Page 43 of Dirty Legacy

“Depends on how the next few weeks shake out.” He bares his teeth and pounds my back.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood now.”

“Once the shock wore off, I realized I’m headed into a very nasty fight. Nothing makes me happier than the promise of killing.”

The drive back to the house is filled with logistics. Deck’s on the phone relaying my orders to the various captains and lieutenants stretched all across the city. Two hours isn’t enough, but it’ll have to work. We drive the whole time, meeting with a few important men in person to make sure they understand what’s going to happen. I consolidate our territory and oversee the distribution of guns, ammunition, and body armor to our people, and I personally prepare them for what’s to come.

Two hours turn to three. The fact that there hasn’t been some kind of explosion is unnerving. The Gallaghers have to know by now.

I can only imagine their reaction. Old Padraig losing his mind, her brothers apoplectic with rage. Sinead’s angry, embarrassed tears. She always did deserve better.

Marcus calls when we finally reach Malba. There are guards stationed on the house grounds lurking among the trees with rifles and grim faces. “Tell me good news,” I say as I get out of the car, rolling my shoulders.

“I have your family. They’re safe and secure. The little brat⁠—“

I hear Rowan in the background. Don’t be a dick, Marcus⁠—

“She insisted on packing all her shit, which took forever.”

“Tell me you have men with you.”

“Plenty, no worries.” Marcus’s voice drops low. “Danielle is pissed, brother, just a heads-up.”

I shove back against a groan. My father’s wife is always a pain, but I have a feeling she’s only going to be fifty times worse. “I’ll handle it.”

“I bet you will. Lots to handle now.”

I’m surprised to find several young women in dark outfits pulling covers off furniture and dusting. I wrinkle my nose and swallow a sneeze. A vacuum’s running nearby. “Staff’s already at work. Good job.”

“Pleasure’s mine. Got to run. We’re all good here, see you soon. Danielle’s yelling about something. Hey, what the fuck do you—“ The phone goes dead. I shove it into my pocket and stand in the entryway of my house, trying to let the weight of the situation descend onto my shoulders.

This building was never my home. I stay here once or twice a week, at most, but only ever use that master bedroom. The place is haunted by the dead Maguires from years past. I always wonder how the hell they afforded it, considering we were barely more than a bunch of grimy car thieves. But the answer’s obvious: the grime was a distraction and the money was always there, propping up our operations. Only I took what was a disorganized mess and turned it into a money-making flywheel.

Mostly what we do is legitimate. WashCo is an actual salvage and towing operation. The books are mostly real. But there’s the other half of the business, the half that’s a front for drug sales and the catalytic converter trade. Illicit car parts, stripped and boosted, flow across the country from our warehouses, mixed in with the legit pieces. Before I grew our operations, this house was a crumbling wreck. I’ve been holding it up for ages.

But now I have a wife and a child coming, and it’s time to bring it back to its former glory.

The doors behind me slam open. Deck enters, walking fast. “Boss, they’re here.”

The grim tone in his voice sets my jaw on edge. “Where?”

“Three cars. Tons of men. All the brothers. But it’s the girl⁠—“

“Sinead?”

“She says she wants to talk. She comes in peace. Connor—“ Deck’s usual expression twists painfully. “God, fucking hell, you’ll have to see it.”

I step out the door and stand on the front landing overlooking the driveway. My soldiers stand in a wide ring around three SUVs, their weapons leveled. I recognize three men standing near the lead vehicle: Fergus, the oldest brother, built like a tank with a neck like a double-wide, chewing on a cigar angrily, and Lorcan, the middle of them, athletic and handsome and smiling, which is worse, and the youngest Cillian, stone-cold, long hair pulled back, dead eyes watching carefully.

But nobody’s paying attention to them.

Instead, it’s her, standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me with a beautiful frown.

Wearing a white wedding dress.

Sinead looks incredible. Her hair’s back in a twisty braid. Her makeup is flawless. She looks like an ancient druidic queen, the sort of woman who rode wolves into battle streaked in the gore of her enemies. The dress clings to her curves, lovely and flowing, conservative while also emphasizing her stunning body. She’s immaculate, the kind of bride any man would happily die for.

Now I see what Deck meant.