Page 35 of Dark Prince

The bartender, a stocky man with a face as weathered as the bar he tends, approaches our booth with a cautious curiosity. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asks with a thick brogue—no doubt a first-generation immigrant like myself. The look he gives me makes it clear he knows exactly who I am.

I lean forward; my tone is casual yet commanding. “We're looking for information. There's been some trouble, and we believe it's connected to someone from around here.”

The bartender's eyes narrow slightly as he raises his chin, suspicion and recognition flashing through them. “Trouble, aye? We've got no shortage of that around here. But I'm not sure how much help I can be to you lads.”

Lev chimes in, his voice smooth and reassuring. “We're not here to cause problems. We just need to understand what's going on and why.”

I nod, adding, “It concerns the safety of someone very close to us. We think there's a connection here. Any information you have could be crucial and will be very much appreciated.”

The bartender pauses, considering our words. Then, with a resigned sigh, he sits down opposite us. “All right, I'll hear you out. But I can't promise anything. This place, these people, we look out for our own, just as I suspect your kind does.”

I acknowledge his stance with a nod. “Understood. And we respect that. But believe me when I say the safety of my wife is non-negotiable. We will seek out the information we need, one way or another.”

“And what is it exactly that you’re looking to find out?” he asks.

“Sharon Flanagan. Or Sharon Halsey, as she was known before her marriage. I want to know everything you know about her.”

I notice a flicker of recognition in his eyes—a spark that tells me we're about to wade into dangerous waters. “Sharon, aye?” he muses, leaning closer as if the walls themselves might be eavesdropping. “Now, that's a name I haven't heard in a good while around these parts.”

Lev and I exchange a look, both of us sensing the shift in the air. “You know, I don’t believe that one bit.”

The bartender hesitates, glancing around the dimly lit pub as if reassessing the wisdom of speaking freely. “Look, as I said before, I don't want any trouble,” he says, his voice lowering. “But if you're going to be asking about Sharon, you should know this place has a history with her.”

Lev shifts his posture, his demeanor commanding. “We're not here to stir up the past for no good reason. Trust me when I say there is a purpose behind every move we make and every question we ask.”

Taking a deep breath, the bartender begins to unravel the tale. “This pub,” he begins, “was started by my father. And from what I’ve heard, it was like a second home to Sharon when she was a teenager. She skipped more classes than she attended, always trying to prove she wasn't your average Catholic schoolgirl. She was ambitious, even back then. She made friends with some of the local lads who had connected families, families like the ones Rory Murphy comes from.”

I absorb his words, each piece adding depth to the puzzle of Sharon's past. “Rory,” I echo, the name carrying more weight now. “So, this is where she pulled him into her orbit?”

“That's right,” the bartender confirms. Rory was just another kid from the neighborhood in those days. But Sharon had plans—always did. She brought him into the fold, you could say. She helped him rise up the ranks until he became her right-hand man, her bodyguard. That boy would do anything for her.”

The pieces begin to click into place, a clearer image of Sharon's manipulation and immoral ambition emerging from the bartender's account. Her influence, it seems, started much earlier than anyone realized, sowing seeds that would grow into the tangled web we're now trying to unravel.

“Thank you,” I say to the bartender, my words genuine. “It's clear Sharon's been playing the long game.”

The bartender nods. “I know you lads are more than capable of handling yourselves but be careful; Sharon's got a reach and a reputation around here. Not all of it is good.”

Lev and I listen intently, absorbing every detail. “There's always been talk,” the bartender says with a hint of disdain, “about Sharon and Rory being more than just employer and bodyguard if you catch my drift. It's business; Rory was just a lad.”

I nod, the implications clear. “And after she married Mickey Flanagan?” I press, wanting to understand the full scope of her betrayals.

The bartender shrugs. It’s a gesture that conveys the open secret of their relationship. “No one could prove anything, but let's just say Rory's been more than just a shadow to Sharon. He's her enforcer, her confidant, and probably more.”

Lev leans back, his expression darkening at the thought. “And what of her leadership? How's she managing the Flanagan family?” he asks, his interest piqued by the bartender's earlier insinuations of incompetence.

The bartender lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Leadership? If you want to call it that. Sharon's got pride to spare but not the sense to back it up. She's been trying to fill her father's shoes and now Mickey's, but she's stumbling. Her attempts to keep the Flanagan name afloat are pathetic, frankly. She's squandering what's left of her father's legacy, and Mickey's along with it.”

I glance at Lev, both of us recognizing the gravity of the bartender's words. Sharon's actions, driven by pride and a lack of competence, have put at risk not just the Flanagan legacy but also Maura and our family. But to what end?

“Any specific machinations we should be aware of?” I ask, my tone hardening. “Anything that could explain the attempts on my wife’s life?”

The bartender leans in again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Yeah, there’s been some buzz about that. It’s an awful thing. The word is Sharon's desperate. She's been making risky moves, trying to shore up her position, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. There's talk of debts—big ones—owed to some dangerous people. Apparently, she’s used up her inheritance from Mick, and now she’s playing a dangerous game that she's not equipped to win.”

More pieces of the puzzle fall into place, forming a clearer picture of Sharon's desperation and the lengths she's willing to go to maintain a semblance of power.

As the bartender concludes his tale, Lev and I share a glance, our minds racing with the implications of his words. “Thanks again for the information and for taking the time to speak with us,” I say, offering a nod of appreciation. You've given us a lot to think about.”

The weight of Maura's safety hangs heavy between us, coloring every word as we watch the bartender make his way back across the pub.

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