Page 1 of The Chief's Captive

1

RONAN

Smoke hangs in the air, making the little pub around me seem hazy. The night is crisp, like any other early spring night. My men have gathered behind me, rallying to support my firm place as leader of this family as we present a united front in the face of who should be my brother and instead has become my enemy.

"Eamon, this doesn't have to come to violence." I sit in confidence with a cigar in my hand, a glass of whiskey on the small high-top table in front of me. The pub is where we handle things like this. It's where family does business, where we come together to celebrate and mourn. Where we tuck away our secrets and unload our burdens.

But tonight, with Finn and Lochlan standing behind me, I face a new sort of enemy. One that comes from within.

"You know bloody well that our fathers would be appalled by your choices, Ronan." Eamon stares at me the way a snake eyes its prey just before striking. I'm not a fool. This man is hungry for power. He's been bloodthirsty for years, waiting for something like this to happen.

"We've only just laid them to rest." I bring the cigar to my lips and puff on it. It's not unusual to have those within vying for power, trying to play one against another to rise in rank and in respect. But never in the history of the O'Rourke clan has anyone ever been so brazen as to make an attempt on the position of chief.

Eamon's men are antsy. They're my men—Niall, Patrick, Sean… Who knows how many more will defect and support him. He is older by three years, but the line of succession is clearly delineated. My father, former chief of the O'Rourke family, handed this to me. I've been prepared my whole life to take this honor and I'm not giving it up. Not to someone who thinks the best way to move forward in this family is with senseless bloodshed.

"And they're at rest… And I believe the family deserves a vote." Eamon is the only one talking, but his men are restless. I know just what they're capable of doing, too. I personally trained two of them, and Niall was a convert not so long ago, trained by my brother Declan. They're good soldiers, so I can't understand why they would challenge the true leader of this family.

"These things aren't left to a vote, but I'm giving you my patience as a gift. You know as well as I do that if you were to assume this position against my father, your own father would have slit your throat for dissent." I tap the cigar in my hand on the edge of the ashtray, then roll it back and forth to secure the cherry. Smoke snakes upward toward the cloud above me as Eamon shifts in his seat.

It's dim in here, but I see the look of anger in his eyes. I'm not going to back down and he hates that. Everyone in this family knows the position of Chief of the O'Rourke clan is mine. My father made it clear, and though his will isn't even unsealed, Ihave taken what is rightfully mine. Someone must lead, and that someone is me.

"He's dead less than four days and you're already causing an uprising. I'm not surprised. Only a venomous monster like you would do something so vile." I sit straighter and sigh, looking down at my hand. My father's ring, taken from his cold, dead body only yesterday before he was lowered into the ground, is the sole indicator that I am now the leader. Something Eamon covets highly. Something he will never have.

"Speaking of snakes in the grass… Tell us why you're so certain this family will follow you. Aren't you the one whose own mother accused him of murder? Or do you forget that Abigail?—"

"Shut up!" I shout, rising to my feet so abruptly the table topples over, spilling the whiskey and ashtray. "Speak one more word about my sister and I'll slit your throat myself." My chest is heaving, my hands clenched into fists. Lochlan stamps out the burning cigar, and I notice the gun in his hand, ready.

Eamon rises with a smirk, threats already perched on his lip ready to strike out at me. He knows never to speak the name Abigail in my presence. To never bring her up.

Eamon's tongue rides over his lip as he stands smoothly and straightens his suit coat. He presses his tie against his chest, then buttons the jacket, and his lips purse as he glares at me.

"Family comes first, Ronan, and I put them first. You, however, have a bad habit of putting yourself first, and I'm going to make sure this family knows what you are. A lying sack of shit, a murderer, and a flea on a camel’s back that needs to be squashed."

I can't help myself. The mention of my past sins haunts me too much. Before I can think, both of my hands are on Eamon's chest. I shove him, and he blasts through two more tables before falling to the ground. His men pull their weapons, but I'm still their chief. I glare at them with rage in my eyes.

"Well, shoot him, you assholes!" Eamon's voice is loud, amplified by the close walls and the backdrop of silence.

"You'll pay with your life," I growl at them, not even reaching for my guns. If they challenge me, Loch and Finn will end them. But Eamon isn't intimidated. His men may still cower at me, but he has the brass to do just what he's commanded his men to do.

The shot hits me before the sound registers. First one, then another. My body jolts, knocked backward by the rounds that pierce my chest. It feels like it happens in slow motion—one loud pop, then a second, then a third. I'm toppling, falling to the ground as gunfire erupts in the pub and men scramble to hide behind tables and the bar.

The pain is searing, hot iron ripping through my body. I can't breathe. I can't see straight. I can't even reach for my weapon. My body hits the ground like a lead weight, and I touch my chest. My hand comes away crimson. Everything is blurry. I hear the rattle of my chest, gurgling in my throat.

He shot me.

That sick fuck actually shot me.

My own cousin.

Then hands drag me away, pulling my body toward the door. I hear the scurry of footsteps and the loud shouting and cursing ofmy brothers in arms as they attempt to haul me to safety. Tires squeal. The night is black. I'm cold.

"Hold on, Boss!" It's Finn… my brother… Everything is spinning, and I'm weak.

I cough and taste copper on my tongue. A jolt of hot pain clamps down on my chest again, coiling around my throat, making it impossible to suck in air.

Contingencies. We have them, a plan in case something like this were to happen. Dad had them.

"Walsh," I grunt, and it's all I can spit out except blood. There is a lot of that spewing from my body.

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