Page 11 of When Kings Fall

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. With Jack acting so unnatural, it’s almost a relief to see that Ronan, at least, hasn’t changed. He’s always been the cynical one, never one for sentiment or empty praise.

Lorcan turns back to Ronan, a small frown creasing his brow. “Wolfe was our uncle’s heir,” he says as if stating a fact that needs no further discussion. But there’s an edge to his voice, a hint of the tension that simmers beneath the surface.

Ronan leans back in his chair, his expression as unimpressed as ever. “Wolfe was an imbecile. Let’s face it. I’m only home when Victor calls me or when Diarmuid fucks something up. You’re too involved with the national government to be a successful Don. Diarmuid’s appointment is more of a participation trophy than a win.”

My jaw tightens for a brief moment, but I don’t bite. Ronan’s words, usually sharp enough to get under my skin, slide off me this time. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m now the official Don, or maybe I’ve just grown numb to my brother’s perpetual disdain. Either way, the usual anger doesn’t flare up. Ronan has always been this way—an asshole, through and through. Whether it’s due to his constant travels or being the third in line for anything that matters, he never misses a chance to take a jab at me.

In our younger years, these comments would have sparked an immediate brawl, with the two of us wrestling on the ground while our mother pleaded for us to stop. Even just a few weeks ago, I nearly took a swing at him. But that was before. Things are different now. I’m not just another O’Sullivan brother anymore—I’m Ronan’s Don. That fact alone brings me a quiet satisfaction, knowing that Ronan is seething at the arrangement, even if he tries to hide it behind his usual indifference.

A knock at the door interrupts the tension. Lorcan turns and opens it, revealing Jack standing there with a drink in hand. Jack doesn’t enter, only passes the drink to Lorcan before retreating back into the hallway. Lorcan hands the glass to me and then takes his seat beside me at the table.

I swirl the amber liquid in the glass, watching the way the light catches the edges. I look up at Ronan, who’s still lounging back in his chair, and decide it’s time to shift the conversation away from personal attacks. I have more important matters to attend to.

“Before we get into personal matters, I have to know, Ronan, how are our accounts overseas?” I ask, my tone firm and businesslike.

Ronan’s glare is sharp, a clear sign that he knows I’m testing his obedience. For a moment, the tension in the room thickens, and I half-expect Ronan to refuse to answer just to spite me. But then, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Ronan finally speaks.

“Your weapons trades are doing well because a lot of countries are starting to slow down their support for the numerous wars going on in the world,” Ronan begins, his tone flat but informative. “It’s been nothing but proxy wars since the '50s, and the public’s aware of it. Any country sending weapons to this side or that is bound to get outed by a whistleblower. Our investments in Taiwan and China are threatened by the rising hostility between those countries. And I don’t need to tell you that Japan has been granted permission by the United Nations to start building offensive military equipment. We’re already involved in that. I’m meeting with our oil guys in Saudi Arabia two days from now.”

I listen intently, nodding as Ronan lays out the situation. His assessment is thorough, and despite the tension between us, I’m satisfied with the progress. But there’s something else on my mind—an itch I need to scratch.

“You will pull out our investment with that Taiwanese director,” I say calmly but firmly.

Ronan’s eyes narrow. “You’re joking. He produces the most successful movies in that country.”

My gaze doesn’t waver. “Which will be affected by the fact that you’re sleeping with his girlfriend.”

Ronan barks out a laugh, finishing off his drink in one long gulp. Without a word, he reaches under the table and presses a hidden buzzer, signaling for another drink. “She’s a terrible actress but a good lay,” he says with a smirk as if that excuses the whole affair.

I lean forward slightly, my voice lowering to a more serious tone. “You will need to prepare yourself to let go of that life soon. I’m almost certain Victor will be choosing Brides for you soon.”

Lorcan, who has been quietly observing the exchange, perks up at this. “Does that mean that you’ve chosen a Consort?” he asks, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

I lean back slightly in my chair, the weight of my new authority pressing down on the room. “Not entirely,” I begin, my tone measured, “but enough time has passed since my ceremony for Victor to start eyeing one of you.”

Ronan scoffs, his lip curling into a smirk. “He can eye all he wants. I do nothing but travel for that asshole; I need my stress relief.”

My eyes harden, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “You will do what Victor tells you, or you answer to me.”

The room falls into a heavy silence after that statement, the tension palpable. Ronan’s eyes meet mine with a defiant gleam, the challenge clear in his gaze. I can feel the tension building within my own body, my muscles coiled and ready to strike. My fingers twitch, the instinct to fight bubbling just below the surface.

Come on, little brother, make the first move, I think, my eyes never leaving Ronan’s. The air seems to thicken between us, a silent dare hanging in the balance.

A knock at the door breaks the standoff, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet room. Ronan’s replacement drink has arrived. Lorcan, ever the mediator, stands and retrieves the glass, handing it to Ronan without a word. The moment passes, the tension easing but not disappearing entirely.

Lorcan returns to his seat, but his expression has shifted, a hint of seriousness overtaking his usual calm demeanor. “If you two are done with your pissing match,” he says, his voice cutting through the lingering tension, “there’s something that I need from you, Diarmuid.”

I turn to my older brother, curiosity piqued. “What do you need?”

Lorcan takes a deep breath, his tone taking on a more formal edge. “Uncle Andrew was very involved with my career, and honestly, you need to be, too. Not everyone in Ireland is awareof what exactly we do, but everyone knows that the O’Sullivans are one of the most influential families in the country. If you’re going to be Don, the people of my world need to know you. It’s time for you to rub some elbows.”

I feel a wave of irritation rise within me. Politics. I despise the very word. The world Lorcan inhabits is filled with the kind of people I can’t stand—liars, manipulators, and backstabbers, the sort of people I wouldn’t mind slaughtering if given the chance. Where Lorcan thrives onduplicity and maneuvering, I find it all nauseating. Lorcan is a master at wearing masks, shifting his persona to fit whatever situation requires it, almost psychopathic in his ability to deceive. It’s a talent I both admire and loathe in my brother.

As much as Ronan draws attention with his bluntness, Lorcan appears to be the friendly and peaceful one, the smiling face of the family’s public side. But I know better. Lorcan hides his darkness well, keeping it tucked away behind his practiced smiles and easy charm.

I lean back in my chair, still grappling with the idea of mingling with the high tiers of politics. I’ve always been convinced that everyone in that world is the same—deceitful, power-hungry, and treacherous. The thought of trying to fit into that crowd makes my skin crawl.

“I don’t know if I would make the best impression with that crowd,” I say, a hint of reluctance in my voice.

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