Page 16 of When Kings Fall

“I know. I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice almost drowned out by the rising chaos around us. “I asked him if he’s had any recent contact with Sofia Hughes, and he just… he went nuts.”

Around us, the noise level rises as people talk animatedly about what just happened. Staff members rush to clean up theplant, their movements hurried and efficient. Somewhere in the background, I can hear Diarmuid’s stern voice countering Lorcan’s smooth one, their disagreement adding to the tension in the room.

Without thinking, I pull Niamh into a tight hug. “You did wonderfully!” I whisper fiercely in her ear. “Tyrone definitely knows something.”

She pulls back slightly, her expression still unsure. “What do we do now?”

I glance over her shoulder and see Diarmuid approaching us, his stride purposeful, his eyes dark with determination. Lorcan stands a little behind, his face mirroring the same kind of annoyance I feel coursing through me.

“Make use of the Kings given to us,” I say softly, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.

CHAPTER NINE

Diarmuid

AS I BUTTON up my shirt, the fabric sliding over my skin, I catch a glimpse of Selene’s bare form in the morning light. Her skin glows, soft and warm, but there’s something else—a shadow on her arms. My breath catches in my throat as I see the faint bruises, the perfect shape of my fingertips, stark against her pale skin.

I didn’t mean to hurt her, at least not like that. Last night…last night was a blur of jealousy and fury. Seeing Lorcan parade her around, treating her like she was his, it ignited something primal in me. I tried to keep it under control, to not cross that room and rip him apart in front of everyone. But when we got home… when it was just the three of us… that control shattered.

My touch wasn’t gentle, wasn’t loving. It was possessive, a silent claim I needed to stake. But now, looking at her, I feel a pang of guilt. I pull the collar of my shirt up, trying to cover the tightness in my chest with the crisp, white fabric.

Selene stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. Her breathing is even, peaceful. At least she’s still asleep, unaware of my moment of weakness. I turn to leave, knowing I need to put some distance between us before the regret starts to show on my face.

I walk down the stairs, each step heavy with the weight of what I’ve done, of who I am. I should’ve known better, should’ve had more control. But the truth is, I’m not just battling Lorcan or my own instincts—I’m battling the monster Victor molded me into.

As I reach the foyer, my phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of my thoughts. I pull it out, frowning at the unfamiliarnumber. When I open the message, all I see is a single emoji: a church.

My heart skips a beat, and I feel the cold fingers of dread curling around my spine. No one, not even my brothers, knows about the things I do for Victor. They don’t know about the lives I’ve taken, the blood that stains my hands. The only person who knew was the original Him, and he’s in pieces, scattered in the Irish Sea, just like Victor ordered.

But now, it seems, someone else knows. And they’re calling me to duty.

I stare at the emoji, the little image mocking me with its simplicity, reminding me of the other role I play in this twisted family. I thought that with all my new responsibilities, I’d be free of this, that I could put that part of my life behind me. But it seems like the past isn’t done with me yet.

I pocket my phone and head for the door. Whatever this is, it can’t be ignored. I can’t afford to ignore it.

I’ve always suspected there are others like me, shadows lurking in the corners of Victor’s empire, silent killers waiting for the word. It makes sense—Victor isn’t the kind of man to put all his eggs in one basket. But when he handed me the reins of the O’Sullivan empire, I assumed he’d turn to those other ghosts, let them carry out the dirty work while I focused on running the show.

That’s why I’m surprised, no, irritated, when I’m summoned back to the same confession booth I’ve always used. The familiar path through the church is almost laughable now, a twisted ritual I thought I’d left behind. But here I am, slipping into that cramped wooden box, the faint scent of incense and dust clinging to the air.

I sit there, waiting, and then I hear it—Victor’s voice, smooth and controlled, oozing confidence from the other side of the velvet curtain. Once upon a time, that voice might have sentchills down my spine. But now? Now it just makes me anxious, impatient. I want to rip that curtain down, reach through, and wrap my hands around his throat. Squeeze until that calm, assured tone is nothing but a gurgle.

But I don’t. Because Victor’s never alone. The people sweeping the floors, dusting the pews—they’re not just there for upkeep. They’re his honor guard, his personal army, ready to lay down their lives at his command. And as much as I’d love to arrange that, it will have to wait. Timing is everything.

Victor’s note had been cryptic as always, leading me to an abandoned car on the outskirts of town. The place was as desolate as you’d expect—overgrown grass, rusted metal, and the quiet hum of the wind cutting through the silence. I approached the car, an old sedan, paint peeling away like dead skin. The trunk didn’t put up much of a fight; a quick pry and it popped open.

Inside, there was only an envelope, thick with papers. I grabbed it, glancing around out of habit, though I knew no one would be out here. Victor’s always careful like that. Back in my car, I tore the envelope open, spreading its contents across the passenger seat.

The first thing I see is a photo of a man—middle-aged, weathered, the kind of face you’d pass on the street without a second thought. I don’t recognize him, which isn’t surprising. But what does surprise me is the thoroughness of the information. Victor usually gives just enough to get the job done, expecting me to fill in the gaps myself. This, though, this is almost too much. Every detail of this guy’s life is laid out in front of me like an open book.

I skim the files, taking it all in. The guy’s name is Ben Fleming. A simple name for what seems like a simple man. A fisherman, of all things. Spent most of his life on the water, hauling in nets, living off the sea. No wife, no kids, just him andthe ocean. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. How does a guy like this end up in Victor’s crosshairs? It doesn’t make sense.

Maybe it’s a debt situation. I’ve seen it before—guys who owe too much, who make the wrong enemies. A fisherman’s life isn’t exactly lucrative. Or maybe Ben saw something he wasn’t supposed to. It wouldn’t be the first time some poor bastard stumbled onto something in the Irish Sea he shouldn’t have.

I glance at my watch. Niamh’s making dinner tonight, and if I play this right, I might be able to wrap this up quickly enough to make it home in time. I flip through the last of the papers, memorizing the details. Ben Fleming. A simple man with a simple life. If only he knew how complicated it was about to get.

I shove the papers back into the envelope, my mind already shifting gears. This should be straightforward—get in, take care of business, get out. I start the car, the engine roaring to life. Time to find Ben Fleming and figure out why he’s on the radar of the Hands of Kings. And then… then I’ll make sure he’s off it for good.

I pull into a spot near the public dock, parking where I can watch without drawing attention. December in Ireland isn’t exactly beach weather, and the biting cold has driven most people indoors. The few stragglers that were milling about have now retreated, leaving me alone with the sea. The wind howls, cutting through my coat, and I shove my hands into my pockets, staring out at the choppy, late-afternoon waves.

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