Page 2 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

T he law library smelled like dust, ambition, and desperation.

I inhaled deeply, finding comfort in the familiar scent of old books and overpriced coffee. My highlighters were arranged by color on the desk—yellow for statutes, green for precedents, pink for contradictions, blue for my own thoughts. Order amid chaos. Control in small doses.

Need to talk. Dad's planning something. Call me.

I'd read it seventeen times without responding. Whatever family drama was unfolding could wait until after I'd finished outlining Marbury v. Madison .

The library was quiet except for the occasional rustle of pages and the soft tapping of keyboards. Everyone looked half- dead, eyes bloodshot, postures slumped over their laptops. Law school's walking wounded.

I straightened my spine and rolled my shoulders back. Perfect posture was a habit my mother had drilled into me before she died. "A lady never slouches, Grace. Especially not an O'Sullivan."

My mother had a lot of rules about what an O'Sullivan should and shouldn't do. None of which included "become a criminal empire that controls half of our city’s underworld," but I guess we all have our blind spots.

My phone buzzed again. Connor.

Seriously, Grace. Pick up.

I sighed and gathered my books. So much for constitutional law. Whatever crisis was brewing in the O'Sullivan household apparently couldn't wait for judicial review.

Outside, the October air bit at my cheeks as I walked across campus. Harvard Law looked exactly like it did in the brochures—all red brick, autumn leaves, and the weight of three hundred years of tradition pressing down on your shoulders until you either stood taller or broke completely.

I chose to stand taller.

I found a bench away from the main paths and pulled out my phone, my finger hovering over Connor's name. My youngest brother was the only one I still spoke to regularly. The only one who seemed to understand why I needed distance.

"This better be important," I said when he answered.

"Nice to hear your voice too, sis." His tone was light, but I could hear the tension underneath.

"I have a midterm in three days, Connor. I don't have time for?—"

"Dad's setting up a meeting with the Giordanos."

My stomach dropped. The Giordanos controlled the docks in South Boston. Old money, old blood, old grudges.

"And?" I kept my voice neutral, as if we were discussing the weather instead of potential gang alliances.

"And he's planning to bring you to the dinner next week."

The bench suddenly felt very cold beneath me. "I have class."

"Yeah, well, Dad doesn't care about your Constitutional Law midterm. He cares about showing Anthony Giordano that the O'Sullivans are still a united front."

I closed my eyes, feeling a headache forming behind my temples. "I'm not part of the business."

"Tell that to Dad."

"I have. Repeatedly."

Connor sighed, the sound crackling through the phone. "Look, I'm just giving you a heads-up. He's going to call you tonight."

"I won't answer."

"Then he'll send someone to get you."

I knew he was right. My father didn't take no for an answer. Not from his children, not from his enemies, not from anyone.

"Fine. I'll deal with it." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "How are you doing? Are you still?—"

"I'm fine," he cut me off. "Just keeping my head down. Doing what I'm told."

The unspoken words hung between us. Unlike me, Connor didn't have the luxury of distance. At twenty-two, he was already deep in the family business, his Harvard acceptance letter gathering dust in a drawer somewhere.

"Be careful," I said softly.

"Always am." He paused. "Love you, Grace."

"Love you too."

I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand, suddenly feeling very tired. Three years of carefully constructed boundaries, of separate bank accounts and different last names on class rosters, of polite excuses and missed family dinners—all of it threatened by my father's latest power play.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket and headed toward my apartment off-campus. The walk helped clear my head, the rhythm of my boots against the pavement a steady counterpoint to the chaos in my mind.

My apartment was on the third floor of a renovated brownstone—small, expensive, and mine. I'd paid for it myself with money from my mother's trust fund, the only inheritance I'd accepted from the O'Sullivan name. It wasn't much by their standards, but it was enough to keep me independent.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside, dropping my bag by the entrance. The space was minimal but warm—bookshelves lining the walls, a small kitchen with actual groceries (a point of pride), and the baby grand piano by the window. My sanctuary.

