Father stands straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes hard. Rain streaks down his temple; he doesn’t blink.
The crucifix in my pocket cuts my palm. I don’t pray. I don’t even pretend.
“She was light,” Grandfather rasps. “And they made her bleed.”
He rises, leather gloves tightening around his fists. His eyes pass over me without stopping. “Never forget what they took.”Without another word, he leaves, and the room empties after him.
I stay behind a heartbeat longer, rain drums on stone like time refusing to stop.
While I think about my grandfather's words, I can’t forget, no matter how tempting she is.
We arrive back home,and Leo waits in the family room, Uncle Sebastian next to him. The air thickens, like the house knows before we do.
“They hit one of our shipments,” Leo says. “Southern dock. Same day as your mother’s anniversary.”
Every head lifts.
Not a coincidence.
Father turns to Grandfather. “Why now?”
“Nine months since Liam’s father died,” Grandfather says, cane tapping the floor. “Nine months to plan.”
Marco mutters, “They want us looking the wrong way.”
Milo leans back, eyes sharp. “They want blood.”
Father’s voice drops low. “We let him walk once.”
Grandfather’s reply is iron. “Then this time we won’t.”
The O’Briens reopened the war.
Now we remind them how we end one.
The silence after war is louder than the war itself.That’s what my grandfather says as we sit in the room again.
The filefrom Leo is thick. Maps. Names. Dock patrol schedules. The time our supply was hit. It’s not messy work. It’s surgical.
I light a cigarette, but even the smoke feels heavier now.
“They were precise,” Marco says. “Minimal witnesses. Silent tech on the feeds. They had help.” He continues to look at his screen, as he taps hard on the keypad.
“No doubt,” I say. “The question is, who??”
Milo kicks his boots up on the table. “You think it was the Bratva or the O’Briens?”
“It’s the O'Briens who used someone else to get their hands dirty,” I mutter. “But the message was personal. It always is with them.” My biggest question is why strike now? I let the question fill my mind, as I try to work out the answers.
We sit in silence again. The kind where revenge starts to simmer.
My father finally speaks. “The next move doesn’t come from rage. It comes from control. We don’t hit back blindly. We hit back smart.”
Leo slides a folder toward me. “Blackstone holds the key. Start watching everyone. Their faces. Their alliances. Anything you can find. Someone at that school knows more than they’re letting on. The O’Briens are working with another family. Who?”
“Use the mask you wear,” my grandfather says. “Smile when needed. Earn their trust. And if someone talks?—”
“Listen and make sure they don’t talk again,” I finish.
