Half-brothers. The words hit me but don't penetrate fully. Don't fit into any reality I understand or can accept in this moment.
"I was going to tell you eventually," Driton continues, his voice taking on an apologetic tone that does nothing to soften theblow. "The same way I told Cormac last week when he came to Chicago. But I was waiting for the right time. When things were more stable. When you weren't dealing with succession and territorial disputes and family politics."
He keeps talking, explaining logistics and timelines and details that I'm supposed to care about. But I'm barely hearing him now, my mind somewhere else entirely. Trying to assimilate this new reality. Trying to fit it into everything I know about my life, my childhood, my father's hatred.
Bastard. That's what Ramiz called me. Always. From my earliest memories. I thought it was just cruelty, just another weapon in his arsenal of ways to diminish me, to make me feel small and worthless and wrong.
But it was literal. I'm actually a bastard. The product of my mother's affair with an Irish mob boss. A living reminder of her betrayal every time Ramiz looked at me.
That's why he hated me with such intensity. Why he beat me with a fury that went beyond discipline or control. Why nothing I did was ever good enough, no matter how hard I tried to earn his approval or love or even just tolerance.
Because I wasn't his blood. Wasn't his son. Was evidence of his wife's infidelity wearing his name and living in his house.
The realization sits in my stomach like lead.
Cormac clears his throat, the sound cutting through the heavy silence. When he speaks, his voice carries dry sarcasm. "Nowthat we'refamily, perhaps you could ask your men to lower their weapons."
I look over. Artan and Erion still have their guns pointed directly at Cormac. Steady. Unwavering. Fingers on triggers. Ready to fire at the slightest provocation.
"The fact that you found out last week that you're related to Luan doesn't mean a damn thing," Erion says, his voice cold as winter. "Nothing. Maybe you want all the territory and power for yourself. Maybe this whole brotherhood revelation is a convenient setup."
Cormac doesn't flinch. Doesn't show fear or anger or anything except calm calculation. He takes the few steps that separate him from Erion with deliberate slowness, each footfall measured. Gets close enough that personal space becomes meaningless. Then presses his chest directly against the barrel of Erion's gun, the metal dimpling the fabric of his shirt.
"The fact that you are still breathing after you exploded my warehouse is a sign I don't seek revenge or escalation," Cormac says quietly, his Irish accent thickening slightly with intensity. "If I did, if I wanted blood for blood, you'd already be dead."
They stare at each other across the small space. Threatening. Neither backing down.
I put my hand on Erion's gun, my palm covering his grip. Apply gentle pressure to lower it. "We have a bigger concern right now than family trees and blood ties. If it wasn't the Irish who took Lily, then who did? Who has her?"
The question hangs in the air, refocusing everyone's attention on what actually matters.
We start making conjectures, throwing out theories with increasing desperation. Other enemies we've made. Rival Albanian families who might want to destabilize Luan's leadership. Opportunists looking to profit from perceived weakness. Someone with a grudge against the Irish trying to restart the war.
My phone pings suddenly, the sound sharp and intrusive.
Everyone stops talking.
I check the screen, my heart pounding.
Another message from Lily's number.
The Gold Shamrock. 8 PM. Money in unmarked bills in a black sports bag. Leave the bag at the stall in the women's bathroom. No tricks or she dies screaming.
"Let's go," I say to Artan and Erion, my voice clipped and commanding, falling back into the role of leader because it's the only thing I know how to do when everything else is chaos. "We'll deal with this other bullshit. Right now, we get Lily back. Nothing else matters."
I'm already moving toward the door, already planning the approach, already calculating risks and variables.
Cormac's voice stops me. Firm. Brooking no argument. "The Gold Shamrock belongs to us. I’m coming too. I don't take lightly to someone passing themselves off as Irish crew, using our name to make threats and demands. This is an insult to my family's reputation that needs answering. Whoever took your girl is about to learn what happens when you invoke the O'Rourke name without permission."
41
LILY
The first thing I feel is my mouth.
It tastes funny. Dry like cotton stuffed between my teeth, but also bitter, chemical, like chalk or old medicine left dissolving on my tongue for too long. My throat feels scratchy when I try to swallow, the muscles not quite responding the way they should.
Then hearing returns gradually, sounds filtering in through layers of fog. A female voice, distant but familiar, the words sharp-edged even though they sound like they're coming from underwater.
