Page 30 of When Kings Rise

"I’m afraid I don’t understand your question, Father," I finally say, attempting to mask my discomfort with confusion. Isaac's gaze meets mine.

"Or you are afraid to answer it," he counters gently.

"Maybe," I concede, the word barely a whisper. Admitting even this much feels like standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure of the fall.

Isaac's tone softens. "Whatever your relationship with that man, please let me give you a warning." It’s not his tone or his body language that sends off all the alarm bells in my body; it’s his gaze. He’s afraid.

"He has a job. This job is important for his employers. It is a job that no one else can do quite as well or as…eagerly." His choice of words sends a chill down my spine, bringing to mind the O’Sullivan mafia ties.

My mind races, trying to piece together Isaac's cryptic message. Before I can form a response, he continues, "There are bad people in this world, my child. The worst kind performs the worst sins imaginable, and they do it for pay. You see, there was this child—"

His revelation is abruptly cut off by the sound of footsteps. Someone emerges from the dining room, passing us with a glance before disappearing down the corridor.

“A child?” I’m clasping the priest's arm.

He appears uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I’ve said too much.” The priest glances into the bustling dining room.

“You’ve said nothing.” I want to know what he is saying. “Did Diarmuid hurt a child?” Revulsion tightens my core.

The priest shakes his head, but something doesn’t feel right. “But he hurts people?” I prod quietly.

The priest doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. I see it in his gaze.

Oh god. My mind trips and races over his earlier words. “He has a job; this job is important to his employers.” If he’s part of the mafia and hurts people, does that make him a hitman?

The realization crashes into me with the force of thunder: Diarmuid is a hitman. My mind races, trying to reconcile the man I thought I knew with the stark reality Isaac's words have painted.

As we approach the grand doors of the main dining room, Isaac's gesture for silence—fingers pressed to his lips—halts any questions I might have had. The bustling energy of the room engulfs us. I find my seat beside Niamh, scanning the room for familiar faces. The absence of Amira and Diarmuid doesn’t surprise me.

"Where are they?" I whisper to Niamh, trying to sound casual.

"Diarmuid led Amira outside," she replies, her tone indifferent.

I lean closer to Niamh, my voice low but urgent. "Don't go off alone with Diarmuid. Stay beside me for the rest of the night, all right?" The protective instinct in me flares to life, a fierce need to protect her from the man we are both promised to.

I watch as Diarmuid and Amira enter the dining hall. Both of them are a bit disheveled looking. Disgust makes my stomach turn.

He deserves Amira. I can't bring myself to eat, my appetite stolen by the revelation of Diarmuid's true nature. My gaze fixates on him, a silent accusation. Disgust bubbles within me.

A part of me knows I should act pleasant; after all, I was groomed for him. My parents' warnings echo in my mind, foretelling dire consequences if I fail to secure my place by his side. Yet, at this moment, their threats feel distant.

My resolve hardens, a defiant flame burning away any lingering doubts. I refuse to bind my fate to a killer's.

After pushing my food around my plate and listening to distant babble and Amira’s loud giggles, I excuse myself from the table.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” I say as I stand. I don’t look at Diarmuid or Amira but focus on Niamh. She rises straight away. “Me, too.”

Niamh follows me upstairs, where there are no guests. I know there is a bathroom up here that we used before when we were requested to go to gatherings with Diarmuid.

It's our little haven, a brief respite from the calculated smiles and watchful eyes. As we close the door behind us, the clamor of the party below fades to a distant murmur, and I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the conversation ahead.

"I found out something about Diarmuid," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. The weight of the secret presses against my chest. “He’s a hitman.” Saying it out loud causes my stomach to tighten.

Niamh’s reaction is immediate. She covers her mouth with her hand and turns away. “The day he took me to church, he stopped at a post box and had me get an envelope out of it. When I gave it to him, he said it was from Victor, and the name on it was the person he was commanded to kill.”

Oh God. Revulsion pours through me, but along with it comes fear. It’s true. He’s a hitman and for Victor.

"What are we going to do?" she asks, her voice tinged with a vulnerability I've rarely heard from her. The question hangs in the air. I have no idea. It’s not like we can walk away from Diarmuid.

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