Page 27

Chapter 27

Piers

“ Y our place is with us now. With your real family.”

Desmond’s words still ring in my ears, and I hate how much they get under my skin. Real family. What a fucking joke.

I sit stiffly in the seat of the private jet, arms crossed, jaw tight. Across from me, Desmond leans back like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like I didn’t just wake up tied to a goddamn chair.

The entire flight to Dublin, I alternate between seething silence and demanding answers. Each time my “brother” opens his mouth, my anger spikes higher.

“So, what, you expect me to just pack up and play house with the Crowes?” I bite out. “Because we share blood?”

Desmond exhales, shaking his head. “I expect you to listen.”

I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to hear another fucking word out of his mouth. “Not really in the mood for storytime,” I snap.

“Too bad,” he says flatly. “Because you need to hear this.”

I scoff, looking away. But when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Measured.

“A few days ago, our father had a heart attack.”

I don’t react. Not at first. Not until the words sink in. Our father.

I force myself to keep my expression neutral. “And?”

“And he’s fine now. Had to be hospitalized. The stubborn bastard pulled through- he’s stronger than an ox- but on the hospital bed, he told me something he never had before.”

I glance at him, waiting.

Desmond leans in slightly. “He had twin sons. A brother I was never supposed to know about.”

“Funny how the end of your life brings out all the family secrets.” I sneer. “What else? Do we have a long-lost sister too?”

He looks down, hesitating for a moment. “Actually, we do. Half-sister...” He pauses, then nods, almost as if he’s resigned to it. “She lives away from all this, as far from the mafia life as possible. Her mother made sure of it.”

My eyes narrow, and a bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“But that’s not relevant right now.” He cuts me off before I can say anything else, his tone firm, almost dismissive. “I didn’t want to believe that I had been a twin, but the second I saw you at the airport, I knew.” He gestures vaguely at my face. “I mean, come on. We’re identical.”

The airport. All this time, I thought the Crowes were after Fantasia. That she was the target. But no- this was never about her. It was about me.

Desmond leans forward in his plush leather seat, forearms resting on his knees. The jet's hum fills the silence as he speaks. “I looked into it. Our mother- she's gone. Stage four, three years ago.” His fingers tighten around the crystal tumbler, watching the ice cubes fracture in the amber liquid. “She was too proud to let anyone help her, not even in the end, but… she made a choice.”

Something sharp and cold cuts through me. “What kind of choice?”

Desmond’s jaw tightens. “She gave you up because we were twins. Because she knew that when we came of age, we’d be in competition for the title of heir.”

I stare at him. My fingers twitch against my knee. “She- “ I swallow. “She got rid of me because I was a twin?”

Desmond nods once. “She thought it was for the best. That one son would inherit without challenge, without the infighting that’s torn apart families like ours before.”

A short, humorless laugh punches out of me. “ That’s why? Not because she couldn’t afford to keep me? Not because she was scared, or sick, or desperate?” I shake my head, my pulse pounding. “She just didn’t want to deal with the fucking politics of having two sons?”

Desmond doesn’t argue. Just watches me with something too close to pity.

I let out a breath, bitter and shaking. “Some fucking mother.”

“She regretted it,” Desmond says after a moment. “I think, in her own way, she thought it would protect you.”

“Protect me?” I snap. “I grew up in the system. I got bounced from home to home. You have any idea what that’s like?”

Desmond doesn’t flinch. “No,” he says simply. “But I know you’re still standing. That you survived.”

I let out a rough breath, running a hand over my face. None of this changes anything.

But slowly, infuriatingly, curiosity begins to gnaw at my rage.

The plane touches down in Dublin, and the hum of the jet’s engines fades into silence. I don’t know why I thought the air here would be different. Maybe I imagined it would feel like a new start, a change of scenery that could give me some semblance of peace, but nothing has changed. The tension’s thick, heavy, hanging between me and Desmond like a suffocating blanket.

We step off the jet and make our way to the waiting car. Desmond doesn’t say much, letting the silence hang around us like a constant reminder of everything unsaid.

