Page 1 of Conall's Reign

conall

AGE 14

“Ye understandwhat the meeting is fer?” My father was squatted forward into my space, his bulk pressing in, leaving no room for doubt. No mistake.

Cormac O’Kelly was a bully and a brute. This was the least aggressive version of him that I could expect. I could agree now, or things would progress from this point like a giant swirling drain of pain that I was well-acquainted with. If he couldn’t get the answer he wanted from me, he would punish the people I cared about until I broke.

Standard practices.

“I understand, Da.” I focused on a point over his shoulder, deliberately avoiding his gaze. He despised that. It was a small act of defiance, one of the few I could afford.

A grunt escaped his lips, the onion-scented air filling the space between us, but I didn’t flinch. I remained perfectly still. Any reaction would reveal a weakness, an opening.

“Good. No lip when we get there. Not like that Santelli kid. He’s a disrespectful shite. I’m not sure why Stefano puts up with him.” He hitched up his pants as he stood, revealing a grease stain prominently displayed on his dress shirt. I took smug pleasure in it. The man considered himself powerful, but he couldn’t even keep his clothing in order.

On the way to the seedy club, he was silent, his fingers tapping the wheel in an uneven rhythm. I wanted to reach out, correct the pattern, and force it into symmetry. Instead, I focused on maintaining my composure. My hands rested palms down on my thighs, perfectly still. My father was sweating over this whole setup, anxious to finalize it.

He and his cronies had come up with this wild idea to make a blood pact or some dumb shit. They’d agreed to share their disgusting business—trafficking, of all things. They wanted locked-in routes and protection. A guaranteed alliance.

The O’Kellys, the Volkovs, the Santellis, and the Anthakos … all had their dirty fingers in it, and my father meant to make it ironclad, signing in his blood—and mine. That was the kicker. They intended to ensure everyone upheld their word. One of their sons would marry one of the daughters or some shit.

The whole thing was a stupid plan. I was going to slaughter them all when I was old enough. Shut down the entire disgusting operation. But not yet. My father had three things over my head. Three things named Pádraic, Broderick, and Cora.

The club was a dilapidated strip joint, the kind of place where desperation lingered in the air like stale smoke. I kept my steps steady, counting each one as my shoes scuffed against the cracked pavement. Three steps to the door. Four more inside. I adjusted my jacket as I walked, smoothing the fabric. Everything needed to be in its place. Order was the only way to maintain control.

Inside, the neon lights flickered erratically, and the inconsistency made my teeth clench. The floor patterns were warped and mismatched, grating against the sense of balance I craved. The urge to fix them, to straighten something, clawed at me. Instead, I ground my molars together, forcing myself to ignore the uneven lines.

A table filled with men—leering, laughing, cups of amber liquid in hand—waited for us. Their voices mingled into a tangled mess of sound. I concentrated on the ones that mattered: Stefano Santelli’s obnoxious bark and Alexei Volkov’s calculating silence.

“Cormac!” Stefano called, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. “Your boy looks thrilled.” He smirked, his eyes narrowing with glee. Stefano liked to poke at other people’s differences, but it was his wife that you needed to watch out for. She was the real powerhouse in that family. Even my father was afraid of her.

I focused on the buttons of his jacket, which were unevenly fastened. One was too loose, while the other was pulled too tight. I wanted to fix it. I needed to.

I did nothing.

“Of course,” my father replied, pride seeping into his voice. “Conall’s ready for the real world, right, lad?” His eyes glanced at mine, a warning embedded in the question.

“Yes, Da.” My voice sounded flat and emotionless, just as he expected. I maintained my gaze, refusing to let it drift toward the misplaced buttons again.

The laughter around the table drilled into me. I knew their kind too well. I buried my emotions deep, revealing only what was necessary. There was a certain freedom in feeling nothing at all.

As we approached the table, I made sure the crease in my trousers remained sharp as I sat down. I adjusted the cuffs of my jacket, aligning them perfectly. Blood oaths were a peculiar custom, almost as if signing in blood could bind us tighter than ink. The words had blended together before, but their meaning was unmistakable. The weight of the decision pressed down on me.

“Good, you’re here. Let’s not waste time. We all know what’s at stake.” Alexei Volkov spoke sharply, his eyes resembling those of a shark.

“We’ll all keep our word, ye fecker,” my father spat at him. His temper was rising.

I busied myself timing the stage dancer’s music score, counting each beat precisely, something solid amidst the chaos. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Maxim Volkov was watching me, his gaze calculating. I didn’t turn my head. The uneven blinking of the neon lights pressed against my skull, a constant irritation, yet I remained still.

“Ah, the lawyer has arrived,” someone murmured.

Turning back to the table, I eased my hands flat against the surface, fingers perfectly aligned, knuckles white with the effort to keep from clenching. The lawyer gestured to the items on the table—a contract, a polished box, a stamp.

I didn’t care about the lawyer. I already understood what this meant.

Alexei whispered in his son’s ear, and there was only a small hesitation before Maxim moved first. He pulled the contract toward him, reading it carefully before slicing his thumb and pressing the bleeding digit firmly onto the paper.

“Feck, he’s a bloodthirsty one,” my father remarked. “Best keep an eye on him, Conall.”

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