I kicked off my boots and padded to the kitchen, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. It was barely 4 PM, but family calls warranted day drinking. I poured a generous glass and took a long sip, letting the cold pinot grigio wash away the taste of anxiety.

My phone rang exactly at 6 PM. My father was nothing if not punctual.

I let it ring three times before answering. A small rebellion.

"Hello, Father."

"Grace." His voice was exactly as I remembered it—deep, commanding, with that hint of gravel from too many cigars and not enough sleep. "It's been a while."

"I've been busy with school."

"So I've heard. Top of your class, according to my sources."

I didn't ask who his "sources" were. I didn't want to know which of my classmates or professors was on his payroll.

"Did you call for my transcript, or was there something else?"

He chuckled, the sound devoid of any real warmth. "Still direct as ever. I'm having dinner at the house tomorrow night. I expect you to be there."

Not a request. A command.

"I have plans."

"Cancel them."

I took another sip of wine, buying myself a moment. "What's the occasion?"

"Does a father need an occasion to see his daughter?"

"You usually do."

Another chuckle, this one sharper. "The Giordanos will be joining us next week. I want to discuss some details with the family first."

There it was. The real reason.

"I'm not part of the business discussions, remember? That was our agreement."

"This isn't about business, Grace. It's about family."

Lie. In my father's world, family and business were the same thing. Blood and money, inseparable and equally valuable.

"I have a midterm to study for."

"And I have an empire to run." His voice hardened. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late."

He hung up before I could respond.

I stared at the phone, fighting the urge to throw it across the room. Three years of carefully maintained distance, and all it took was one phone call to pull me back into the orbit of the O'Sullivan family drama.

I finished my wine and poured another glass, carrying it to the piano.

My fingers found the keys without thought, muscle memory taking over as the first heavy cords rang out.

Rachmaninoff—dark and relentless. It didn’t soothe so much as hollow me out, each note dragging something buried closer to the surface.

The music filled the apartment, wrapping around me like a shield.

This was the one thing in my life that had never been tainted by my family name.

My mother had insisted on lessons from the age of four, believing that a proper young lady needed cultural refinement.

What she hadn't anticipated was that I would fall in love with it—that I would find freedom in the discipline, peace in the precision.

I played until my fingers ached and the wine bottle was empty, until the anxiety of tomorrow's dinner had receded to a dull throb rather than a sharp stab.

Then I closed the lid of the piano and went to bed, setting my alarm early enough to get in a few hours of studying before I had to face my father.

Morning came too quickly, the pale October sunlight filtering through my curtains and pulling me from a restless sleep. I dragged myself through my routine—shower, coffee, protein bar, review notes—with the dinner looming over me like a storm cloud.

By 6:30 PM, I was standing in front of my closet, staring at my options. Dinner with my father was always a performance, and wardrobe mattered. Too casual would be read as disrespect; too formal would suggest I was taking this more seriously than I wanted to.

I settled on a charcoal gray dress—conservative but not stuffy, expensive enough to pass inspection but not flashy enough to suggest I was trying to impress anyone. I paired it with simple pearl earrings (my mother's) and black heels that added three inches to my height. Armor, of a sort.

The O'Sullivan family home was in Beacon Hill, a four-story brownstone that had been in the family for generations.

On paper, it was the residence of a respected Boston family with old money and older connections.

In reality, it was the center of operations for one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast.

I took a deep breath before knocking, steeling myself for what was to come. The door opened almost immediately, revealing our longtime housekeeper, Mrs. Flanagan.

"Miss Grace," she said, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. "It's been too long."

"Hello, Mrs. Flanagan." I stepped inside, letting her take my coat. "How have you been?"

"Oh, can't complain. Your father's in the study. The others haven't arrived yet."

Of course. He'd want to speak to me alone first.

The house hadn't changed at all. The familiar dark wood paneling, same Persian rugs, same oil paintings of stern-faced O'Sullivan ancestors judging me from the walls. It smelled the same too—furniture polish, old books, and the faint trace of my father's cigars.

I made my way to the study, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors. The door was ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. I knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.