Page 42 of The Heir's Defiance

"The Bratva contact in Donnybrook’s gone dark."

Killian, half-slouched in the corner, mutters a curse. A few heads turn, but no one calls him on it. Ronan keeps talking.

"And that’s not all. A Fitzpatrick shipment headed for Cork got intercepted just outside Ringaskiddy. Two hours ago. Customs flagged it."

I lean in. "Was it random or a tip?"

"Tip-off." He looks pissed, and rightly so. This game the Russians are playing is too hot now.

The others shift and glance at each other. One of the newer lieutenants—Mick, I think, the one we pulled in after Aiden got shot in the face—scratches the back of his neck. "You think it’s the Russians testing us?"

Ronan doesn’t answer, and the silence is its own confirmation. Every one of us knows what's happening. Since Volkov got shunted like a school girl, he's been a whingey baby, and he's throwing a tantrum and dragging us into his feud with Seamus.

Killian pushes off the wall and steps forward, arms folded. "Then we lock the shared corridors down. Patrols every hour. Pull everyone off street detail and reinforce the border zones."

"No," Ronan says without hesitation. "That’s too loud. We do that, we look like we’re flinching."

Another voice—Brady, seated across from me—leans in. "Then what? We hit something? A show of force on the outskirts? Let ‘em know we’re not waiting around to bleed?"

"That’s the last thing we need," Ronan snaps. His voice is low and cutting. "You put bodies in the street, you give them whatthey want. Chaos. Confusion. Open war. We’re not ready for that."

The room goes still. He’s not shouting, but everyone’s sitting straighter now. Ronan’s voice does that—pulls tension like a wire between your ribs.

"Then what’s your play?" Killian asks, his tone sharper now.

"Surgical. We lean on Seamus. Not with threats, not yet—but with the truth. The Russians want this city gutted. Doesn’t matter if he hates us or we hate him. We built this place together. If they’re testing us, they’re testing both families. We go to the Fitzpatricks and we make it clear. This isn’t about old feuds anymore. It’s about holding the line. We strike a peace deal. Even if it only lasts long enough to put a bullet in Volkov’s chest, it’s enough to show the Russians we’re still the ones who decide how this city burns."

My jaw tenses. "They’re waiting for us to blink. One more round of diplomacy, and they're gonna think we're pussies. Ro, we have to do something."

Ronan’s eyes flick to me, then narrow. "You really think this is about diplomacy now? It's not diplomacy, Connor. You think they’re sitting around weighing offers while they watch us lose ground?"

"I think they’re watching to see how we move. If we lash out, it proves we’re strong. If we go still, they’ll wonder why we're weak." My chest is one tight knot and my pulse is racing. Putting me between my family and Seamus ends only in my death. The Fitzpatricks aren't interested in talking peace. They want us dead. They'll sooner align with Bratva trash than come for help, and in the end, the Russians will slaughter them one by one too.

He steps forward with anger in slow, deliberate steps. "They’re not waiting. They’re going to strike. You know what happened in Odessa. You know what that crew does when they sense blood."

I meet his stare, unflinching. "We make them second-guess it. We show them the city still belongs to us."

Ronan doesn’t speak right away. He studies me, and for a second I think he might argue—might throw the table, or call me rebellious, or demand that I fall in line. But he doesn’t.

He turns and says, "Meeting’s over. Get your houses in order. Keep your phones on. This thing’s moving faster than we are, and next time we sit down, I want blood on the table."

Chairs scrape. Boots thud. Everyone clears out like the floor’s about to collapse. I stay back. My hands press into the edge of the table, my eyes fixed on the red lines circling the south corridors. They’ve stopped looking like maps. They look like targets now.

And I’m standing in the middle.

Eventually, I leave the room. The estate is dead quiet. I cut through the kitchen, past the old stone archway, and out the back door. The garden is black and wet. The ground squelches under my boots, but I keep walking. I pass the hedges, pass the statue of St. Michael with the broken sword. There’s an old bench that nobody uses anymore. I sit on it and take out my phone.

The screen lights up my face. Nora’s thread is still open. Her last message sits there like a wound I won’t let close.

I type:

Connor 1:28 AM: They’ll never let us walk away clean. But if you want out, say it now.

My thumb hovers overSendfor a moment, and I know what it means. If I get her out clean, a war erupts and Ronan will never trust me again. But sometimes, an heir has to defy orders to do the right thing. I dragged her into this by giving her my number and asking her to meet. Now it's up to me to make sure she's safe.

Because if this war is about to erupt and I'm at the center, we either get out alive together or one of us dies.

And if that's the case, I'd rather it be me.

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