Page 102 of Mafia Kingdom

The word hits me like a physical blow. "Cancer?" My expression hardens, masking the shock beneath. This is the first I've heard about my father being sick.

Gerald nods weakly, then doubles over in a violent coughing fit. When he finally straightens, a thin line of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. "Terminal. Six, maybeseven months left. He didn't want any of you to know—saw it as weakness."

I pace the concrete floor, processing this revelation. "So he decided to kill his own sons?" The disgust in my voice echoes through the space.

"Not all of them," Gerald replies, his breathing labored. "Just you and Danny. The ones he couldn't control."

I stop pacing, my gaze fixed on Gerald. "Why?"

"He told Lucas you both were planning to overthrow him, to align with the O'Reillys against the family." Gerald's eyes, though clouded with pain, hold mine. "He said you were the traitors."

The pieces fall into place for me—Lucas's sudden return, his betrayal, his conviction that I was the enemy. The past weeks of chaos now make sense, revealing a horrifying design crafted by my own father. I killed Lucas when I could have figured out a way to convince my brother that our father was lying.

"Lucas believed him. Believed I would betray my own father." My voice is hollow, the depth of the betrayal still sinking in.

"Patrick can be very convincing," Gerald says. "He offered Lucas full control after he was gone, but only if you and Danny were removed. Lucas didn't like it, but he went along, convinced your father would never lie about something so important."

I absorb this devastating truth. My father had orchestrated the murder of his own sons, has turned brother against brother through calculated lies. Everything I've done—every sacrifice, every compromise, every moral line crossed in the name of family loyalty—has been for a man who sees me as nothing more than an obstacle to be removed.

"And Danny?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"Patrick arranged the ambush himself. “

My hands clench into fists, my knuckles white. "Why tell me this now?"

"Because I'm dying anyway," Gerald says simply. He attempts a shrug, but the movement triggers another coughing spell. "And because what Patrick's doing will destroy everything the Walsh family built. He's becoming irrational, paranoid. The disease has affected his mind as well as his body. If I had known sooner, I would have stopped it."

As Gerald speaks, my trained instincts register subtle movements outside the warehouse windows—shadows where none should be, the glint of metal in the moonlight. My body tenses, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. We aren't alone.

Gerald notices my change in posture. "They followed you here," he says, resignation in his voice. "Patrick knew you'd bring me to this warehouse—he established it as a safe house years ago."

My phone vibrates with an emergency alert—the house has been breached, but Sasha is fine. But judging by the movements outside, it's already too late.

"How many?" I ask, subtly reaching for the gun holstered beneath my jacket.

"Enough," Gerald replies.

The warehouse doors burst open with a metallic groan, and Patrick Walsh himself enters. Once an imposing figure who commanded any room he occupied, my father now appears noticeably thinner, his designer suit hanging loosely on his frame. Yet his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—burn with the same unforgiving authority they always have. He walks with practiced confidence, flanked by four armed men.

"Hello, son," Patrick says, his voice still carrying its characteristic strength despite his weakened state. "I see Gerald has been talking too much."

My hand moves away from my weapon. Even in my current state, surrounded by Patrick's men, I can't bring myself to draw on my own father.

"Is it true?" I ask, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "About Danny? About all of it?"

Patrick surveys the scene with clinical detachment. His gaze lingers on Gerald, who meets his eyes without flinching.

"You always were too sentimental, Gerald," Patrick says, before turning back to me. "Family businesses require difficult decisions. Ones that sentimental men can't make."

"You didn't answer my question," I press, stepping forward. The armed men instantly raise their weapons, but Patrick waves them down.

"Yes," Patrick admits, no trace of remorse in his voice. "Danny was becoming a liability. His addiction, his recklessness—he would have brought everything down eventually."

"He was clean," I counter, thinking of my brother's three months of sobriety before his death. "He was trying."

Patrick dismisses this with a wave of his hand. "Temporary. He would have relapsed, as he always did. And you—" He fixes me with a hard stare. "You've been questioning my decisions for years. Undermining my authority. The Walsh family needs a leader who understands what's necessary."

"Like Lucas?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.

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