My father laughs. It’s a dry, hacking sound. "Rory has big ears and a loose mouth."
"Was it Falcone?"
"It was his Consigliere. Rossi."
I feel the muscles in my neck tighten. "Why is a Falcone Consigliere walking into this pub and walking out alive?"
"Because I invited him."
The words hang in the air. I stare at him, trying to make sense of the shape of them. Invited. My father invited the enemy into the heart of our territory.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because the war is over, Killian."
"The war isn't over until they’re dead or we are."
"Then we’re dead." He slams his hand on the desk. The sound is startlingly loud. "Open your eyes! Look at the books! We’re bleeding cash. We’re losing men faster than we can recruit them. And now the Russians is circling like sharks. Volkov is in the city. He’s taking the ports. He’s buying the cops."
"I can handle Volkov."
"You can't." He points a finger at me, and I see the tremor is worse than I thought. "You’re good at violence, son. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. But this isn't a street fight. This is economics. This is politics. We are being erased."
"So we fight harder."
"We fight smarter." He leans back, the chair groaning. "Salvatore Falcone sees the same writing on the wall. He knows that if we keep tearing each other apart, Volkov picks the bones of both our families."
"So? A truce? We stay on our side of the line, they stay on theirs?"
"A truce isn't enough. A truce is a piece of paper. Paper burns." He picks up the whiskey glass, swirls the amber liquid. "To survive Volkov, we need an alliance. A merger. One organization. The Kavanagh muscle and the Falcone political reach. Unified."
I feel cold. It starts in my stomach and spreads out to my fingertips. "A merger."
"Yes."
"And how exactly do you merge two families that have been killing each other for forty years? You think shaking hands is going to erase the blood?"
"No. Blood erases blood." He takes a drink. "The old laws. The Compact of 1920. When the families were founded, there was a provision for ending a blood feud. A binding union."
"A marriage." The word tastes like vinegar.
"Yes."
I almost laugh. It’s absurd. "Da, look at me. Look at Rory. Look at Salvatore’s sons. There isn't a woman in this generation. Who are we supposed to marry? Unless you’ve got a secret daughter tucked away in a convent somewhere."
My father doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He sets the glass down with a precise, deliberate click.
"The Compact doesn't specify gender, Killian. It specifies blood. The heir of one house to the heir of the other. A binding of names."
The silence in the room stretches. It becomes a physical weight, pressing against my eardrums. I hear the hum of the refrigerator in the corner. I hear the rain lashing against the window. I hear my own heart, slow and heavy, thudding against my ribs.
"No," I say.
"It’s done."
"No." I stand up. My chair scrapes back. "You’re insane. You want me to marry a Falcone? A man?"
"I want you to save this family!" He roars the words, standing up to meet me. He sways slightly, gripping the desk for support. "It’s the only way. The papers are drawn. The terms are agreed."
