Page 50 of Stolen Rival
There’s time. Especially now that we’re stuck with each other. Besides, if I give her something to do, she’s less likely to have time to plot how to stab me in my sleep. Funnily enough, the thought makes me smile rather than grimace. I’m coming to enjoy her fire.
“Patrick.” Sorcha takes the seat next to mine and briefly touches my arm. “I’m sorry for you, too. He was a lovely man.”
A lovely man who’s killed dozens of people in the name of power and turf. It just goes to show how many layers my cousin had. Before he got sick, he could put the fear of God into men with a single glance, a character trait I have in spades. But he was also a family man, adored by adults and children alike. That is where our lives diverge.
As I reflect on what she said, it becomes clear—this was Dylan’s wish for me. Not only to be feared and respected within our ranks, but to have a wife, and eventually children, to bring out my softer side.
I’m not sure I have a softer side. Time will tell.
I grunt in response, downing the rest of my mug of tea before standing. “I’ll leave you to it. I have work to do.”
Sorcha’s face crumples, but she gathers herself quickly, molding her features into a blank stare. I frown, confused. It’s as though she wanted me to stick around. Odd. I caress her soft cheek with the back of my hand, noting how she leans in rather than flinching at my touch. Now that Dylan has passed and the business is mine, there isn’t a reason for her to keep up the charade. Yet she is.
Maybe it isn’t a charade anymore.
Dropping my hand, I walk away, an uncomfortable tightness spreading throughout my chest.
Hundreds of mourners turn up to Dylan’s funeral, further cementing how well liked and respected he was, despite the brutality of his chosen career. I can’t help wondering how many would attend my funeral. Nowhere near this many. It’s never bothered me before, but Dylan’s death, and the ripples it’s caused throughout our community, has given me pause.
A subset of mourners is invited back to the house, and after the obligatory food has been consumed and stories shared, people begin to drift away. There are still a few stragglers left when Dylan’s lawyer, Frank, approaches me. He lowers his head, and as is befitting of my status, I hold out my hand. He draws it toward him and kisses the signet ring passed down to me by my father.
“If it pleases you, it’s time to read the will.”
“Let’s do it.”
When we arrive at Dylan’s office, Mairead and Andrew are gathered already there. Frank closes the door, and all three wait for me to sit. I move behind Dylan’s desk, and once I’m situated, the other three sit also. The fact that Andrew is here means Dylan has left him something. It’s unsurprising considering how long Andrew worked for Dylan, but Andrew really should have known that family will always come first.
Frank removes a folder from his briefcase, and the reading begins. It’s as expected. I inherit the entirety of Dylan’s business interests, including a sizable investment portfolio. Mairead receives five million dollars, this house, plus a holidayhome in Jamaica. Andrew is bestowed a small sum of one hundred thousand dollars and Dylan’s watch collection. He must’ve brought his acting skills to the table because he doesn’t react to what amounts to a slap in the face against what he hoped he’d inherit, but I’m not fooled. Inside, he’s seething.
At the first opportunity, this guy is going to try to off me. And when he does, I’ll be ready. I almost want him to make his move. Killing him now, when Dylan’s not even cold in the ground, could set off a mutiny. Andrew is known to these people, whereas I’m an unknown entity. But if he gives me an excuse to, well, wouldn’t that be a fucking dream outcome?
After Frank leaves, Andrew gets up to go, too.
“Andrew, wait.” I rise to my feet and round the desk, holding out a hand to Mairead. Leaning in, I kiss her on both cheeks. “Would you give us a moment, Mairead?”
“Of course.” She follows Frank outside, closing the door behind her. I remain standing, but I motion for Andrew to sit. He does so, reluctantly.
“Pack your things. We leave for Ireland tomorrow.”
His eyes flare, jaw flexing. “What do you mean? Don’t you need me to stay on and run things over here?”
“No. That role is taken. You will move to Ireland where I will find a suitable position for you.”
A muscle flickers in his cheek. “I have far more value here.”
I plant both hands on the arms of his chair, my face mere inches from his. “Are you questioning my authority?”
He draws back as far as the chair will allow. “No. Of course not. But Dylan’s death will mean our adversaries sensing a weakness, especially if you aren’t here to put the fear of God into them. I can do that.”
“I have complete confidencein the individual I have chosen. My decision is final. Either move or leave. It’s your decision.”
I’ve presented it as a choice when we both know it isn’t a choice at all. If he says he’ll leave, it will be in a body bag. No one who’s worked as closely on the inside as he has gets to walk away and impart our secrets to those who seek to dethrone and conquer.
Eventually, he capitulates, bowing his head. “I would be honored to serve you in Ireland.”
Liar. “Good man.” I straighten, using my height to my advantage. “I knew I could rely on you. We leave at eight o’clock in the morning. You are dismissed.”
He slowly unfolds himself from the chair and, without making eye contact, leaves the room.
