Page 94 of Forbidden Vengeance

“Because my father’s becoming a fucking nuisance. Even under house arrest, he’s still causing problems. Reaching out to old allies, making promises about restoration of proper order.” She pauses deliberately. “I thought you might enjoy helping me eliminate the man who spent five years treating you like his personal attack dog.”

I study Mario’s face, watching emotions war across his features. That muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers tighten on the phone, his knuckles turning white.

“You have him exactly where you want him,” Mario says carefully. “Why do you need my help?”

“Because I thought you’d appreciate the poetry of it.” Siobhan’s voice sounds bored as if discussing how to kill a parent annoys her. “The exile he tried to break, returning to put him down. Besides…” She pauses. “You’re the only one who truly understands what needs to be done. The only one who won’t hesitate.”

Mario’s eyes meet mine, and I see the decision form. Five years of rage and pain crystallizing into purpose.

“When do you want me there?” he asks.

Siobhan’s smile is audible. “Tonight. And Mario? We make sure he suffers. Like Sean’s boy suffered. Like everyone who crossed the old guard suffered.”

The call ends, leaving us in charged silence. I watch my dangerous, complicated man prepare for one final act of vengeance.

Some debts can only be paid in blood.

31

MARIO

Murphy’s Pub rises against Boston’s night sky like a fortress of old power—all weathered brick and stained glass that’s witnessed generations of Irish politics. Where Sean Murphy poured drinks while orchestrating revolutions. Where his boy learned to run numbers before he could drive. Where Seamus O’Connor built his empire one brutal decision at a time.

Dante follows me inside, his silence speaking volumes. The pub’s been closed since Sean’s execution—the ancient wood still holding echoes of violence, the polished bar now a war room for the next generation’s revenge.

Siobhan awaits in her father’s old office above the bar—a space transformed from traditional power to modern warfare. Displays replace vintage whiskey bottles, surveillance feeds monitor every angle of the O’Connor compound where her father remains under house arrest.

Her crew gathers around what used to be Sean Murphy’s ledger table—all young, all modernized, all burning for revenge. These aren’t the muscle-bound thugs Seamus preferred. They’retech experts and tactical specialists, wearing smartwatches instead of brass knuckles.

“My father’s becoming more unstable,” Siobhan explains, pulling up compound schematics. “Even confined, he’s dangerous—reaching out to old allies, promising restoration of ‘proper values’ if they help him regain control.”

I study the plans, Giuseppe’s lessons rising unbidden. The old bastard might have been a monster, but he taught us well. Shame he died of a heart attack before I could show him exactly how well.

“Security’s already ours,” Siobhan continues. “But the kill has to be meaningful. It has to send a message about the cost of clinging to outdated methods.”

Siobhan outlines her strategy with precision, her young crew leaning forward with hungry attention. I study their faces—these aren’t the bruisers Seamus preferred. Tommy Flynn, Sean’s protégé, monitors digital security through his tablet. Sarah O’Brien, barely twenty but already legendary for her ability to hack any system. Declan Flaherty’s youngest son coordinating with dock crews through encrypted channels.

“My father’s daily routine is predictable,” Siobhan explains, pulling up surveillance feeds. “Even under house arrest, he maintains his habits. Every evening at exactly nine, he’s in his office. It’s the only time he’s relatively alone—just two guards who are already ours.”

The plan is elegant in its simplicity. While Anthony focuses his paranoia on New York, while the old guard watches for external threats, we’ll eliminate their patriarch from within. Using their own adherence to routine against them.

I outline the approach to my team—a mix of my most trusted men and the DeLuca soldiers Matteo sent as a show of support. Antonio stands slightly apart, his expression carefully blank as he absorbs the details.

“The compound’s security is already compromised,” I explain. “Siobhan’s people control every camera, every alarm, every digital lock. We’ll have exactly seven minutes between systems going dark and backup power engaging.”

“When do we move?” Tommy Flynn asks, his scarred face hard with purpose. He was there when Seamus executed his mentor, when Sean’s boy begged for mercy.

Siobhan’s smile is pure ice as she rises from the desk. “Now.”

The word hangs in the air like smoke, like promise, like revolution written in carefully planned vengeance.

Some debts can only be paid in blood. And Seamus O’Connor’s bill is finally due.

The O’Connor compound’sarchitecture casts shadows perfect for our approach. Everything we’ve built with Siobhan, every alliance we’ve carefully crafted, comes down to this moment.

Seamus forced everyone’s hand when he ordered Sean Murphy’s execution. The video of Sean’s teenage son begging spread through Irish circles like wildfire, that terrified face becoming a symbol for everything wrong with blind loyalty to tradition.

Now his men fall under precise fire as I lead the assault. Sean Murphy’s loyalists move like ghosts through the east gardens while Siobhan’s inside crew eliminates key positions with surgical efficiency. Every piece of her network activating at once, just like we planned.

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