Page 7 of His Dark Possession

Tomorrow, I am set to marry for a second time, to a man whose reputation mirrors that of my first husband, shrouded in whispers and shadows. Yet, everything feels distinctly different this time around. Perhaps, just perhaps, I won’t be the cause of a man’s demise, that I won’t bear the burden of killing the one I swear to stand beside through both joy and sorrow.

7

ANTONIO

The O’Reilly brothers sit casually at a booth, their imposing security detail relaxing at the bar, a stark contrast to the tension that hangs in the air. In the dimly lit restaurant, their smiles shimmer like oil on water, captivating yet unsettling. I can’t shake the unease creeping up my spine; something about this gathering feels off.

Connor is the first to rise, his movements fluid and inviting as he opens his arms wide, ready to pull me into a hug. “You’re getting married, mate!” he exclaims, enthusiasm lacing his voice.

The taste of artificial sweetness lingers in his congratulations, and I struggle to maintain a neutral expression, forcing myself not to grimace at the sight of his outstretched arms. The twins are forty now, only three years my senior, yet they have long plotted to see me dead and buried. What could possibly motivate them to embrace me now? “Thanks. Can I help you, gentlemen? I was at my rehearsal dinner when I received yoursummons,” I reply, trying to keep my tone steady and devoid of suspicion.

Oliver, leaning back in the plush booth, pats the leather seat beside him and gestures for me to join him. “I don’t bite,Enzo. Unless you’re into that sort of thing,” he quips with a mischievous wink, his words laced with a playful edge. Rumors about Oliver have circulated like wildfire through the underworld, each one more outrageous than the last. I’ve heard whispers that he’s gay, pansexual, and, in a particularly bizarre tale, that he once had an intimate encounter with a tree.

Frankly, I don’t care who or what he’s into; I just want to get this over with. “I repeat, can I help you?” I say, my voice steady but edged with impatience. I take a seat nonetheless, opting for the very edge of the booth, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice in case either of these two idiots tries something reckless. The bar is modestly populated, with about ten patrons scattered around, nursing their drinks or engaged in their own hushed conversations. But given their reputation, I wouldn’t put it past either of them to pull a stunt. Enzo stands beside me, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, a menacing look etched on his face that suggests he’s itching for action. My set of bodyguards is stationed at the front and back of Herbs & Rye, ever-vigilant. If either of these two jack-offs thinks tonight is the night to get one over on me, they’ll be looking down the muzzle of a gun before they can even blink.

Connor leans into his brother, bumping his shoulder affectionately, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. “You think we should tell him?” he asks tauntingly, his voice dripping with mischief.

Oliver, with a grin that could light up the dimly lit booth, bumps his brother back. “I don’t know, Con. You think he’ll thank us?” Their banter feels like an inside joke, and I can’t help but feel like the odd man out, the subject of their teasing.

But all I want to do is go to bed. The weight of exhaustion hangs over me, and I don’t have time for their antics, nor do I want toengage in whatever little game they’re playing. “Someone better tell me why you called me here before I get angry,” I warn, my tone sharper now. The brothers exchange another playful glance, their eyes sparkling with mischief, before one of them finally drops the bombshell: Brayden Flynn is dead.

Brayden Flynn has been a mutual enemy of the O’Reilly and Bianchi families since the very moment he set foot in our territory. He showed up in Vegas four years ago, and with an audacity that left us all stunned, he sent his men to either take over our businesses or raid them. It was always easier for them to opt for the latter, breaking a few kneecaps along the way rather than engaging in the complicated dance of business negotiations.

To the O’Reillys’ credit, they managed to ferret Brayden out of hiding at least once. They concocted a plan that involved dangling a teenage girl in front of him like bait, and sure enough, he emerged from his hidey-hole, fully erect and ready for a good time. Unfortunately, instead of solidifying a truce that could have brought some semblance of peace, they struck a deal with Brayden, allowing him to slip away unscathed. He didn’t get the girl, but he walked away with his life; sometimes that’s a far greater prize. Yet, ever since, he has continued to wreak havoc, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.

“It’s our gift to you,” Oliver grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Congratulations on your wedding!”

