Page 30 of Mafia Wars

A man appears in the doorway, his gun raised, the barrel aimed directly at Luna. My breath catches, my body tensing as I realize I won’t have time to reach my own gun.Damn it.Without thinking, I pivot, putting myself between Luna and the weapon, bracing for the inevitable.

This is it.

The shot rings out.

I wait for the pain, the fire of a bullet tearing through me—but it never comes. Instead, there’s a loud thud. I snap my head up, heart hammering, to see the man lying motionless on the floor. Blood pools beneath him, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

Standing over him is my father, his gun still in his hand.

He meets my gaze and gives a quick nod. “Get her out of here.”

Relief surges through me, but I don’t waste time replying. I tighten my grip on Luna, scooping her into my arms. She’s so light, too light, and the thought unsettles me more than I care to admit. Her cheek presses against my shoulder, and I feel her warm, shallow breaths against my neck.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper again, more fiercely this time. “You’re safe now.”

As I step out of the room, chaos greets me—men shouting, the distant echoes of gunfire. But my eyes land on Liam, standing over Richard’s body. Blood stains his hands and clothes, but he looks calm, almost eerily so. He glances at me, then at Luna in my arms, and nods once.

“It’s done,” he says coldly. Then, louder, to the men around us: “Burn it. Everyone, clear out.”

The air smells of blood, gunpowder, and death, but I don’t care. It’s over.

Luna is safe.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CIAN

JACK’S OFFICE IS exactly as I remember it—dark, imposing, and suffocatingly expensive. The walls are lined with shelves filled with leather-bound books I doubt he’s ever read, and themassive desk between us is made of some glossy wood that probably costs more than my car. Jack sits behind it like a king on his throne, his chair too large, his tailored suit too perfect. He looks up from the papers in front of him, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and fixes me with the same indifferent gaze he always has.

“Cian,” he says, leaning back. His voice is smooth, calculated, like he already knows the end of every conversation before it even starts. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It’s a formality. There’s no pleasure in this for either of us.

“I came to thank you,” I say, my tone stiff. “For stepping in when you didn’t have to.”

He raises a brow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t have to?” He swirls the whiskey lazily in his glass, the ice clinking. “Let’s not rewrite history, Cian. You needed me, and I delivered. Let’s leave it at that.”

I grit my teeth. This is why I can’t stand him—always so smug, so untouchable. Still, he’s right. We needed him, and he came through. Begrudgingly, I nod.

“It’s over,” I say, more to myself than him. “Three weeks, and the news is still eating it up. Gang war this, gang war that. They blame Richard’s own men for killing his son, Mark, and then trying to overthrow Richard, saying it caused an internal collapse.”

Jack shrugs, unbothered. “That’s what we pay the Gardai for.”

I want to argue, to call him out on his arrogance, but what’s the point? Jack and I will never see eye to eye. We’ve tolerated each other out of necessity; our fathers are brothers, that’s the only reason we must appear to be getting along. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally waves me off.

“You’ve said your piece. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

I hesitate, the words lodged in my throat. Finally, I let them spill out. “I know your father keeps a watch over our properties, so I wanted to let you know I’ve given Luna one of the apartments on Abbey’s Creek.”

His eyes flicker with amusement, and the corner of his mouth quirks up again. That damn smirk. “They are nice apartments,” he says, his tone deceptively casual.

I nod, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Does she know you’re her landlord?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, his sneer cutting through me like a blade.

“No. It’s best if we keep it between us.”

Jack hums, clearly unimpressed, and leans back again, his gaze drifting to the papers on his desk. “You should tell my father. It’s not my area.” He looks up briefly, just long enough to twist the knife. “I’m over the clubs.”

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