Page 64 of Mafia Kingdom

Marco

I PACE THE length of my office, phone pressed to my ear, waiting for confirmation that Tony has secured Sasha's sister and aunt. Every minute feels like an hour, my mind conjuring increasingly dire scenarios. What if they were too late? What if the watchers decided to make their move first?

"They're en route," Mike finally reports. "No complications. ETA thirty minutes."

Relief floods through me, though I keep my voice neutral. "Good. Full security when they arrive. No one gets near them without my explicit permission."

"Understood, Boss."

I hang up, running a hand through my hair. My nerves are frayed in a way I'm not accustomed to. I've coordinated higher-stakes operations with less emotional investment. But this is different. This is Sasha's family. This is personal.

The realization that I've crossed a line I once swore never to approach settles uncomfortably in my chest. I've allowed her to become more than a temporary distraction, more than a responsibility. She's become a vulnerability—one my enemies are already exploiting.

You're my monster.

Her words echo in my mind, stirring something I've kept buried for years. Something dangerous. Something like hope.

A knock interrupts my thoughts. Damien enters without waiting for permission, his expression grim. Since Lucas's death, he's stepped up, filling the power vacuum with surprising efficiency. We've never been close—Damien has always kept to himself, the most inscrutable of the Walsh brothers—but circumstances have forced a new alliance between us, and since James has returned to France, we are all that is left.

"You called for an update?" he says, maintaining a careful distance.

I nod, gesturing for him to continue.

"My contact in the north confirmed it," Damien says, his voice low despite the privacy of my office. "The O'Reilly syndicate has made a significant move into the northeast over the past month. They now see us as even more vulnerable after Danny and Lucas."

"And the men watching Karen Gillespie's house?"

"O'Reilly soldiers, as you suspected. Low-level muscle, probably instructed to watch and report, not engage directly. Yet."

I absorb this information, fitting it into the larger picture forming in my mind. "Why now? The O'Reillys have kept to their territory for years. What's changed?"

Damien shrugs, but the gesture is too deliberate to be casual. "Lucas made contact with them three months ago, according to my sources. Offered them a foothold in exchange for support in his…restructuring plans."

The diplomatic phrasing doesn't disguise the reality: Lucas had been planning a coup, offering our territories to historical enemies in exchange for help eliminating Father and me.

"And now that Lucas is gone, they're still pursuing the opportunity," I conclude.

"With more aggression, if anything. They smell blood in the water." Damien's eyes narrow slightly. "Deckie O'Reilly himself has been spotted in the city. First time in five years he's left his stronghold."

This is significant. Deckie O'Reilly, eldest son of the O'Reilly gang, notorious for his brutality and tactical genius. If he's personally overseeing their expansion into northeast, the threat is even greater than I initially assessed.

"What about Father?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral. "Has he been briefed?"

Something flickers across Damien's face—irritation, perhaps, or concern. "He's aware of the situation. His instruction was to 'handle it appropriately.'"

Typical Father—vague directives with the implicit expectation of complete success. No guidance, no support, just the looming threat of disappointment should we fail.

"And Gerald?" I press, noting Damien's slight shift in posture at the mention of Father's right-hand man.

"Still firmly in Father's corner," Damien says carefully. "Though, there are…whispers."

"What kind of whispers?"

Damien hesitates, clearly weighing the risk of sharing uncertain information. "Gerald has been meeting with Lucas's old contacts. Private conversations, off the books."

The implication hangs in the air between us. Gerald, who has been like a second father to us all, might be playing both sides—or worse, orchestrating his own power play while we're distracted by external threats.

"Keep eyes on him," I instruct. "Discreetly."

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