Page 48 of Bloody Knuckles

"A day for firsts," I cut him off. "I’m here to tell my father his empire's bleeding."

Seamus hesitates, calculation evident in his stillness. "I'll announce you."

"Don't bother."

I lead Aoife through marble-floored corridors lined with priceless art—spoils from generations of Donovan conquest. Her fingers press against mine, questioning.

"Your father's alive?" she whispers. "I thought?—"

"That he died years ago?" I squeeze her hand. "A convenient fiction. He officially retired after his stroke. Unofficially, he's been pulling strings from this gilded prison for years."

We pause before carved double doors. Memories assault me—childhood summons to this chamber, knuckles bloody from defending Finn, my father's cold judgement.

"You don't have to come in," I tell Aoife.

She meets my gaze unflinching. "I didn't survive today to hide away now."

The study hasn't changed—leather and mahogany, the smell of expensive cigars and old money. Bookshelves line the walls, each volume placed with the same order my father demands in all things.

He sits in his wheelchair near the fireplace, silver hair immaculately styled despite his isolation. The stroke that officially removed him from power left his right side paralyzed, but his mind remains razor-sharp. If his enemies knew he was alive—like this—they’d pull him apart.

"The prodigal son returns," he says, voice slightly slurred but still commanding. "And with Patrick Gallagher's daughter, no less. How theatrical of you, Cormac."

"Father." I stop several feet from his chair, Aoife beside me. "You look well for a dead man."

His laugh rasps through the quiet room. "Death has its advantages. People speak more freely about the deceased." His focus shifts to Aoife. "Miss Gallagher. My condolences on your recent difficulties."

"Mr. Donovan." Her voice remains steady. "Curious to meet the mastermind behind so much of my family's suffering. Rather underwhelming."

"Business, my dear. Nothing personal." He gestures to the seating area. "Join me. Since my son has broken decades of tradition by bringing you here, we might as well be civilized."

I guide Aoife to the leather sofa, sitting beside her. My father maneuvers his wheelchair to face us, the effort costing him more than he'd admit.

"Seamus tells me you made quite the impression at Kilmainham," he says to Aoife. "Unusual, for a hostage to defend her captor so eloquently."

"Stockholm syndrome," she replies smoothly. "Or perhaps simply recognizing the superior Donovan in the room."

My father's lips twitch—the closest he comes to genuine amusement. "Bold. Like your mother." He shifts toward me. "You didn't bring Patrick Gallagher's daughter to my home for social niceties. What war are you declaring today, son?"

"No war. A reckoning." I lean forward. "Liam Gallagher's men tried to take Aoife today. Five of my men died, including Connor."

"Regrettable." No emotion colors the word. "But hardly surprising. The Gallaghers want their princess back. You killed your own brother, you don’t see me starting a war."

"It wasn't Patrick Gallagher's orders," I counter. "It was Liam's. Working with your blessing, just as Finn did."

The accusation lands in perfect silence. My father's expression doesn't change, but his left hand tightens on the wheelchair armrest.

"You always did have a vivid imagination."

"Finn confessed before I put a bullet in his heart." The memory still burns. "Three years of betrayal, feeding information to the Gallaghers. The same timeline as your convenient 'retirement.'"

"You executed your brother on a suspicion?" My father clicks his tongue. "Hasty."

"On a confession," I correct. "The same one that points to you as the architect. Divide and conquer—your favorite strategy. Pitting families against each other while positioning your own pieces."

"If I wanted the Gallaghers destroyed, I'd have done it decades ago." His dismissal comes too quickly.

"Destruction was never your goal," I press. "Control was. You've been orchestrating this showdown for years—Finn feeding information to Liam, keeping the conflict simmering without boiling over. Maintaining equilibrium while you positioned Seamus to challenge me."

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