Page 16 of Conall's Reign

He crossed his arms, his expression inscrutable. O’Rourke had always been difficult to interpret, but that was part of what made him effective at his job. He was a man who could blend into a crowd, gather intelligence without leaving a mark, and leave his targets wondering if he had ever been there at all.

“Alright,” he said finally. “What do you need from me?”

I pulled a folder from my coat and spread its contents across the table: maps, photos, and notes on guard rotations. “We need intel — guard shifts, shipment schedules, and security measures. Anything and everything you can find. The Vanellos have fortified the place, but every fortress has a weakness. Your job is to find it.”

He studied the materials, furrowing his brow. “What happens once I find it?”

“Get the hell out of there, and let us handle the rest,” I said. “We’ll move in quickly and hit them hard, but we can’t do that until we know exactly what we’re walking into.”

O’Rourke nodded slowly, tapping a finger against one of the photos. “This will take time. You can’t rush good intel.”

“We don’t have much time,” I admitted. “But I trust you to get it done. You’ve never disappointed me before.”

He looked up at me, a faint smile flickering on his lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Conall.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the task ahead settling over us. I had known O’Rourke for years, long enough to understand that he was the best man for the job. He had entered my life when I needed someone who could navigate the shadows, and he had proven himself time and again.

“One more thing,” I said, breaking the silence. “Be careful. The Vanellos are on high alert after the ambush. They’ll be watching for anyone who seems out of place.”

O’Rourke’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been playing this game for a long time, remember?”

I nodded, yet the unease in my gut didn’t fade. The Vanellos weren’t just any enemy. They were ruthless and wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who stood in their way. But if anyone could outsmart them, it was O’Rourke.

As I stood to leave, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “You take care of yourself, Conall. The docks won’t matter much if you drop dead before the job is finished.”

I smirked, disregarding the throbbing pain in my abdomen. “Don’t worry about me. Just get the intel.”

As I stepped out into the cool evening air, I couldn’t shake the feeling that taking on the Vanellos would be trickier than I had anticipated. However, with O’Rourke on the job, I knew we had a fighting chance. In this war, a fighting chance was all we could ask for.

CHAPTER EIGHT

francesca

PRESENT

I had been countingdown the minutes until the end of my shift. The ER was its usual whirlwind of chaos—broken bones, high fevers, and a series of minor injuries that didn’t seem minor to those experiencing them. I was utterly exhausted, my feet protesting in pain, when the next name appeared on the board: “Male, late 30s, laceration to the left forearm.”

It seemed easy enough, I thought, as I grabbed a tray of sutures and gloves. I could hear the doctor two rooms over. Looked like I just needed to get the patient’s vitals, start the chart, and set the room up in case the doctor needed to do some stitching. Just one more patient, then I’d be free.

As I pushed the curtain aside, I halted mid-step. The man on the gurney had a presence that demanded attention. He was well-dressed, his black button-up shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing a muscular forearm smeared with blood. His dark hair was slicked back, and his jaw was shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble. Yet it wasn’t just his looks that triggered alarms in my mind—it was his eyes. Cold. Calculating. Eyes I’d seen far too often in the men who drifted in and out of my brothers’ lives.

Mafioso, I thought immediately.

“Let’s have a look,” I said, forcing my features into a mask of professional neutrality, but every part of me tensed, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

He extended his arm with a small, tight-lipped, shark-like smile. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Nurse,” I instinctively corrected, even as my mind raced to find someone who could take my place.

The cut was deep but clean, almost too clean. I was new, but I wasn’t stupid. “You said this was a kitchen accident?” I asked, striving to keep my voice steady while I took his vitals and noted the chart.

He nodded, displaying no indication of being upset by my question. “That’s right. I’m clumsy. Chopping onions. The knife slipped.”

“Happens to the best of us,” I said lightly, even as my gut told me he was lying. This wasn’t a slip. How would you cut yourself with a kitchen knife on your forearm like that on accident?

“By law, I’m required to report anything suspicious to the authorities,” I said, my tone careful. Within the families, we had people on call for injuries, especially minor issues like this. Even in cases of severe injuries, such as what happened at Conall’s place, doctors were brought in specifically to keep the authorities uninformed.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he appeared amused. “Do what you have to do. No sweat off my back.”

---