Page 16 of The Heir's Defiance

CONNOR

The pub Ronan sent me to has no name, no signage, just a boarded window and a crooked alley to the left where light bulbs buzz against corrugated siding. Clanbrassil Street is quieter than usual, damp from the last spit of rain, the scents of old whiskey and piss still thick on the breeze. Killian waits by the curb, one hand in his coat pocket, the other resting loosely on the car roof.

I nod to him once and he doesn’t follow. This meeting is supposed to be a gentlemen's meeting, but that is still to be determined. We're supposed to be here to talk peace, but this location, chosen by the Fitzpatricks, doesn't exactly scream peace.

Inside, it smells of bleach and old oak. Like someone has done a different type of cleaning in here, but someone swept the place. Still, the blood from the last time they used this room still lives in the cracks of the floorboards. The barstools are flipped. The shelves stripped. Only the table in the center remains upright, a single bottle in the middle, half-full and untouched and coveredin dust. I cross the room slowly, each step placed carefully, each breath measured.

Callum Fitzpatrick is already seated, his back to the far wall, eyes steady, arms spread along the booth bench like a man in control of something he’s not. His lieutenants stand to either side—Cian, the heavier one, with broken knuckles and the twitch of a man who likes to use them. Then Finbarr, thin and sharp, the kind who whispers before cutting throats.

They’ve always come off as theatric to me—Callum with his hollow bravado, Cian itching for permission to swing, Finbarr quiet but always circling. They carry themselves like power is a given, not a prize earned in blood. But the smarter ones know better. Real power doesn’t need to perform. You don't have to tell a room when a lion enters.

"O’Rourke," Callum says, as if it’s an insult.

"Fitzpatrick," I reply evenly.

I don’t sit until he gestures. It isn’t courtesy, just power theater. I take the seat slowly. My jacket stays open. My hands rest on the table where they can see them. No weapons, by agreement. Not even a pen.

"Your brother send you to play nice, then twist the knife later?" Callum asks.

"Ronan sent me because he believes we can come to an agreement."

He snorts, eyes flicking to Cian, then back to me. "Funny. Word is the Russians already made a deal with someone. Maybe we’re all late to the party."

"If someone made a deal, they haven’t lived long enough to collect," I answer. "But maybe that’s the party you meant."

Finbarr shifts, arms crossed, but his gaze doesn’t move. I don’t acknowledge him.

Callum leans forward. "You expecting us to believe this sit-down is anything but posturing? You lost a fence. We lost patience. What exactly are we here to talk about?"

"Containment," I say. "We’re not here to test who bleeds faster. We’re here to stop the bleeding."

He studies me. I hold the look. The room feels smaller now, thick and alive, coiled tight enough to snap. The bottle in the center of the table hasn’t been touched.

We’re here because the Russians are circling, watching which direction the city leans before they pick a side. They’ve already made overtures—subtle, quiet, just enough to stoke fear without making promises. If the Fitzpatricks push too far or if we push back too hard, the Russians will pounce. Ronan’s betting that if we show a willingness to talk, we buy time—enough to stabilize our docks, tighten our routes, and keep outside hands from dragging this whole war past the point of return. He didn’t send me here to shake hands. He sent me to keep us from bleeding out long enough to pick our battlefield.

The instant that deal between the Fitzpatricks and the Bratva fell through—and Nora backed out—the waters turned violent. The Russians lost face. Now they want recompense. They’re waiting for a fracture deep enough to widen. They don’t want to work with us. They want to pick the winner and wipe the other off the map. This isn’t about making peace. It’s about showing the Fitzpatricks their only chance at survival is standing beside us—not across from us. Because if we go to war with each other, the only ones left standing will speak Russian.

I fold my hands on the table, voice steady. "We’re offering shared territory on the South Quays—clean routes, nothing dirty running through either side. You hold your end, we hold ours. We dispute something, it goes through a neutral third party. No more bodies slumped in running cars, no more storefronts lit up like funeral pyres, and no more children diving under tables because they have the wrong last name."

Cian scoffs under his breath. I don’t look at him.

"And in return?" Callum asks, head tilted like he already knows the answer.

"We're proposing a ceasefire—temporary, two months in duration. It should be just long enough to assess the damages already done, trace the vulnerabilities in our routes, and repair the fractures before they spread farther. We need space to breathe before more bodies drop." I meet his eyes. "You’ll keep your docks. We’ll keep ours. No one tests the line unless they’re ready to bleed for it."

The room stills. No one speaks. Callum watches like a man counting consequences, not seconds. Cian’s jaw tightens, shoulders squared but still. Finbarr doesn’t even shift his feet. This isn’t posturing. This is the part where each man in the room decides whether to nod or reach for a weapon.

"It’s a lot of trust to gamble on words," Callum says.

"That’s all any of us are doing," I reply. "Trusting that no one wants a war they can’t afford to finish."

When I finish, no one speaks. Callum leans back, expression unreadable. Then he chuckles, low and mean.

"You really think this ends with terms? You think a written deal changes who bleeds or who pays to clean it up?" Callum picks up the bottle in the center of the table, studies the dust along the neck, then sets it back down without pouring. His thumb taps once against the wood. He’s not brushing it off—he’s stalling.

"Then we’ll see who the streets bury," I answer. "We came with an open hand. What you do with it is on you."

I push back my chair slowly and let the scrape echo. Callum’s eyes track the movement, but he doesn’t speak. I stand, smooth my jacket, and hold his stare like I’m still sitting across from him. He’s weighing it—whether to let this ride or make a mess of it now. I give him the out.

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