Page 26 of Dark Prince

As we stride down the hallway together, the air between us is charged with anger, tension, and confusion. “Talk to me, Grigori. What do we know about the attacker? Who is he? And how the fuck did he get into my house?” I ask, eager to understand the assailant who dared to breach the safety of our home and put Maura in danger.

Grigori's response comes with a hint of a grin, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “We caught him alive. The guards are taking him downstairs as we speak, preparing him for a little personal time with you,” he says, the implication clear. The idea of facing this intruder head-on, of extracting the information we need directly, sparks a grim sense of satisfaction within me.

The notion of interrogation carries with it a weight of responsibility and a chance for retribution. It's a critical opportunity to gain insight into how we were breached and to learn how we can prevent any future attempts against us. Yet, as these thoughts solidify, the moment is shattered by the sudden ring of Grigori's phone.

He answers swiftly, his demeanor shifting from ambiguous to alert as he listens to the voice on the other end. I watch closely, noting the change in his expression and the sudden sharpness in his gaze. When he hangs up, the news he delivers cuts through the hallway's previously charged atmosphere like a cold blade.

“The assailant has escaped,” Grigori reports, his voice tight with frustration and disbelief. “He took out one of the guards that was escorting him. But he’s still on the grounds.”

We sprint down the hallway, urgency fueling our every step as I press Grigori for more details. “Where is he?” I demand, my voice a low growl of barely contained anger and concern.

“Near the garden,” Grigori replies, his tone just as biting. Our eyes scan ahead as we navigate the mansion's labyrinthine corridors, each turn bringing us closer to our target.

The pounding in my chest is relentless, a cacophony of adrenaline and determination as we burst through the final door. The cool night air greets us with a sharp bite. The garden looms ahead, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, a serene location suddenly transformed into a battlefield.

Amidst the eerie calm stands the assassin, cornered but defiant, a half-dozen of my security team already in position, their firearms drawn and aimed with deadly precision. The unknown man, in a desperate bid for survival or perhaps sheer defiance, reveals his own gun, a sinister grin splitting his face like an evil jack-o’-lantern. From across the garden, I watch as he turns his attention toward me.

Time seems to slow, every detail sharpening under the moon's watchful eye. I'm about to shout to my men to hold their fire, to take him alive. We need his intel—we might be able to find out who sent him and understand the depth of the threat against us. But the situation quickly escalates beyond any chance of shouting commands, the assassin's next move triggering a silent, deadly standoff.

Shit.

Without warning, the man raises his gun.

“No!” I shout, desperate to prevent what I know is going to happen next.

But it’s too late. My security detail opens fire. Gunshots begin popping off in the dark, orange flashes flickering across the garden, the smell of gunfire replacing the sweet scent of the beautiful blooms.

“Enough!”

The guards stop firing at once. As expected, the assassin is dead and lying in a heap on the ground.

There is a hushed silence; the only sounds are the soft night breeze and the collective, subdued breaths of my security team. With the immediate threat neutralized, I approach the downed man cautiously, my senses still heightened from the adrenaline rush.

Kneeling beside him, I examine him closely, searching for any clue that might reveal his motivations and affiliations. It's then that I spot it—a tattoo barely visible on his inner wrist beneath the sleeve of his dark attire. It's a Celtic cross, intricately designed, its lines sharp and deliberate. It's not just any tattoo; in our world, symbols like these are more than mere decorations. They connote allegiances and declarations and are symbols of honor.

A new resolve takes hold of me. The Celtic cross tattoo is a lead—a tangible piece of evidence in the shadowy world of loyalties and betrayals that define our existence. It's a clue that could unravel the mystery of who dared order someone to invade my home and threaten the person I hold most dear.

Turning to Grigori, I see the same realization reflected in his eyes. “This isn't over,” I state, the weight of my words heavy with promise and vindication. “This tattoo, it's a clue that could lead us directly to who's behind this.”

I won’t stop until I find them.

But first, I need to see my wife.

Chapter 15

Luk

Grigori, Lev, and I sit across from Declan O'Leary in the dim light of O’Malley’s, a traditional Irish pub, where there is a faint smell of aged whiskey in the air. The place has an authentic feel, with dark wood paneling and stained-glass windows casting colorful patterns on the floor. The din of muted conversations and laughter surrounds us. It's the kind of place where deals are made, and secrets are traded over a pint of good Irish stout.

We have come for answers, and I waste no time cutting to the chase.

“Declan,” I begin, “we've got a problem. Another assassination attempt on my wife—at my home, no less—and all signs point back to the Irish mob.”

Declan, with his easy smile and a twinkle in his eye, plays the part of the congenial host to perfection. But I'm not fooled. Behind that friendly façade lies a mind as sharp and as dangerous as any blade. Declan is the head of the O'Leary crime family and is known for his brutality as much as his business acumen. A man doesn't rise to the top of Dublin's underworld by being nice.

Declan leans back, feigning surprise, but there's a calculating look in his eyes. “Luk, my friend,” he responds in his heavy Irish brogue, “that's a serious accusation. You know I'd never sanction such a thing against you.”

I lean forward, locking eyes with him. “Maybe it didn’t come from you but it was a member of an Irish mob, no doubt about it. There was a Celtic cross tattoo on his wrist. Ring any bells?”

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