Page 28 of Dark Prince

Vic's words paint a picture I'm all too familiar with. The Flanagans, once a name that commanded respect and fear in equal measure, were now a shadow of their former glory. Maura's disinterest in taking the reins is something I've known and respected, and Sharon's superficial grasp on power is a detail that doesn't surprise me in the least.

“What about the Halseys? Sharon's lot?” I press. My voice is hard and demanding.

Vic can't help but laugh, a derisive sound that tells me all I need to know before he even speaks. “The Halseys? They're nothing. A smaller fall from grace compared to the Flanagans', but a fall nonetheless.” He shakes his head, taking another leisurely sip of his wine. Sharon thought she was stepping up when she married into the Flanagans. She dreamed it would be her ticket to the big leagues.”

He leans back, his smirk widening as he continues: " The Halseys have been easy to push around since Sharon's old man passed. But that Sharon… she’s somewhat of an unknown. She’s power-hungry, no doubt about it. And when power-hungry people get their taste, they don’t step away from it so easily.

“The point is,” Vic adds as his eyes lock onto mine, his tone more serious, “everyone fears the Bratva. The Italians, the Irish—everyone. No one in their right mind would go after a Bratva bride on her wedding night. It's not just bad for business; it's a death wish.”

I lean back in my chair. “Everyone fears the Bratva, huh?” my voice is sharp like a blade. "I hope that includes you."

Vic's laughter rings out, a sound of confidence rather than defiance. “Yes, Luk, I know where I stand in the pecking order. I like my place and have no interest in stirring up trouble. I’ve got a cozy operation running.”

He meets my gaze with a newfound seriousness. “And that's why I'll be the first to let you know if there’s chatter.”

“Good,” I reply, the single word heavy with intent. “Because I'm going to get to the bottom of this. And I'll remember who helped me—and who didn't.” The threat hangs in the air, its effect immediate. Vic's demeanor shifts, a touch more compliant, a subtle nod acknowledging the power dynamics at play.

As we stand to leave, Vic calls out to one of his men. “Bring out a crate of that fine Brunello di Montalcino for Mr. Ivanov as a token of my gratitude.”

As we leave the restaurant, Vic’s assistant follows with the crate of wine. We reach our car and get in as the crate is loaded into the trunk. The rain—cold and relentless—seems an almost fitting reflection of the path that lies ahead: dark, uncertain, and fraught with danger, but a path I'll navigate with the full force of the Bratva at my back.

Vic's cooperation and his willingness to share what he learns is a start. But in the grand scheme of things, it's just one piece of a larger puzzle.

Someone dared to target my family, to disrupt the fragile balance of power with a bold, calculated move.

And for that, they'll answer to me.

Chapter 16

Maura

Ihave two secrets I am holding onto—ones that could ultimately change everything. The first is that I know more about the hitman than I've let on, juicy intel that I've been withholding, waiting for the right moment to reveal.

The second? I'm going to sneak out, and nobody will be the wiser. It's the perfect afternoon for an unauthorized adventure, and with Luk out for the day, there's no chance of him catching wind of my little escapade.

Two months have passed since the whirlwind wedding, moving into the mansion, and taking on the role of Luk’s wife. At times, I feel like a caged songbird, and I need to get some air, stretch my legs, and remind myself what freedom feels like, even if for only a little while.

“I'll be taking a long bath, then a nap. I’m feeling a little under the weather and wish to be left alone,” I tell the staff, my voice dripping with feigned weariness. They buy it, nodding sympathetically, completely unaware of the plot I'm hatching.

I've been watching the guards closely, learning their patterns and routines, and now, armed with this knowledge, I'm ready to make my move. I call an Uber, instructing the driver to pick me up on a side street down the block from the mansion. Once my transportation is set, I get dressed, grab the small handbag I’ve prepared, quietly leave my room, and make my way downstairs.

The timing has to be perfect. When one guard rounds the corner and another momentarily disappears inside, I seize my moment. My heart is beating a little faster, not from fear but from the sheer thrill of defying the intricate security measures designed to keep me safe.

As I sneak across the property, every step perfectly calculated, I'm overcome by the feeling of freedom. It's been ages since I've been able to blend in with the city anonymously. Thinking about the information I’ve received about the assassin, I can't help but feel like I'm holding onto a ticking time bomb. But for now, this is my little adventure, my middle finger to danger.

I reach the Uber and get into the back seat, telling the driver to go quickly. We take off, driving away from the mansion, and soon, I feel the city's energy pulsing around me. It's like I'm rediscovering a piece of myself that was buried beneath Sharon’s strictness, the unexpected wedding, and the double-assassination attempt. I'm still on high alert, however, so I’m in disguise. I wear a Cubs cap and jersey, black-rimmed glasses, faded jeans, and Converse sneakers. I want to look like anyone but Maura Ivanova.

I head back to my roots—Bridgeport, the old neighborhood steeped in Irish culture. The walls of the houses here hold stories told by generations, and the smell of fresh bread mixes with that unmistakable hint of peat smoke, pulling me back in time.

I instruct the driver to stop and get out. The familiar streets wrap around me like a warm hug. But it's St. Brigid's Church that's calling me. It stands proud and inviting at the end of the block. It's more than just a building, it's a piece of my history, a silent witness to the highs and lows of my family's life, a teacher who never stopped teaching.

The sight of St. Brigid's stirs mixed emotions in me—nostalgia, longing, and a touch of mourning for the simplicity of the days spent within its walls. But I'm not there to reminisce; there's a purpose to my visit, a need to connect the dots of my past to the dangers of my present.

Stepping inside the church, a familiar air surrounds me, dense with the scent of incense and polished wood. Sunlight filters through stained glass windows, casting vibrant patterns across the stone floor, each ray illuminating scenes of saints and biblical tales.

I spot Father Samuel McCarry near the altar, his back to me as he tends to the candles. He's aged since I last saw him, his once dark hair now a silvery gray, but still, there's a vigor in his movements. He wears clerical clothing under a vestment, the outer fabric hanging loosely on his frame.

“Father McCarry?” I call out softly, not wanting to startle him.

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