Page 19 of Dark Succession (The O’Malleys #1)

So she smiled and followed the woman out to the limo parked in front of the house.

Five minutes in her future mother-in-law’s presence, and she was already exhausted.

The woman might smile and fawn when it suited her, but it had to be a mask.

Callie had met Seamus O’Malley, and he was the kind of person who chewed up everyone around him and left them bleeding in his wake if they weren’t strong enough to endure.

Aileen was anything but broken.

In some ways, that made her even scarier than her husband.

After his night with Callie, Teague was only more determined to put a stop to this bullshit war.

He spent the morning trying to get a hold of James, and finally pinned the man into agreeing to drinks tonight.

It was at Mickey’s, which was right in the middle of Halloran territory, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

It had the slight bonus that no one connected with the O’Malleys would see him talking to James.

He doubted his father or Aiden would support it—not when it was growing clearer every day that they weren’t particularly torn up about the impending war.

Impending . He didn’t even know if he could call it that anymore. It was here, whether he liked it or not.

He walked into Mickey’s, stopping just inside the door to take in the room.

On the surface, it looked just like a hundred other Irish pubs scattered around Boston—a little dark, a little dingy, and mostly empty.

Or it did until he saw the crest above the bar—a shield, half-white and half-red, with a white horse on the bottom half—marking it as owned by the Hallorans.

His family had something similar in the places they patronized regularly.

He’d suggested meeting somewhere in neutral territory, but James had shot him down immediately. For whatever reason, he wanted the home court advantage. Unfortunately, Teague wasn’t in a position to tell him no. So here he was, hoping like hell he wasn’t walking into a trap.

The bartender stopped wiping down the bar and looked at him, the man’s thick, bushy brows lowering until they practically covered his eyes. “Help you?” His tone said the only thing he was helping Teague with was to get his ass out the door.

“He’s with me, Tommy.” James walked through the door leading into the back—most likely to a private room—and stopped. “Been a long time.”

“Yeah.” He took in the man’s changes the same way he suspected James was surveying him.

He’d grown in the years since they’d last laid eyes on each other, his blond hair now hitting his shoulders and a closecropped beard covering his jaw.

James looked closer to a biker than a businessman, but then his father had never put the emphasis on poise and surface manners the way Teague’s had.

“Nice suit.”

He looked down at the Armani clothing and shrugged. “It works.”

“Sit your ass down and let’s talk.”

He followed James to a booth tucked in the back of the bar and slid in. “I—”

“Hold on.” He raised his voice. “Tommy?” A few seconds later, the bartender set two beers down and lumbered away. James picked his up, his eyes never leaving Teague’s face. “Didn’t your piece-of-shit old man teach you any manners? First you make small talk. Then you go in with your pitch.”

Teague grabbed his own beer, and grinned despite the clock ticking away in the back of his mind. As much as he’d like to spend time with the man under different circumstances, keeping the people he cared about safe was his only priority right now.

And James was one of the few people who could help make that happen.

But the man was right—there was a way to do these things, even if the custom annoyed the shit out of him. He sat back and motioned with his bottle. “How about them Red Sox?”

James grinned. “Hell of a year they’re having.”

“Think they have any chance at the play-offs?” With all the shit going on, he’d missed the game last week—and would probably be missing more in the future. The thought was too damn depressing.

“Who knows? I sure as fuck hope so.” He glanced away. “It’d be a nice distraction. ”

Wasn’t that the truth? Anything that was a distraction from the shit show they were currently running was welcome.

Sadly, it would be months before the play-offs, and he had a feeling this thing would be done and over with by then—or they’d be so busy killing each other that they wouldn’t have time for baseball.

Teague sat back. “How the hell are you?”

“My brother’s dead and my old man’s gone and lost his goddamn mind.” James shrugged. “I’m doing exactly how you’d expect.”

A fair point. None of them was doing great these days, but James certainly had the shit end of the stick. He took a long pull of his beer. “I thought we were making small talk.”

“I got nothing after the Sox.”

“Um, a scorcher of a summer we’re having.” He laughed when James shot him a look. Needling the man shouldn’t be so damn delightful, but he’d take his silver lining where he could find it. It was all harmless—or as close to harmless as possible.

“Heard you’re getting married. Never thought you’d be one to play the dancing monkey for your old man.”

He hadn’t, either. James was one of the few people he’d talked to about his pipe dreams—to get out of this life and put as much distance between himself and the O’Malley legacy as he could.

He examined the rough wood grain of the table, and then forced himself to look up and meet his former friend’s gaze.

“Life never quite works out like we want it to.”

“Isn’t that the damn truth?”

The world had seemed different when they first met, when their respective responsibilities hadn’t been so suffocating. They’d had countless conversations about what they’d be doing if they weren’t part of families like theirs. That time of hope had passed right along with their friendship.

The silence stretched out between them as they drank, filled with all the broken dreams of the past. They were dead and gone, buried beneath a cold reality neither of them could avoid.

They weren’t the same men they’d been years ago.

James was now heir to the Halloran family.

And, Teague… Well, Teague was marrying Callie at his father’s command.

It might not be the end of the world like he’d originally thought, but it didn’t change the fact that Seamus had told him to jump and he’d asked how high.

He noted the circles under James’s eyes—just one of the indications of how exhausted he had to be. “How are you doing, though? Seriously.”

“Christ, what do you expect me to say? We’re not friends anymore. I’m not going to cry on your shoulder about how shitty my life is, and I’m sure as fuck not down for a sleepover where we tell secrets and braid each other’s hair.”