Gift, my ass. These two clowns will likely try to pin the damn thing on me, making it seem like I somehow orchestrated this mess. “I didn’t ask for Brayden Flynn to die today,” I retort, my voice laced with frustration.

Connor raises a finger to interject, his expression transforming into a mix of amusement and incredulity. “That’s good because he died two days ago. A real unfortunate accident involving his head and a vice grip? I can’t remember all the details, but it was gruesome. I had to throw out one of my favorite shirts; blood stains are a real pain to get out, you know?”

I pull my wallet from my back pocket and remove a few crumpled bills, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. “Do me a favor and buy yourself a new one then. That’smy gifttoyou.I’ve got to get going now. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m getting married tomorrow. It’s a big deal, and I need to be there to finalize everything.”

Oliver looks at his brother with a distinct frown creasing his forehead, a hint of disapproval shadowing his features. “Con, did wesaythat Enzo could go?”

Connor purses his lips, contemplating the implications of my departure, and then slowly starts shaking his head no, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think we did. He hasn’t even said thank you for our gift. What kind of manners is that?”

“That’s so disrespectful.” The cluck of Oliver’s tongue grinds my gears, a sound that ignites an urge to reach across this table and punch him in his smug little face. The tension thickens, and I can feel my patience wearing thin.

“Listen, boys, this has been fun. Unfortunately, I have a host of shit to take care of tonight. I’m sure you know, Connor. You’re married; you understand the chaos of pre-wedding responsibilities.” I go to stand up, but the two of them turn rabid, their expressions shifting from playful to predatory in an instant.

Connor’s face becomes a mask of anger, his eyes narrowing as he growls, “Sit the fuck down, Enzo. We did you a favor, so now you’re going to do us a favor.” The ultimatum hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken threats and simmering tension, and I realize I may have underestimated just how far these two are willing to go.

“This is precisely why you should never accept wedding gifts from people; they always expect something in return. As if I don’t have enough on my plate dealing with my wayward bride-to-be. “You listen here, boys.” I sink back down into my seat, adopting a look that brooks no arguments. “If you want to leave this place alive, you’ll shut your mouths.” True, they may have some muscle in this town, but I know that if the families were to join forces, the Irish Americans would find themselves out on their asses in no time.

“I didn’t ask for you to kill Brayden Flynn. I certainly don’t want his bloated, ugly head served to me at my wedding; I know that’s exactly the kind of twisted shit the O’Reillys would pull. And let me be clear: I definitely don’t owe you a favor for this. If I even catch a whiff that you’re trying to pin this murder on me, I’ll have no hesitation in telling a police friend of mine about the strippers in the desert. So you better get the fuck out of my face before we both end up behind bars together. You won’t have any backup in prison, and I guarantee you that I will risk a life sentence if it means I get to personally beat both of you to death.”

Neither of them shows a lick of fear, but I can smell it mixing with the liquor swirling in their glasses. It’s a heady scent that I usually prefer tinged with blood, the metallic taste of violence lingering in the air, but I don’t mind the rich aroma of bourbon that fills the space between us. “Have a good night, gentlemen.If I hear from you again before my honeymoon is over, I’ll wipe your whole damn family out.”

This time when I rise from my seat, the O’Reilly brothers don’t attempt to stop me. They wear matching glares that could cut through steel, their silence hanging heavily in the air as they keep their mouths closed, choosing to let their eyes do the talking.

“You know this isn’t going to end well,” Enzo warns, his voice low and laden with a sense of foreboding as we walk toward the entrance, deliberately putting distance between ourselves and the O’Reillys.

It’s going to end in blood. Maybe mine, maybe theirs, and perhaps a little of both. Only time will tell how this twisted game unfolds. “Let me worry about that. What’s the worst they could do?” I shoot back, feigning indifference.

They could take my bride, snatch her from my side like a thief in the night. They could kill my father, erasing a legacy with a single bullet. They could torture my brother, dragging him through hell just to get to me. Anything is possible; I guess we should start preparing for every eventuality, bracing ourselves for the storm that’s surely on the horizon.

8

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