It was the only way. I knew that now.
The only way I could protect her and everyone else from what was to come. The locker room felt colder than usual, as shadows stretched across the tiles as if trying to swallow me whole. I squeezed the envelope Sinclair had handed me before I left the house, its edges crisp and sharp, digging into my palm. The scent of paper mingled with the locker room’s mustiness. I wondered what secrets it held, and for a moment, fear tangled with curiosity—would opening it change my mind, or merely confirm what I’d sacrificed?
My breaths came shallow, the silence broken only by the distant thrum of footsteps in the hallway. I lifted my head and stared at the closed locker in front of me, searching for strength I wasn’t sure I possessed. Whatever came next, I knew I couldn’t turn away—the responsibility was mine now, and I would have to face it, no matter the cost.
Taking a deep breath, I tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Sinclair’s letterhead was visible at the top as my eyes read what he wrote.
It was silly. It made no sense, yet as I looked at those words—“Courage is choosing kindness”—I felt as if my entire world collapsed. Everything I thought, believed, vanished; a slate wiped clean. For a moment, I sat frozen, unable to process the pain. But as a lone tear fell onto the paper in my hands, smudging the ink, clarity washed over me. I finally understood what Sinclair had been trying to teach me all along: obstacles would always find their way into my life, but what mattered most was the strength to choose integrity and do the right thing, no matter how hard it was.
As I folded the letter and slipped it carefully back into the envelope, the words echoed in my mind, lingering like a gentle push against the heaviness inside me as I tucked it into the inside pocket of my coat. The locker room, with all its shadows and silence, suddenly felt less suffocating—almost as if Sinclair’s message had cut through the gloom. I stood, the bench groaning beneath me, and straightened my shoulders. Whatever trials lay ahead, I would carry that simple truth with me. Kindness would be my armor, even when every instinct shouted for self-preservation. With renewed resolve, I walked toward the door, ready to face the consequences and the unknown that awaited beyond it when the door opened, and in walked my father.
“Are you sure about this?”
Taking a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders, my voice steady even as my heart pounded, and replied, “Yes.” Even if it meant stepping into the fire, her safety depended on my willingness to take the risks they needed me to face.
Shaking his head, he sighed. “Alright then. Once you leave this room, there is no going back. I have men stationed close to her in case this goes badly. I give you my word, she will be protected at all times.”
“Thank you,” I muttered, turning away, my fingers brushing the coarse fabric of my coat and feeling the envelope tucked inside—a reminder of what I stood to lose.
“Rowen,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I replied, the weight of the new role pressing on my shoulders.
“Do you want to see her before you go?”
“No.” My answer was quiet but final; I couldn’t risk wavering now.
Saying nothing more, I headed for the back door of the locker room and walked out into the night. The sharp scent of cigarette smoke mingled with the cold air as Braesal O’Malley, head of the Irish Mob in Boston, approached. His boots crunched on gravel beneath the glare of a single streetlamp, breath misting in the darkness. Several men stood waiting, their faces shadowed and silent.
“Rowen,” the older man gruffly said, motioning to the men behind him. “I’m sending a few of my men with you. You can trust them. They are loyal. They’ve been instructed to follow your orders to the letter.” His tone was rough, clipped, every word heavy with authority.
“Thank you, Braesal.” I shook his hand, the calluses on his palm reminding me of the hard realities behind his promises.
“And I’m going too.” A familiar face stepped out of the shadows, grinning. “Didn’t think I’d let you do this alone, didyou?” Silas’ easy humor broke the tension, his words light despite the thick night air.
Grinning, I hugged Silas. “Sinclair knows about this?”
“Oh, please,” Silas scoffed. “That fucker doesn’t need me. He’s got Dante. That brat alone will keep him busy for years. Besides, it’s not every day my brother takes over the IRA.” He winked, his speech casual and irreverent, masking the gravity of what I was about to do.
I glanced at the men around me, feeling the magnitude of the moment settle in. Taking over the IRA wasn’t just a title—it meant stepping into a legacy fraught with danger, history, and expectation. It meant risking everything for a future I wasn’t sure I wanted, but one I had to accept for her sake—and for everyone else caught in the crossfire.
“Why am I here, Buchannon?” Cesar Vitale’s voice boomed as he entered, his gaze sharp and calculating, knowing the summons wasn’t just formality—rumors had reached him that a power shift was imminent, and his family’s future hung in the balance. Flanked by Guilio and Luca, Cesar’s presence alone spoke of the Vitale family’s expectation: leverage, alliance, or defense, depending on how the night unfolded.
My father stood behind his chair, knuckles white on the wood. “You’ll learn soon enough,” he replied, his gaze flickering toward Reaper, who stalked in, lips curled at King’s muttered quip.
“I don’t give a flying fuck,” the president of the Golden Skulls snapped at the president of the Silver Shadows. “If I have to be here, so do you.”
“I don’t know if you remember or not, but my clubhouse looks like a fucking demilitarized war zone!”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me a river,” Reaper huffed, flinging himself into his chair. “Bitch at me when someone blows your clubhouse to smithereens.”
Maxim Fedorov strode in next, flanked by Vladmir and Dimitry. “My favorite bikers, always so charming,” he said, his tone dry and tinged with authority.
Reaper shot Maxim a glare as Vladmir grinned. “How’s my daughter and my new grandson, Victor?” Vladmir asked, his words layered with both pride and challenge.
“You’re insufferable,” Reaper snapped, the Russian’s laughter echoing. Maxim frowned at Vladmir. “Let’s not provoke Reaper tonight.”
“I’m not scared of him,” Vladmir retorted.
