The movement was subtle but deliberate, drawing every eye in the room. He adjusted his suit jacket with the kind of precision that spoke of years of practice, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, ensuring every line was perfect. Then he walked. Not to his own chair. Not to a neutral position.
To me.
He stopped beside my chair, close enough that his presence was unmistakable, his hand coming to rest on the back of my seat. It was a statement, clear, unambiguous, impossible to misinterpret. He was standing with me because what I was about to do; he was part of it.
The room shifted. I felt it like a physical thing: the way power redistributed itself, the way alliances suddenly became visible, the way every man at that table recalculated their position. I turned my attention back to Braesal, feeling Sinclair’s presence beside me like a shield. Like permission. Like the final piece falling into place.
“The IRA is yours, Braesal,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “I’m done.”
My words landed like a grenade.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then chaos.
Cesar Vitale stiffened, his hands flattening on the table, knuckles white. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Morpheus’ chair scraped back, the sound harsh in the sudden tension. “You can’t just—”
“This is insanity,” Braesal interrupted, his voice sharp now, the casual confidence replaced by something harder. “You don’t walk away from this. You don’t justgiveit away.”
Their voices overlapped, rising in volume and intensity, each man trying to make sense of what I’d just said. Trying to understand the implications. Trying to figure out how this affected them, their territories, and their power.
I sat perfectly still, watching it unfold.
This was what Sinclair had warned me about. The moment when the carefully constructed order of the underworld threatened to collapse. When men who’d spent decades building their empires suddenly saw those foundations shift beneath them.
They argued over each other now, the façade of unity splintering as old resentments and ambitions erupted to the surface. Some faces showed calculation, already weighing new alliances; others showed barely concealed hostility. I caught Sinclair’s eye for a fraction of a second as he gave the faintest nod, as if to say,Let them scramble. Let them show their hands.
Amid the noise, Braesal just watched, lips pressed into a thin line. I wondered if he saw, as I did, that power was no longer something to grasp but something being forced into his hands, heavy, dangerous, and irrevocable. The old order had been shattered; what came next would depend on who had the nerve to seize it first.
“You’re telling me,” Cesar began, his accent thickening with anger, “that you’re handing over the Irish Republican Army, one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world, to a man who’s been out of the game for years?”
“He’s never been out of the game,” I replied calmly. “He’s been playing it from the shadows. And he’s better at it than I am. And this meeting was a courtesy. I wasn’t asking for your permission.”
Braesal’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you think I want it? What makes you think I’ll accept this... gift?”
“Because it’s not a gift,” Sinclair said, his voice cutting through the argument like a knife through silk. “It’s a strategic repositioning. One that benefits everyone at this table.”
All eyes turned to him.
He stood there beside me, one hand still resting on the back of my chair, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. This was Sinclair in his element, the chess master revealing his endgame, the puppeteer showing his strings.
“Rowen has spent months consolidating power,” Sinclair continued. “Helping to end the biker war. Forging alliances. Eliminating threats. He’s done everything that needed to bedone. But the IRA was never his to keep. It was always meant to return to its rightful heir.”
“Rightful heir?” Morpheus’ voice was rough with disbelief. “He’s a bastard. An outsider. He has no claim.”
“I have every claim,” Braesal interrupted, his voice quiet now but no less dangerous. “I am a grandson of Casper O’Malley.” His words hung in the air, heavy with implication, and I felt something twist in my chest. Hope.
“So this is what?” Cesar demanded, his attention swinging between Braesal and me. “A passing of the torch? What about the rest of us? What about the agreements we had in place?”
“The agreements remain,” Sinclair firmly said, his voice controlled and leveled. “Nothing changes for any of you. The territories stay as they are. The alliances hold. The only difference is who sits at the head of the Irish table.”
“The only difference,” Morpheus repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple,” Sinclair said. “Rowen never wanted this life. He was forced into it by circumstances beyond his control. Now those circumstances have changed. The biker war is nearing its end. The threats have been neutralized. There’s no reason for him to continue playing a role he never wanted.”
“Except for the small matter of loyalty,” Cesar said coldly. “Except for the fact that men have died following his orders. Except for the fact that he can’t justwalk awayfrom this world.”
