Page 25 of The Heir's Defiance

"Probably. Now leave."

He growls under his breath, throws the car into gear, and peels off down the street, tires biting wet pavement.

I circle the back of the building—a warehouse I’ve visited before. One of our lesser-known properties, rarely staffed. It overlooks the northern docks where Connor indicated I should avoid. The side door isn't locked, which also is normal. Inside, I find the stairwell and start to climb.

The door to the roof creaks on old hinges. Rain left a sheen across the slates, and my boots squeak until I find grip. From here, the cranes at the docks pierce the skyline, half-lit and skeletal. Fog rolls in low from the sea, curling along the shipping containers. The harbor lights cast everything in amber and shadow.

I squat behind the low wall that edges the perimeter of the roof, adjust my scarf, and wait. Minutes pass and turn into a longer wait than I planned. I have to shift from crouching to kneeling, and moisture seeps into my jeans at the knees. A gull screeches somewhere to my left. Then headlights sweep across the street below.

A black SUV pulls up beside the yard, its headlights briefly cutting across the docks. And two more roll in behind it. I lean forward, heart ticking faster. The plates aren’t just familiar—they’re burned into my memory. It’s Connor's car, and the others must be his buddies.

They move fast. Four men exit the lead vehicle, Connor among them. I track his shape automatically. Broad shoulders. Controlled stride. He gestures once, and the group splits, each group moving with purpose. Whatever they're doing, they've planned it well.

I watch them scope the place out, guns raised, and then circle back. One of the cars pulls away, then they regroup. I wonder what they're doing. I can't see any of the other faces. I can't really see Connor's face either in the dim light, but I know it's him. I'd recognize his form anywhere.

The first shot cracks out from the far end of the lot. Another follows, then a third. The sound bounces up to the roof and ricochets through my chest. Connor’s men duck low, spreading out. One drops behind a stack of crates, weapon trained outward. Another sweeps toward the left flank, checking corners. My heart is racing just watching this and knowing what Da will do when he finds out it was Connor's men.

Across the yard, I spot movement—three of my father’s men emerging from the shadows, weapons drawn. They don’t charge. They fan out slowly, taking cover behind containers and storage units. They’ve either been stationed here or someone gave the order fast. It hits me then—this isn’t just a coincidence. They knew something was coming. Maybe not what. Maybe not who. But they were ready. And now it’s our turf they’re defending.

Which means they were probably doing things they shouldn't have been doing. Connor wouldn't just strike for no reason. Or maybe he would and I'm completely wrong, but I feel like somehow, my father has been crossing lines, more than just the ones in our family relationships.

Connor ducks behind a rust-streaked container, and I see the instant shift in his stance. He pops up, fires twice in tight succession. Two men drop. One screams, but it’s distant, swallowed by the sound of more gunfire erupting.

Then I see one of my father’s enforcers creeping wide to the left. His boots are silent on the gravel. His movements are tight and practiced. He doesn’t flinch at the gunfire around him—he’s locked in. His focus narrows to one target—Connor. The muzzle of his rifle lifts. It centers on Connor’s back. I can feel my pulse in my throat, a thudding beat I can’t breathe around. Every instinct in me yells to move, to scream, to do something, but if I did, they'd know I'm here.

My fingers go cold. My breath shortens. And still he creeps forward, taking position behind a stack of crates, almost level with Connor. He steadies his arm.

And I move.

My hand closes over the pistol inside my coat. I pull it out and unwrap it from the silk. I barely take time to think as I take aim. I rise to one knee, heart thundering. My hands are steady but my vision blurs at the edges.

I fire, and the shot cracks like a whip. He falls hard. No warning. No scream.

Connor never turns to see from where the shot came, but he looks down at the dead man and shouts into the night for his men to fall back.

I sink back behind the low wall, my breath catching. My hands start to shake. I can still feel the recoil buzzing in my wrists.

I killed one of ours.

The moment shatters something in me. I stay crouched behind the wall, the gun limp in my grip, breathing so hard it hurts. My stomach turns cold and hollow. I can’t stop replaying it—the way his body folded, the way the shot rang out too clean—my shot.

He never saw it coming. He never saw me.

My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the distant yells below. My eyes sting but don’t tear. I’m not even sure I’m breathing anymore.

I stare down at the pistol. My hand won’t unclench. My fingertips have gone numb.

What the fuck did I just do?

I don’t run. I backtrack slowly, eyes on the roof slate until I hit the stairwell door. Inside, the dark swallows me. I grip the railing and descend fast, boots slick on metal, breaths shallow in my throat. The warehouse stays silent behind me. I don't think anyone knows I'm even here.

Outside, the street is damp and empty. I pull my hood low and walk three blocks before calling an Uber. The wait is unbearable—fourteen minutes stretched across a lifetime. When the car finally arrives, I slide into the back seat and keep my head down. The driver doesn’t speak. Good.

I can’t stop staring at my hands. They're smudged with grime and shaking in my lap. I feel the press of the cold steel against my side and know I should've ditched the gun, but my prints are on it. I swallow that fact hard and wish I could take it out and wipe it down. Da will question where his spare weapon went and he'll accuse his men. I have to get it back somehow.

By the time I make it home, I'm fighting tears again, and the smell of gunpowder still clings to my coat. The front hall is dark except for the orange wash from the sitting room where the hints of cigar smoke are wafting out. I pass by the door, hoping to sneak up to my room and scrub the stain of sin off me, but he sees me pass.

My father’s voice cuts the silence. "You look like hell."

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