"Good," he says finally. "One less thing to worry about."
We don't talk about it again.
By noon, the calls have been made. Matty worked the phones all morning, reaching out through the old channels, the ones our father built and Frank tried to corrupt. I listened from the next room while he talked to men twice his age in that quiet, steady way he has, and one by one they agreed.
The Shelbourne suite would have been easier. But easier doesn't mean smarter, and I'm done taking shortcuts.
The farmhouse in Meath is a low stone building set back from a private road that runs through Aidan's land. It was a working farm once. Now it's a place where difficult conversations happen away from anyone who might be listening. Aidan had it swept for devices last month. Clean.
They arrive separately. Dillon's man first, Lorcan, whom I've seen at O'Rourke gatherings but never spoken to directly. Then the Brennans, two brothers who run the docks in Waterford. The Walshes send their father, old Seamus, with his eldest son. The Reillys come last. Conor Reilly, tall and careful, watching everything.
I watch each of them come through the door. Watch the way they look at each other, at the room, at me. Sizing up the threat level.
Aidan stands at the back of the room with his arms folded. Matty is near the window. Lorcan's presence says what I need it to say: the O'Rourkes are with us. Dillon sent his man to stand with William Murphy.
Conor Reilly sits down last. He's my age, maybe a year older, with a face that gives away nothing.
"I'm here because Matty asked," he says. "That's the only reason. You've got five minutes."
I don't sit. I stand at the head of the table, and I look at every man in the room, and I let the silence do its work.
"Viktor Tarasov has been operating in Ireland for over a year," I say. "In that time, he's hit every family in this room. He's killed our people. He shot Dillon O'Rourke. He burned my house."
Nobody speaks. Good. I'm not done.
"He did all of this because we let him. Because we sat in our separate corners and told ourselves it was someone else's problem. None of you moved when the Brennans lost their men at the port. None of you came when they put a bullet in Dillon O'Rourke."
Conor Reilly shifts in his seat. "That's a lot of blame to be throwing around for a man who's been running things for five minutes."
"I've been running things long enough to see what isn't working." I hold his gaze. "Separate, Viktor picks us off whenever he feels like it. Together, we outnumber him, and he knows it. That's why he's spent the last year making sure we don't trust each other."
"And we should trust you?" Seamus Walsh's voice is flat. "Your uncle sold us out. Your brother made a deal with the Bratva."
The room goes tight.
"Yes," I say. "My uncle sold you out. And I put a bullet in his head. My brother made a deal with the Bratva, and I dealt with that, too. My family's been bleeding longer than any of yours, and we're still standing." I pause. "I'm not asking you to trust mebecause I'm a Murphy. I'm asking you to trust me because I'm the one willing to do what needs doing."
Silence. The kind where men are thinking.
"What exactly are you proposing?" Conor leans forward.
"A strike. Coordinated. Every family contributes men. We hit Viktor before he can regroup." I look at the table. "Matty has the intelligence. Locations. Supply routes. Communication channels. We've been building this for weeks."
Matty stands. He moves to the end of the table and lays out papers. Maps. Photographs. Phone records. Everything he's been compiling in silence while the rest of us were putting out fires.
I watch the men in the room study the documents. Watch their expressions shift from skepticism to something else. Something I recognize because I felt it myself the first time Matty showed me what he'd built.
This isn't guesswork. This is the entire Bratva operation in Ireland laid bare by a twenty-four-year-old accountant who everyone thought was too fragile to be in the room.
Conor picks up a photograph. Studies it. Sets it down.
"Friday," he says. "You want to move on Friday."
"Sunday. Viktor knows his source inside our operation just went dark. Every hour we wait is an hour he uses to reposition."
"How many men do you need?"
"From each family? Armed men. As many as you can spare. Ready to move on six hours' notice."
