Page 34 of The Heir's Defiance

Ronan clears his throat, setting his elbows on the table, his voice calm but edged with purpose. "We came here to talk terms of peace because there’s more at stake than just our lines in the dirt. If we keep bleeding each other, we won’t last long enough for the Russians to finish what we started."

Seamus lifts his chin, folding his hands together in front of himself, his expression unmoved. "Your men pushed onto our docks eight nights ago. You cornered three of ours behind warehouse six and left two of them dead. So if we're already bleeding, don't come in here pretending you're the one offering peace. What you’re doing now is damage control."

Ronan doesn’t blink. His fingers tap once on the wood. "Would our retaliation be necessary if you were staying in your own territory?"

Callum laughs under his breath, not bothering to hide the condescension. “Neither did your men. Let’s not pretend your side showed up with clean hands.” He throws his hands up as he speaks and displays how little self-restraint he has. He could learn a few things from his sister.

I sit forward, resting both forearms on the table, grounding myself against the need to punch something. “Our men went in armed because we had reason to. They were there to ensure our shipment came through clean and to send a message. We didn’t pull the trigger first."

Callum turns his gaze on me, eyes half-lidded. “Territory is always contested. You know that as well as I do.”

“It wasn’t last month. Your people are pushing past agreed lines, and you’re calling it oversight.” Ronan's voice ticks up a bit in volume, and Seamus runs a hand over his face.

“We’re correcting soft boundaries, O'Rourke. You've been pushing them for years." He's upset, but his tactics won't work on our family. That's why we've been reviewing our maps. The Fitzpatricks are inching too close.

Ronan steps in before I do something I’ll regret. “We’re not here to debate the map. We’re here to avoid escalation neither side can afford.”

Seamus rests his hands over each other methodically. His tone is even as he says, “Lines were blurred. We acknowledge that. But if this truce is going to mean anything, those lines need to be redrawn, and this time, they need to hold.”

Callum finally moves. He shoves the folder forward and flips it open with a flick of his wrist. Black-and-white images spread across the polished wood—satellite photos and zoomed-in surveillance stills showing trucks parked near the edge of the dockyard, men standing guard beside them, and the loading bay doors of a Fitzpatrick warehouse left wide open.

“Your people near one of our warehouses,” he says.

I glance at the images. “Those aren’t our trucks. Wrong build, wrong guards, and no insulation on the undercarriage. Whoever they are, they’re not ours," Ronan says, but I see the similarities. Still, he's right. They're not ours. Someone is impersonating us to cause trouble.

Seamus leans back, folding one leg over the other. He doesn’t bother looking at the photos again. “Then someone’s borrowing your name. That’s not our problem.”

“Someone’s trying to frame us," I tell Ronan, who looks very unhappy to hear that the Russians are stirring up the hornets' nest.

Ronan shifts in his seat. “Or trying to provoke us. And you’re playing directly into it.” His eyes flick at me in anger, but I know he means it to be directed at Seamus.

Callum narrows his eyes. “If you can’t control your own reputation, that’s not a Fitzpatrick issue.”

The atmosphere thickens, like the walls themselves are bracing for what’s next. The central unit clicks on with a mechanical hiss, but the real pressure isn’t coming from the vents—it’s coming from the men at this table, waiting to see who pushes first.

Ronan responds calmly, with more control than I think I could ever possess. “We’ve lost men. You’ve lost men. Neither side benefits from keeping score. We need oversight—joint enforcement of the Quays, shared customs and logistics. Temporary, of course. Until things stabilize.”

"Alright, then an alliance. You fold into my family and we'll talk." Seamus steeples his fingers in front of himself and taps one on his lips. They dress it up like strategy, like cooperation. But it’s a takeover. They want bodies in our system. They want to count our money before we touch it.

Ronan doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “That won’t happen.”

Callum’s smirk widens. “Then maybe we’re wasting our time here, Gentlemen.”

“Or maybe we’re just beginning to understand what the other side is really after.” I'm furious because I hoped this meeting would bring an end to the violent stalemate we've been at for months. Nora is caught in the middle and I need her to be safe, not continuously trapped between us.

There is no verbal reply, just the stillness that follows a line neither party is ready to cross.

“We’ll review your proposal and respond through proper channels,” Ronan says, and I'm disgusted by his comment. We should slit their throats for even proposing that the O'Rourkes would fold into the Fitzpatrick clan. That will never happen.

Seamus nods and stands. It’s meant to be formal, but it carries the weight of something more final. Then Callum ruins the veneer.

“While you’re at it,” he says, tone too casual, “maybe remind your man to keep it in his pants. That little distraction in our family? She's promised to someone else."

Everything in the room tightens.

Ronan stills. I feel the shift in him as if the entire table moved. Seamus doesn't speak, but his eyes cut sideways toward his son, narrowing slightly.

Callum leans forward. “You think we wouldn't notice Connor O’Rourke sneaking around with my sister? Thought you were smarter than that.”

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