Page 54 of When Kings Rise

His response, a single name, Fergal, does little to quell the churn of thoughts in my mind. “Is Fergal up to this?” I press.

Alan's nod is firm. “He's earned his stripes, Diarmuid. Been through the fire with us.”

“Where was the shipment coming from?” I ask.

“Russia.”

The thought of Russia tightens the coil of tension in my gut. International complications are the last thing we need.

As we agree to wait for word from Fergal, Alan pulls me aside, his voice low. “Should we get the others involved?” he whispers.

“The others?”I question.

“Yeah, you know, the others.” Alan raises both brows.

I know he’s referring to the Hand of Kings. The O’Sullivans have navigated treacherous waters before without needing the Hand of Kings’ help. “The O’Sullivans have been handling shit like this for centuries,” I assert firmly. “We just need to know what screw needs twisting. Get on that.” My voice leaves no room for argument.

As I step back into the lively atmosphere of the bar, the familiar sights and sounds wrap around me like a cloak. In another life, or perhaps just a different chapter of my own, I would have melted into this scene with ease. The counter, the clink of glasses, the hum of conversation—a backdrop against which I'd play out the night's possibilities. The apartments above, silent witnesses to countless nights where I’ve brought women to fuck. Yet, tonight, that doesn’t interest me.

Maybe I am starting to feel something for one of my Brides. With that thought, I find myself at the counter, not to find a woman to fuck, but to seek the simple comfort of whiskey. The bartender places a white napkin in front of me before placing a freshly poured whiskey on top of it. The amber liquid holds a promise of temporary respite, a fleeting escape.

As I lift the glass, the presence of another at my elbow pulls me back to the present. Wolf. His appearance is both unexpected and not. He apparently didn’t go too far.

“Why are you here?” I ask and bring the drink to my lips. I take a sip.

“I’m an O’Sullivan, too. There is no reason why I can’t be here. It’s part of my family's history.”

I drink half the glass before turning to Wolf.

“Bullshit,” I call out. I wasn't born yesterday.

“Fine.” Wolf shrugs. “I was looking for you. I’m going stir crazy since our meeting with Victor.” Wolf speaks too loudly but I don’t get to scold him as he turns to the bartender and raises two fingers, beckoning him forward.

“You have to sit tight,” I say and finish my drink. Staying here with Wolf isn’t something I want to do.

“Get me a whiskey,” Wolf orders the bartender, who looks at me. I shake my head letting him know I don’t want any more.

“How is Amira?” Wolf asks.

The mention of Amira, said so casually from Wolf's lips, ignites a fury within me that's hard to contain. “Why the hell are you interested in her?” My question is a demand.

“Relax, Diarmuid. I've just got something for her.” His words, meant to diffuse, only fan the flames. The notion that Amira might need something from him, that there's a connection there I'm unaware of, is intolerable. “Anything she needs can go through me,” I assert, a line drawn in the sand.

“I’m afraid that this isn’t something that can simply be handed over, Diarmuid,” He picks up his drink and takes a swallow.

Who the fuck does he think he is? I take a step toward him, thinking I could break him like I broke his father. Would he scream and plead as loud as his father? I'm sure Wolf would cry and offer up anything or anyone just to save his skin. My hands reach out and grab Wolf by the collar of his jacket. His brows shoot up as if he’s surprised that I’m pissed.

Alan appears on the far side of Wolf, and he is the only thing that prevents me from hurting Wolf. A nod from me has Alan stepping back. I can control myself. I release Wolf, but he doesn’t appear to be relieved that I didn’t hurt him. His eyes tighten in anger.

“You are always protected, watched over.” A bitterness enters Wolf’s voice as he watches Alan walk away, and when Wolf turns back to me, he gives a laugh. “Of course, I can’t touch Diarmuid O’Sullivan. Not in his own place.”

Is he fucking mocking me?

“Lorcan is protected by his political circle. Ronan is protected by the thugs he can hire through his business contacts.” Angry words roll from his tongue before he comes to the punchline.

“It’s obvious Victor is planning to cut me out of my inheritance.”

I find myself momentarily at a loss for words. The O'Sullivan family, my family, is indeed a well-oiled machine, each cog turning in unison even amidst the turmoil of our patriarch's decline. Victor's silence on the matter of succession has left us in a state of suspended anticipation, each of us awaiting his signal to align ourselves accordingly.

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