, no! We are drinking tonight."

The weight of the moment is suffocating as I wait to see what Wolf will do. His gaze lands on me, and the drunkenness seems to dissolve. Around us, the bar slowly returns to its usual buzz, the patrons resuming their conversations, their laughter a distant echo against the backdrop.

Wolf finally looks away from me. “I’m drinking; I don’t give a fuck what you are doing.”

Ronan attempts to intervene. "I don’t think there is room in you for more alcohol," he says.

But Wolf is beyond reasoning, his grief morphing into a bitter resolve. "No, no, no. It’s never enough. It won’t be enough. Not until the son of a bitch that killed my father is dead. Not just dead. Mutilated. Did you hear what they did to him, Ronan? Did you hear?"

I nod, my expression somber. "We heard, Wolf. I’m sorry for your loss," I say, the words slipping out in a tone that suggests empathy. Inside, I'm amused, finding a dark humor in the situation. The irony of apologizing for a deed I did isn’t lost on me.

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