Page 49 of Conall's Reign

The room was quiet,save for the steady hum of the city outside the windows. New York never truly slept, but the chaos felt distant— manageable in this inner sanctum I had created. The sheets were crisp, perfectly tucked in the way I liked, though Francesca had already half-undone my handiwork, her bare legs tangled in them as she dozed beside me.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling and replaying the meeting from earlier in the day. Maxim had been his usual enigmatic self, though an undertone of calm hinted at the storm he was preparing to unleash. Angelo had been loud and impatient, but that was nothing new. Ilias, as always, was the hawk in the room, his silence a weapon in itself. Then there was Cosimo. His struggles had been obvious to me, even if he tried to mask them behind that practiced, tight-lipped smile. The Vanello docks were slipping through his fingers, and he knew it. We all did.

Cosimo was hiding something big. I agreed with the others that he wasn’t to be trusted. When we’d initially thought to bring him in, he’d done us a big favor. He’d turned over a mole in his organization to us. Now, I wondered about the reasoning behind it. We had been quick to agree to let him into our move against Vanello, but now I was having second thoughts about his motives. My gut was twitching, and I’d learned early on to trust it.

The tension in the room had been palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. The plan to seize the docks was bold but required precision—something Cosimo didn’t seem capable of delivering. He was desperate, a man clinging to the little control he had left, and desperation made people dangerous. Maxim and Ilias understood this, though they approached it differently. Maxim, with his quiet confidence, was already setting the stage to outmaneuver Cosimo. Meanwhile, Ilias had barely spoken, yet his presence alone felt like a silent threat, a reminder that any misstep would result in swift consequences.

I turned my head to glance at the clock on the nightstand: 2:37 a.m. Three minutes past when I should have turned off the light. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to resist the urge to reach over and straighten the stack of books on my side of the table. They were already perfectly aligned, their spines flush with the edge. It didn’t matter—the need to check gnawed at me like a rat in the walls.

Francesca stirred beside me, her hand gliding across my chest as she mumbled something incomprehensible. The warmth of her skin drew me back from my thoughts. She anchored me when my mind began to spiral.

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

I smirked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t. I could feel it. Your brain is like a little engine that never stops.” She propped herself up on one elbow, her dark hair cascading in messy waves around her face. “What’s keeping you up this time? The meeting? Or is it the books? Did the redecoration in the living room throw you off?”

I was impressed by how attuned she was to me. It made me feel a bit freaked out.

“You live here too. It’s okay to redecorate.” I hesitated. “I appreciate you leaving this space the way it is.” I didn’t want her to get carried away. “Having things in order in familiar places calms me. If there are one or two places like that, it helps. My office. The bedroom. We can compromise.”

She nodded. “I can do that. If I can ever help, will you ask?”

“Yes.” Most of the time, it was difficult to articulate what I needed most, but I appreciated her willingness to help. “Mostly, I was thinking about the meeting.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she offered, and once again I was struck by my good fortune in having such a wife. Francesca was thoughtful and genuine, embodying everything I had ever wanted. “I want to be here for you.”

That was what I wanted, too — an equal partner. She didn’t need to know all the dirty details, but I wanted someone to be here with me in this life, step by step. “I’d like that,principessa. I would like to talk about it,” I admitted. Her eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t want to hide from you. This life is hard and sometimes complicated.” I cupped her cheek and caressed her jawline. Her skin felt so soft, like the finest silk.

“What’s bothering you then?”

“It’s about a plan we have for Vanello’s docks. You know we’ve been at war with their family?” She nodded, looking so cute as she watched me that I wished to end the conversation and lose myself in her completely.

“Do they ship stuff you want? What are you fighting about? Territory?” she asked, scrunching her nose. “What’s so important about the docks?”

“Both. The Vanellos are traffickers of everything — people, drugs, guns, you name it. They use other methods, but the docks here are a significant piece. We want to cut off that route. We are finally going to nip this in the bud. We will have to do it in stages. It will be tricky and risky,” I admitted. “Cosimo concerns me. He might complicate matters.”

“Cosimo?” she asked, tilting her head. “Why would he make it more complicated?”

“He’s desperate to maintain his position, but he’s cracking under the pressure. Desperation can lead a man to be reckless, and I’m not sure I trust him.” My fingers ran through her silky hair. “We may have been hasty in bringing him into our group.”

“Reckless men can bring you trouble,” she said, tracing absent patterns across my chest. She leaned closer, her lips grazing my jaw. “Perhaps you should stop worrying about silent threats and struggling men for the night and focus on something else.”

“Something else?” I asked, turning my head to meet her gaze. Her playful smile was enough to make me forget about the docks, the meeting, and even the damn books.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “Like your wife, who has been very patient while you’ve been brooding.”

I laughed, a rich, genuine sound that resonated warmly in my chest. “You’re not exactly the patient type.”

“True, but I’m also charming, which balances it out.”

She wasn’t wrong. Smiling, I rolled onto my side, wrapping my arm around her and pulling her close. Whatever tomorrow brought, whatever chaos awaited, it could wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

francesca

The steady humof monitors and the rhythmic beeping of IV pumps filled my ears as I stepped onto the post-op floor. The familiar scent of antiseptic and clean linens enveloped me like a comforting embrace. For the first time in weeks, I felt grounded—back in a space where life made sense and my purpose was clear. Here, I wasn’t Conall O’Kelly’s wife. I wasn’t tied to a world of crime, power plays, and carefully worded threats.

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