The ride to the Crowe estate stretches on, every passing mile dragging like an anchor. I keep my eyes on the road, watching the landscape blur by, trying to force myself into numbness. But it’s useless. This place- the land, the air, the weight of it- feels like it's wrapping around me, whether I want it to or not.

“Our family’s owned this place for generations,” Desmond says. “No one breathes here unless we let them.”

We turn onto a narrow road lined with old brick houses, their windows dark and watching. Then, the city gives way to open space, and suddenly, it's there—the Crowe estate.

A towering stone house looms ahead, its high iron gates standing tall and unyielding. The estate sprawls across rolling hills, a fortress of stone and shadow. Guards patrol the grounds, their weapons visible, their presence a silent warning. This isn’t just a home- it’s a show of force. A declaration of power.

The walls stretch high, cold and gray, ivy clawing its way up as if time itself is trying to take back what was stolen. But it’s nothing like Wesley Hall. I’ve lived there since I was seventeen, and that place—distant, ancient, built to withstand centuries—was always home. Wesley Hall carries the weight of history, the kind you can feel in its bones. This mansion, though, feels... new. Manufactured. The lines are too clean, the grounds too manicured. It’s polished and pristine, but it lacks the depth, the permanence of a place that’s truly endured.

It’s too foreign, too controlled. Too… forced.

The driver cuts the engine, but I don’t move. I just sit there, staring up at the place where my so-called “family” has been living without me for nearly thirty years.

And then I step out.

The moment I walk through the front doors, the air changes.

Inside, the halls are lined with portraits of stern-faced men, all bearing the trademark Crowe features. My features.

And at the end of one of these halls, in a grand sitting room lined with leather-bound books-

I feel him.

I come face to face with my father.

The man who agreed to throw me away before I ever had a chance.

Desmond speaks first, his voice warm but controlled. “Dad, this is Piers. Piers, meet Fintan Crowe.”

Fintan Crowe.

He dominates the hearthside- precisely as I'd pictured him. Towering. Broad-shouldered. Our shared rust-colored hair now silvered at his temples. When our identical green eyes meet in the firelight, there's no spark of familiarity- only clinical evaluation, like a gemologist inspecting inclusions in a problematic diamond.

The silence stretches taut between us.

His glance slices toward me, devoid of any true acknowledgment. Just that same icy assessment. Then, with all the ceremony of signing a corporate check, he extends his hand. “You look just like your brother.”

The words strike like a backhand. Is it the presumption—this casual pretense of anticipated reunion? Or the sterile detachment, as if I'm merely another acquisition to be processed? I'd braced for groveling. For tears. For anything but this polished indifference.

I look at his hand for a long while before putting my hands in my pockets, refusing to take it. “Funny how genetics work.”

His jaw tightens. “I know you're angry-”

“Angry?” I cut him off with a harsh laugh. “No, I'm not angry. I spent decades wondering who I was, where I came from. Spent my childhood watching other kids get adopted while I stayed behind. You didn’t think to give a damn about me until now.”

The look on his face doesn’t change. He doesn’t even flinch. “The past is irrelevant. We’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

“Is it?” I can feel the rage building again, and I can’t stop it. “You threw me away. You don’t get to act like some noble fucking king, sitting here pretending it was all for the good of the family. You made choices, and I paid for them. I paid for them with my life.”

He stiffens, but his voice stays even. “I made decisions to ensure the strength of the family. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Strength?” I spit out, stepping closer to him, my fists clenching. “You call it strength? You abandoned me- your own fucking blood. And for what? So you could raise Desmond without competition? So you could build your little empire on lies?”

My voice rises, full of the anger I’ve kept buried for years, decades of resentment flooding out.

“Everything I did,” he growls, “was to protect this family. To ensure our survival.”

“And what about my survival?” I demand. “Did you ever think about that? Or did you just assume I'd die in that orphanage and solve all your problems?”

I don’t wait for his response.

“I’m not interested in your excuses, old man,” I snap. “If you really thought you were doing what’s best, then maybe you can tell me why the hell I’m even here now.”

