Page 95 of Forbidden Vengeance

I take down two guards with perfect shots. No wasted movement, no hesitation. A third rushes me with a knife, but I’m already inside his reach, using his momentum to drive him into the stone wall. The crack of bone is almost satisfying.

“West entrance secured,” Tommy Flynn reports through our comms.

More of Seamus’s traditionalists pour from the house—all muscle and outdated tactics, still fighting like it’s the early eighties. They don’t understand this new kind of warfare, where digital intel matters more than brute force.

I move through them easily, each motion precise and practiced. Giuseppe’s lessons serving their purpose as I systematically dismantle Seamus’s remaining defense. Three more go down before they can raise their weapons. A fourth loses his gun arm at the elbow.

“Inner security disabled,” Siobhan’s voice carries through our earpieces. “He’s in the office. Right where we knew he’d be, clinging to hispreciousroutine.”

I advance through blood-splattered Carrara stone halls, past evidence of how thoroughly Siobhan has infiltrated her father’s operation. Guards we pass don’t even raise their weapons—just step aside, young faces hard with purpose as they choose the future over the past.

“Seamus has barricaded himself in the study with what’s left of the conservative faction,” Antonio reports through comms.

I move through corridors thick with gun smoke and spilled blood, past gilt-framed portraits of O’Connor patriarchs watching their legacy crumble. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across hardwood floors where I once crawled after Seamus’s “lessons” in respect.

Every shadow holds memories of violence, of five years spent earning my place in Boston’s underworld.

But this isn’t about revenge anymore. It’s about Elena at home, about our daughter who will inherit whatever world we create tonight. About ensuring they grow up where loyalty means more than blind obedience, where family is chosen rather than forced.

Siobhan appears beside me as we reach the study doors, her suit spattered with evidence of tonight’s work. Her nod is barely perceptible as we take position.

Three.

Two.

One.

The doors splinter inward with explosive force. Through clearing smoke, I see Seamus standing behind his massive oak desk—the same desk where he broke men’s fingers while teaching me about power. Every inch the Irish king in his crumbling domain, though his empire bleeds out around him.

The old guard who remain flank him with outdated loyalty—Sullivan with his brass knuckles, O’Brien still wearing his crucifix, Flaherty’s hands steady on his weapon. But it’s the empty spaces that speak loudest—the younger captains who should be here, who would have died for him before Sean Murphy’s execution.

“You really think you can destroy everything we’ve built?” Seamus sneers, but his knuckles are white on his weapon. “That the Irish families will follow a woman? Follow these modern ideas that corrupt everything they touch?”

The words echo off wood paneling that’s witnessed generations of violence. But his voice holds something new—fear disguised as contempt.

“The families already chose,” I reply conversationally. “The moment you executed a teenager to prove your point about tradition. Tell me, how many other sons are you willing to sacrifice for your pride?”

My words hit their intended marks—Seamus’s remaining men flinch. They all have sons, all remember Sean’s boy begging for mercy. All of them know how easily it could have been their children.

“The old ways kept us strong,” Seamus insists, but doubt creeps into his voice as more explosions rock the compound. The blasts illuminate the night sky through bulletproof windows, casting strange shadows across his desperate face.

“The old ways are dead,” Siobhan’s voice cuts through the smoke like a blade. She stands beside me, her weapon trained on her father’s heart. “Just like Sean Murphy’s teenage son died. Just like every other child you’d sacrifice to maintain your control.”

“You’re no daughter of mine,” Seamus spits, but fear finally cracks through his composed facade. Real terror bleeds through as he watches his empire crumble. “Conspiring with exiles, betraying your own blood?—”

“Blood?” Siobhan’s laugh holds no warmth. “You want to talk aboutbloodwhile Sean’s still stains your hands? While his son’s execution video plays on every crew’s phone?” Her voice shakes with barely contained fury. “That boy grew up in our house, called you ‘Uncle Seamus.’ And you shot him to make a point about tradition.”

“You’re surrounded,” I tell Seamus, watching his remaining men eye the exits. “Your security teams changed sides. Your conservative allies are being systematically eliminated. Even Anthony Calabrese can’t help you now.”

“Anthony understands!” Seamus roars, desperation making him sloppy. “He knows what happens when you let women and bastards corrupt tradition?—”

The shot comes from Sullivan’s son, the bullet taking Seamus in the shoulder. “That’s for Sean’s boy,” the young captain says quietly.

The room erupts into chaos. Old guard loyalists open fire while younger captains dive for cover. Sparkling decanters shatter, spreading whiskey and glass across imported carpets.The air fills with gun smoke and shouted orders as decades of resentment finally explode.

I move through the chaos, each motion precise and deadly. Old guard loyalists fall under methodical fire—one bullet through the throat as he tries to flank Siobhan, another catching his partner in the chest as he reaches for backup weapons.

A third man—O’Brien’s oldest enforcer—comes at me with military training, his strikes fast and efficient. But Giuseppe beat better skills into me during those basement sessions. I slip inside his guard, using his weight against him before snapping his knee with a precise kick. His scream joins the symphony of gunfire and breaking glass.

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