“…But they’re usually more brazen. They like taking credit for the kill. Why would they hide from this one? And why blame the Italians?” He places a hand on his chin, contemplative.
What a bastard. If I didn’t know the truth about him, I would assume these were genuine questions, that he truly wanted to get to the bottom of who slaughtered our fathers. But I know better. How could he stand here and act like he was so curious, act like he had no idea who killed his own father, when his hands are drenched with blood? I’ve gone toe to toe with many monsters in my life, but none of them made me as sick as Declan McAlister does at this very moment. His beautiful face is just a distraction for the vile toxins that keep his cold heart beating.
Don’t lose track of your plan, Zahra. Make him think youbelieve his lead. “They probably figured if they started a war between us, they could reap the benefits while we kill each other.”
“If you’re right, it could be any one of our enemies. The British, the Russians, the Greeks…” He trails off. We’d be here all day if he wanted to list all the people who want to take us out. All of these enemies could’ve aimed their guns at us, and instead, someone on the inside did the job. Someone neither my own father nor his best friend saw coming.
“The list of people who could be guilty is endless. Which is why I need you to help me narrow it down.”I need to get you to trust me enough to let down your guard. And then I’ll get justice.
“Whatever you need. Whenever you need it. I’m yours.” The words fall off his lips like they're a promise to me. And whether he realizes it or not, those words have just sealed his fate. Because he’s right.
He is mine now.
Mine to deceive, mine to ruin, and mine to kill.
3
DECLAN
The Italians didn’t kill my father.
I’ve been fixated on that truth since Zahra laid out all the details she had uncovered: the bullet being different than the signature one used by the Italians and the fact that all the assassins the Italians would normally use for these killings were already being interrogated by state police. Nothing made sense anymore. The one thing that’s clear to me, and clear to Zahra, is that someone tried to frame the Italians for the murder of our fathers. Someone who knew of the turbulent history between our three mobs, and enough of the Italians’ signature marks to frame them. The list of suspects has gone from being clear-cut and defined to never-ending, and now may even include the very men who we break bread with.
How the hell was I supposed to solve my father’s murder while keeping business going as normal? The meeting with Zahra was supposed to focus on discussions of trade routes, package drop-offs, and training of new recruits. I had anticipated some tension from my uncle as Naser’s heir wasrevealed, but I never thought he would fully explode like he did. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Until she passed a few years ago, my father had always allowed my mother to call the shots in their marriage, and when it came to the mafia. She was the voice of reason and logic we needed. My Uncle Lorkan had deeply resented my father for it. Resented my father for not giving him more power within the inner circle.
Maybe that resentment drove him over the edge and led him to killing his brother?
It isn’t the first time I’ve considered it. Frankly, I don’t think most people would be that surprised to hear that my uncle tried to usurp my father, but I know better. For as much bark he has, he lacks in bite. My uncle doesn’t want all the burdens of being a boss. He just wants the clout. Which is why he felt the need to verbally throw his weight around and cause me additional problems. Me shooting him in the knee was a mercy he should be grateful for. If not for that display of loyalty to Zahra, I have no doubts Cyrus would have killed my uncle then and there.
My eyes flicker between the watch on my wrist and the door of my office, debating if I should wait any longer or pour myself a drink now. After a minute of silence, I throw open the bottom drawer of my desk, open the bottle of whiskey inside, and take a long swig. The liquor burns down my throat, but I’m thankful for the sensation. A reminder that I’m alive and breathing.
Aidan, my secondhand and younger brother, struts into the room a second later. Nothing ever phased him. It was a personality trait that both annoyed me and made me grateful for his presence. Even the darkest of moments were recoverable to Aidan.
“Our uncle should be back on his feet in a couple of weeks,in case you're wondering,” Aidan says as he drapes himself on the chair across from mine.
“Happy to hear it.”
“You don’t sound happy,” Aidan presses.
“Well, sorry if I’m not chipper about the fact that our uncle’s mouth does him more harm than good, that my father and his best friend were murdered, and that I have no idea who killed them,” I snap, my hands balling into fists. I need to punch something, or someone. I need to get all this pent-up rage out before I take it out on the wrong person.
Aidan raises an eyebrow at my atypical loss of control and reaches over for the bottle in front of me. “You couldn’t have at least waited for me?”
“It was a rough day.” I drag a hand down my face.
“That would be an understatement.” He takes a large gulp, wincing. Shaking the bottle of whiskey in front of me, he asks, “Is this a new batch?”
I nod. “Aged in white oak and for twice as long as the other barrels. Makes the flavor richer, although a bit more bitter.”
Part of how my family line had managed to maintain our power for this long came from our willingness to branch out into other businesses that were more…legal in nature. Creating our own distillery was my grandfather’s idea, and in the past few decades, McAlister whiskey grew from a local Irish brand to one seen in every high-end bar in Boston and cities across the world. The success of our liquor business has also allowed our more questionable lines of business to go under the radar.
“Gets me drunk all the same, but I suppose I was never a whiskey connoisseur like you are.” Aidan toys with his fingers before locking eyes with me. “What’s this about not knowing who killed Dad and Naser? Do you no longer think it's the Italians?”
Fuck. I had said that out loud, hadn’t I? I opened my mouthto divulge everything Zahra had confided in me, but I couldn’t silence the voice in my head questioning whether Aidan could handle the truth. Him and our father had major issues with each other, and as much as he’s denying it, I know he regrets that our father was killed before they could truly repair their relationship. So instead of burdening him with my latest discovery, I stay silent and ignore the pit starting to form in my stomach.
Aidan cocks an eyebrow at me, likely knowing I am holding something back, but doesn’t probe. Instead, he pushes the bottle in my direction and asks, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Tell Marcus I need a date,” I state, referencing my personal assistant. “Dinner next week. The Black Rose.”
