Page 3 of When Kings Fall

“So, if Victor wants someone taken out, he calls you?” Wolfe’s voice is almost a whisper now, fragile like he’s on the brink of breaking.

“Usually.”

“There are others?”

I pause, weighing my words carefully. “I wouldn’t know.”

The tears spill over, tracking down Wolfe’s face, leaving streaks in the grime. But there’s no mercy in those tears, no redemption. Just raw, bleeding pain. The kind that makes people do terrible things. I can see it in his eyes—the flicker of something dark and final, a decision teetering on the edge.

Wolfe isn’t just a man anymore. He’s a force of nature, a storm of rage and sorrow, and I’m standing in the eye of it.

Wolfe’s voice cracks as he speaks, the desperation thick in the air between us. “He did it, Diarmuid. He ordered my father killed. I know it now. That’s why he wanted me dead. I figured out his secret. But we’re family. We can beat him. Together. Get our revenge.”

His words hang in the damp air, thick with the promise of violence and betrayal. I glance over at Selene, making sure she’s okay. She’s sitting there, eyes locked on Wolfe, but there’s a fire in her gaze, a recklessness that has always gotten under my skin. She should be terrified, trembling in fear, but instead, she’s almost… curious. Like she’s watching a play, waiting for the next act. It’s that recklessness that irks me, that makes her unpredictable, dangerous in her own way.

I turn my attention back to Wolfe, feeling the weight of his expectations, his need for validation, for some kind of twisted brotherhood. “You really were the dumbest of us,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Wolfe’s face twists in confusion. “What?”

“Ronan, Lorcan, me… we all have our strengths,” I continue, my voice cold, detached. “I suppose you have some, too, but you were always the dumbest.”

His eyes widen, a mix of hurt and fury flashes across his face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

There it is—the crack, the moment when he realizes the truth isn’t what he wanted it to be. Wolfe always thought he could outsmart us, outplay us, but he never understood the game. The truth is, he was always a pawn, always a step behind. And now, standing here, thinking he’s found some grand revelation, he still doesn’t see the bigger picture.

“Victor never ordered the hit on your father,” I say, my voice steady, almost clinical. “It would make no sense for him to do that. Andrew was a powerful ally for the Kings, always doing what Victor told him to do.”

Wolfe’s eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his face. “Then, who would have the power to order a hit on a King?”

I let the silence hang for a moment, watching as the realization starts to creep in. “No one ordered me to make that hit. I did it on my own.”

His face contorts, disbelief and confusion warring within him. “You?” The word barely escapes his lips, a breathless whisper, as if he can’t quite believe it. His mouth opens and closes, struggling to form a coherent thought. He mouths the word “no” over and over again, but the sound never comes out. It’s like he’s trapped in some internal battle, trying to reconcile the truth with the lies he’s clung to for so long.

But the shock doesn’t last. I see the rage seep into his eyes, poisoning whatever sliver of sanity he had left. His head shakes violently; his teeth bared in a snarl as the madness takes hold again. He raises the gun, his hand trembling with fury, and squeezes the trigger.

Click.

Nothing happens—the gun jams.

The shock returns to his face, eyes wide, desperate. But I don’t stop, don’t hesitate. I start walking toward him, each step deliberate, my eyes locked on his.

“You were in the river, cousin,” I say, my voice low and almost pitying. “I can see the filth on that pistol from here. Didn’t your father always tell us to treat our guns better than we treat our women? You didn’t take the time to treat her right, and she betrayed you.”

Wolfe’s eyes dart to the gun, his mind racing, but it’s too late. His hand shakes, the rage and desperation clawing at him, but he knows he’s lost. The madness in his eyes is now laced with fear, the realization that his own carelessness has sealed his fate.

I’m close enough now that I can see the sweat on his brow, the frantic way his chest heaves. The man before me isn’t Wolfe anymore; he’s just a husk, broken and crumbling under the weight of his own delusions.

“Diarmuid, please,” Wolfe’s voice trembles, fear replacing the fury that had consumed him moments before.

I don’t hesitate. I grab the pistol in his hand, wrenching it from his grasp with a single, sharp twist. Before he can react, I drive my fist forward, the weight of his own gun crashing into his face. The impact sends him sprawling backward, but I don’t let up. I’m on him in an instant, my fists raining down blow after blow, the dull thud of bone against flesh filling the small, dim space of the barn. Wolfe’s resistance fades quickly, his body going limp under the relentless assault, until finally, he’s unconscious, a crumpled heap on the dirt floor.

I rise, wiping the sweat and blood from my knuckles, and turn to Selene. She’s been watching the whole time, her expression unreadable. I crouch down beside her, pulling out a knife and slicing through the zip ties that bind her wrists. Sherubs them, but her eyes stay on Wolfe’s unconscious form. I notice the blood and red marks around her wrists.

The skin is red and broken; the pain must be unbearable, yet she is still focusing on Wolfe. I touch her chin with one finger, making her look at me.

“Are you okay?” I ask. Knowing she can’t be.

The shake of her head is quick, but her breath comes out like the sputter of a broken-down car. “I am now.”

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