Page 52 of Mafia Kingdom

We found it as teenagers, claimed it as our own. A place to drink stolen whiskey, to fight, to plan. It was here that Lucasand I swore blood oaths of loyalty, promising to always protect each other, to put family above everything. It was here, on that rusted metal table in the corner, that we plotted our first real job—a heist that put the Walsh name on the map and earned our father's rare approval.

And it's here I find Lucas now, sitting on that same table, smoking a cigarette like he's been waiting for me.

"Took you long enough," he says, not bothering to look up as I enter. The morning light filters through broken windows, casting barred shadows across his face. "Thought you'd come last night after your romp with the chef."

My hand instinctively moves toward my gun, but I stop myself. "What are you talking about?"

He smirks, finally meeting my gaze. "Sasha Gillespie. Father will be disappointed. He had higher hopes for your taste in women."

The casual mention of Sasha in his mouth makes my skin crawl. "We need to talk, Lucas."

The casual mention of Sasha in his mouth makes my skin crawl. "We need to talk, Lucas."

"About what? Danny? The syndicate? Or perhaps about how you've been fucking the very woman whose house we've been using as a distribution point?" He laughs, the sound hollow and echoing in the vast space. "You've always had a weakness for damaged goods."

I move closer, controlling my temper with effort. "I know what you did. I know about the Black Crew, about the syndicate. I know you sold out Danny."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I've pieced it together so quickly. But it vanishes just as fast, replaced by cold calculation.

"And what exactly do you think you know, brother?" His tone is mocking, the last word a twisted jab.

I throw the envelope onto the table beside him, photos and documents spilling out. "Everything. The meetings, the payoffs, the information you've been feeding them about our operations." I step closer, my voice dropping. "You told them where to find Danny and me. You got our brother killed."

Lucas glances at the evidence without touching it, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs—a genuine laugh that bounces off the decaying walls.

"Well done, Marco. I underestimated your intelligence network." He stands, facing me directly now. "But you're missing the bigger picture. Always have."

"Enlighten me," I say, my voice dangerously calm.

He circles me slowly, like we're back in our teenage years, looking for an opening before a fight. "Father has finally come to his senses. He doesn’t see you as his heir."

"Let me guess, he sees you as his heir," I sneer.

Lucas steps forward, his eyes hard, I know my words have landed a punch but he is refusing to address them. "The syndicate offered partnership, not just employment. They have connections across Europe, product lines we've never touched. This could have elevated us all. Why the fuck do you think the O’Regan’s bailed and went to better ground?"

I’m shaking my head. "You did all this for you. You killed Danny?” My control slips, anger bleeding into my words.

His expression shifts to contempt. "Danny was collateral damage." He shrugs and glances away.

The casualness with which he dismisses Danny's life—our baby brother—ignites something primal in me. Before I realize what I'm doing, my fist connects with his jaw, sending him staggering backward.

Lucas recovers quickly, wiping blood from his lip with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "There he is. The real MarcoWalsh. Not the businessman Father pretends you are, not the protector you play at being. Just another thug with a temper."

He swings back, catching me right above my eye where my wound from the docks is still healing. Pain explodes through the side of my head, but I push through it, driving him back against the table.

We fight like we used to as kids, but with the full force of grown men harboring years of resentment.

Lucas fights dirty, always has. He gets me in a chokehold, his forearm crushing my windpipe. "You're not fit to lead this family," he hisses in my ear. "You never were. Father will never choose you."

I drive my elbow back into his solar plexus, breaking his hold, and spin to face him. We're both breathing hard and bleeding.

"You're right about one thing," I say, my voice ragged. "I never wanted to lead. But at least I didn't betray my own blood."

Something shifts in Lucas's expression—a flicker of the brother I once knew, perhaps. But it hardens again just as quickly.

"She's made you soft," he sneers. "The great Marco Walsh, taken to his knees."

I lunge forward, tackling him onto the table. We roll across it, sending the evidence of his betrayal scattering. I pin him, drawing the knife from my boot and pressing it against his throat. A thin line of blood appears beneath the blade.

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