“Good, because that’d be some one-sided shit.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” James downed half his beer. “Look, my brother wasn’t a saint and we both know it. But he was still family, so, yeah, I’m not exactly bursting with happiness right now.”

That was about what he expected. “What if I can find out who killed him?”

He frowned. “What?”

This was it—where he’d either garner support or alienate the man completely. Teague took a deep breath, praying it was the former. “I don’t want this war. Neither does Callie.”

“No one wants this war, except maybe our fathers.” He smirked. “And Callie, huh? Sounds like you’re getting plenty cozy with that fiancée of yours.”

“I like her. I didn’t expect to.”

“Then you’re goddamn lucky.”

“I know.” He let out the breath he was holding. He’d been sure James didn’t want to go to war, but six years could change a person. They’d changed Aiden. Taking another drink, he steered clear of that thought. “If I can find out who killed Brendan, will your father call off his dogs?”

“You know something?” He zeroed in like a hunting dog catching a scent.

It was almost a shame Teague didn’t have concrete information yet. “I had some men who were there that night, up in one of the private rooms on the same floor. I’ve talked to them, and word is that it’s a woman. One of the dancers.”

James’s shoulders slumped and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck. I’d hoped it wasn’t.”

“Why?” The question was out before he could think better of it.

The man’s expression was bleak. “Do you know the types of girls my brother staffed that place with?” He went on before Teague could answer. “Runaways. Girls—and I do mean girls, not women—who came stateside on the promise of a dream. Most of them wouldn’t have chosen that for themselves.”

It was all too easy to imagine his sisters there, helpless and doing their damnedest to survive.

How long before one of them broke and lashed back?

Sloan might take it until it killed her.

She was the type to keep her head down until she was in danger of breaking.

Keira… How long until the fire inside her that he loved so much was doused? And Carrigan…

He set his beer down carefully. Carrigan would stick a broken bottle in someone the first chance she got. He studied James, trying to figure out where he was going with this. “What are you saying?”

“If one of those girls killed my brother, she’s long gone by now.” He looked away, his voice so low, Teague almost convinced himself he was imagining the next words. “And maybe Brendan got what he deserved.”

As much as he understood the sentiment—he would have killed Brendan himself if he tried to lay a hand on Teague’s sisters—knowing that didn’t solve the current issue. He cleared his throat. “If I can find the person who did it, will your father pull back?”

James sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t guarantee anything, but being able to get his vengeance might be enough to make him hold off punishing the insult of your marriage.”

He tapped the table. “I get that you have mixed feelings about this, but I’ll do damn near anything to stop this war from escalating before someone does something they can’t take back.”

“Even if it means some poor girl who might have just been defending herself is going to die?”

Teague stared at the wall, trying to come up with an answer that wasn’t cold and heartless and completely self-serving.

If he were a better man, he’d let this search go.

His father’s men were better equipped to deal with the inevitable violence of war than some runaway who’d gotten in over her head.

But war never came without collateral damage, and it was the thought of one of his younger siblings or, worse in some ways, Callie being hurt that had him turning back to James. “Yes.”

He was a bastard and a half for sacrificing a woman who was likely already a victim for the sake of those he loved, but he’d own that.

“Cold.” James finished his beer. “I can’t make promises and I don’t particularly support this, but there’s a chance it would be enough for my old man. A chance , Teague. I can’t guarantee anything.”

It wasn’t the firm agreement he’d wanted, but a chance was better than being turned down flat. There wasn’t much he could bring to the table as leverage, so he had to work with what he had. “I have to do whatever it takes to put a stop to this.”

“Yeah, I know.” He didn’t look too happy about it.

Teague drained his beer and set it back on the table. “It was good seeing you—though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

James’s smile was brief and more than a little bitter. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? There are no better circumstances.”

He nodded, because the man was right. This was their lot in life.

At least it had perks from time to time, though he would have given them up in a heartbeat for some office job that he was able to leave behind when he came home and a family whose biggest drama was his parents not liking one of his sister’s boyfriends.

But that was a pipe dream that would never be realized.

He had to deal with facts, and right now that meant minimizing the damage Victor Halloran was inclined to do. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Wish I could say I look forward to it.”

Teague turned and walked through the bar.

There were more men than there had been when he came in, and every single one of them followed his movements over the rim of their drinks.

The small hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he had to make an effort to keep his pace measured and slow.

If they knew he was worried, it would be like sharks scenting blood.

Normally, he wouldn’t be too concerned—he was more than capable of handling himself—but he was on enemy territory and alone.

The disadvantages of his current position were legion.

He pushed through the door and onto the street, the warm night air doing nothing to combat the chill running up his spine.

He waited for the door to click shut behind him—and then for someone to follow him out—but a second passed and then another, until it became clear no one was coming.

He’d hoped James wouldn’t send someone after him.

But he wouldn’t bet his life on it.

He adjusted his jacket and started down the street to where he’d parked.

He’d done what he’d come here to do. It might not be enough—at this point there was no telling if anything he did would be enough—but it was something.

James hadn’t shot him down, even if he’d opened the door to dark thoughts Teague didn’t like considering.

He’d never thought of himself as anything like his father, but the call he’d made tonight was something Seamus O’Malley would be proud of.

Family first. Everyone else dead last.

The thought made him sick to his stomach .

A scrape of a shoe against concrete had him turning to look behind him.

He got a glimpse of three dark figures as he caught a fist in the gut.

He grunted, doubling over, and was already moving to return the blow before the pain crippled him.

He struck, hitting a man in the jaw, and turned for the second attacker.

Before he could swing, something crashed into the back of his head and everything went black.