Page 87 of Mafia Kingdom

"She's right," I confirm softly. "I never doubted you'd come for us."

The lie is small and forgivable, offered in the spirit of the moment. We both know fear crept in during those long, silent hours. But what matters is this—he's here now, alive and victorious against overwhelming odds.

Karen approaches cautiously, her expression guarded but civil. "Is it really over?" she asks. "Are we safe now?"

Marco straightens, shifting seamlessly back into his role as protector and commander. "The immediate threat has been neutralized," he confirms. "The estate took significant damage, but the structure remains secure. We'll need to relocate to the west wing while repairs are made to the east side."

"And the O'Reillys?" I ask, the practical question breaking through my relief. "Will they try again?"

A shadow crosses his face. "Their losses were substantial. They won't mount another direct assault anytime soon. But this isn't over completely—not yet."

The qualification hangs in the air, a reminder that our safety remains provisional, dependent on Marco's continued vigilance and strength. But for now, for this moment, we're alive and together. It's enough.

"What happens now?" Karen asks, voicing the question we're all thinking.

Marco's gaze meets mine, something significant passing between us—a decision, a commitment, a shared understanding of what must come next.

"Now," he says, his voice steady with certainty, "we rebuild. And we prepare. Because the O'Reillys will be back, and next time, we'll be the ones setting the terms of engagement."

The declaration should frighten me—this promise of continued conflict, of violence that will inevitably touch our lives again. Instead, I feel an odd sense of clarity, of purpose. This is our reality now, for better or worse. Not the life I imagined, certainly, but one I'm increasingly willing to fight for.

Because Marco is right—this isn't over. The battle for our future has only just begun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Marco

THE EAST WING is still smoldering, thick black smoke curling into the pale morning sky. The immaculate grounds are now a battlefield—bullet casings scattered across blood-stained grass, vehicles reduced to burning husks, bodies covered with tarps, awaiting discreet removal.

I stand on the terrace, surveying the damage. Seven of my men dead. Twelve wounded, three critically. The O'Reillys fared worse—twenty-one confirmed casualties, including Patrick O'Reilly's younger brother Kevin, a significant blow to their command structure.

Not a decisive victory, but enough to buy us breathing room. Time to regroup. To plan our counterattack.

"Clean-up crews are twenty minutes out," Tony reports, joining me at the railing. His face is streaked with soot, a hastily bandaged cut above his eye still seeping blood. "Medical team's finishing with the last of our wounded. Damien's men are sweeping the perimeter, making sure none of O'Reilly's people have lingered behind."

I nod, acknowledging the update without shifting my gaze from the destruction below. "And our guests?"

"The Gillespies are settled in the west wing, as you instructed. The girl—Lily—finally fell asleep about an hour ago. Ms. Gillespie and Sasha are with her."

"Good," I murmur, relief mixing with the bone-deep exhaustion I've been fighting since the attack began. "Double the security on that section of the house. The O'Reillys may have retreated, but they're not defeated."

Tony hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. "Some of the men are asking questions about Gerald, and about what happened with Michael. They need to know who to trust."

He's right, of course. In our world, uncertainty breeds fear, and fear leads to mistakes we can't afford right now. My men deserve to know why blood was spilled on our own ground, why trusted lieutenants suddenly became enemies.

"Call a meeting," I decide. "Everyone who's not on essential security duty. One hour in the dining room."

Tony nods and starts to leave, but I stop him with a question that's been gnawing at me since the attack began: "Any word from my father?"

His expression tells me everything before he speaks. "Nothing, Boss. We've tried all the usual channels. The house in Wicklow is empty—staff gone, security disappeared. It's like he knew this was coming and cleared out ahead of time."

The confirmation lands like a physical blow, though I've been bracing for it since Michael's betrayal. My own father, complicit in an attack that nearly killed me, killed Sasha, killed Lily. The family bond I've spent my entire life defending has been shattered beyond repair.

"Keep trying," I instruct, masking the pain beneath professional detachment. "And put resources into locating Gerald. He's the key to understanding how deep this betrayal goes."

After Tony leaves, I remain on the terrace, allowing myself a rare moment of unguarded reflection. The Walsh estate—my home since childhood, the symbolic seat of our family's power—now bears the scars of civil war. Brother against brother. Father against son. The biblical parallels aren't lost on me, though I find little comfort in ancient precedents for familial betrayal.

A sound behind me breaks my reverie—soft footsteps approaching with deliberate care. I don't need to turn to know it's Sasha. Her presence registers on some primal level, a certainty beyond rational explanation.

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