His expression flickers, something like pain crossing his features. But then he says firmly, “I won't apologize for doing what needed to be done.”

“Good.” I turn away, my hands shaking with suppressed rage. “Because I wouldn't accept it anyway. I'm better off having grown up away from all this. I was better off in an orphanage.”

I stride toward the door, but Fintan's voice stops me.

“After everything I've done to find you-”

“Find me?” I whirl back around. “You didn't find me. Your son did. And only because you thought you were dying and needed to clear your conscience.”

Fintan takes a step forward, his expression thunderous. “You're my son too.”

“No.” I meet his gaze steadily. “I'm nobody's son. I made myself who I am. Without you. Without the Crowes. And I did just fine.”

I turn away again, my pulse hammering in my ears. I need to get out of here. Need to breathe air that isn't thick with decades of secrets and lies.

I'm halfway down the hall when Desmond catches up to me.

“Piers, wait-”

“Save it,” I snap, but he grabs my arm.

“Just- hear me out.”

I could shake him off. Could keep walking. But something in his voice makes me pause.

Desmond lets out a slow breath. “I know this isn't what you wanted. I know finding out about us like this... it's not ideal. But you're here now. You're home.”

“This isn't my home,” I say quietly.

His expression falls, disappointment clear in his eyes. “It could be,” he says. “If you let it.”

I study him for a long moment. This brother I never knew I had. This mirror image of myself who grew up with everything I didn't.

He watches me with something close to understanding. Like he knows exactly what I’m feeling.

“I don’t blame you,” he says. “For hating him.”

I don’t say anything.

“I know you’re angry,” Desmond continues, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I get it. But this... this isn’t the way.”

I don’t respond. Part of me wants to tear him apart right now, too. All this time, all these questions, and I still don’t have any answers.

Desmond exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I didn’t force you to come here just because of him. It wasn’t just about our father.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then what was it?”

His throat works as he swallows looking down on the ground. “Because I’ve always wanted a brother.”

I blink. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

“When I found out about you, I was... excited,” he admits, voice rough with something raw. “Hopeful. I thought maybe- maybe we could be a family again. Or at least... something close to it.” His lips press together, like he's debating saying more, but then he shakes his head. “I know how na?ve that sounds now.”

I don’t know what to say. I should scoff, should call him out for trying to manipulate me, but the words don’t come.

He lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “You met him. You know what he's like. Mom died a while ago. And whatever idea I had of a real family died with her. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just... I wanted something. Someone. You can’t tell me you don’t relate to that.”

I clench my jaw, staring at the floor. Of course, I relate to it. I grew up looking at other families, wondering what it was like to have that- to belong. But that wasn’t my life. And it sure as hell wasn’t his, either.

“Yeah, well,” I say, my voice rough, “wanting something doesn’t mean you get it.”

I can see the disappointment on his face. It’s not anger. It’s not hatred. Just… disappointment. Like he wanted me to walk into this, to be open to it, to be open to him, and I’ve failed him.

Desmond sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to decide anything now. Just… don’t leave yet. Give it a chance.”

I don’t promise him a damn thing.

But I don’t walk away, either.

I stay silent, looking at him, knowing exactly what he’s feeling. Is this what it means to have a twin? To sense things without words?

Desmond’s hand comes down on my back, a brief, heavy touch- almost reassuring, but not quite. It’s strange, this unspoken bond between us, and I can’t tell if I want to lean into it or pull away.

“Let’s go,” he says, his voice a little more tired now, like the fight’s gone out of him too. Then, after a beat, he adds, “There’s a pub not far from here. The Claddagh Tavern. Good whiskey. Decent enough place to talk.”

I give him a curt nod, staying silent as walk down the long hallway and out of the house.

The door closes behind us, and for the first time since the Warwicks took me in, I’m not sure where I belong anymore. I spent years dreaming of having a family, a real one… a blood family. But now that I’ve got one, I’m starting to wonder if this is what I really fucking wanted.