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

My father sat behind his massive oak desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed some document. He looked up when I entered, his face unreadable.

Patrick O'Sullivan was sixty-two but looked fifty, his hair still more black than gray, his body still solid and imposing.

The only signs of age were the lines around his eyes and the slight softening of his jaw.

He was handsome in that classic Irish way—strong features, clear blue eyes, and a smile that could charm or terrify depending on his mood.

"Grace," he said, standing and coming around the desk. "You look well."

"Thank you." I allowed him to kiss my cheek, his aftershave familiar and oddly comforting despite everything. "You wanted to see me?"

He gestured to the leather chairs by the fireplace. "Have a seat. Drink?"

"No, thank you."

He poured himself two fingers of whiskey anyway, the amber liquid catching the firelight as he sat across from me.

"How's school?" he asked, taking a sip.

"Fine. Busy."

"And your apartment? No problems?"

"None."

He nodded, studying me over the rim of his glass. "You've been avoiding the family."

Not a question. An observation.

"I've been focused on my studies."

"Your brothers miss you."

"Connor and I speak regularly."

"And Sean? Michael?"

I shrugged. "They know where to find me if they want to talk."

My father sighed, setting his glass down on the side table. "This distance you've created…it's unnecessary, Grace. You're an O'Sullivan. That doesn't change just because you're at Harvard."

"I'm not trying to change who I am. I'm trying to build something of my own."

"Admirable. But naive." He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "Everything you have—your education, your apartment, your future—it's all possible because of this family. Because of what I've built."

I bit back the retort that burned on my tongue. What you've built is soaked in blood money.

"I'm grateful for the opportunities I've had," I said instead, keeping my voice neutral. "But I've made my position clear. I'm not interested in the family business."

"The family business is what keeps you safe." His voice hardened slightly. "What keeps all of us safe. The world out there isn't kind to people who stand alone."

"Is that a threat?"

He looked genuinely surprised. "Of course not. It's a reality. The Giordanos, the Contis, the Vitales—they're all watching us, looking for weakness. For division."

"And that's why you want me at this dinner? To present a united front?"

"Partly." He picked up his glass again, swirling the whiskey. "Anthony Giordano has a son. Harvard Law, like you. Graduated last year."

The implication hung in the air between us, heavy and suffocating.

"No," I said flatly.

"You haven't even met him."

"I don't need to. I'm not a bargaining chip, Father."

"This isn't the dark ages, Grace. I'm not arranging a marriage. I'm suggesting an introduction."

"For what purpose?"

He shrugged, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "Networking. Building connections. Isn't that what they teach you in that fancy school of yours?"

I stood up, my hands clenched at my sides. "I'm not interested in 'networking' with the son of a crime family."

"But you'll network with the daughter of a senator? The son of a CEO?" He raised an eyebrow. "Where do you think their money comes from? At least we're honest about who we are."

"There's nothing honest about what this family does."

The words slipped out before I could stop them, hanging in the air like a gunshot.

My father's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. "Sit down, Grace."

I remained standing.

"Sit. Down."

Slowly, I lowered myself back into the chair, my heart pounding in my chest.

"You think you're better than us," he said quietly. "With your law books and your moral high ground. But let me tell you something—the world you're so eager to join? It's just as corrupt as ours. The only difference is they hide it better."

"That's not?—"

"I'm not finished." His voice was soft but carried the weight of command.

"You want to build something of your own?

Fine. But don't forget where you come from.

Who you are. The O'Sullivan name opens doors, but it also paints a target on your back.

You think you can just walk away? That our enemies will respect your career choices? "

Fear coiled in my stomach, cold and familiar. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that whether you like it or not, you're part of this family. And families protect each other." He leaned back, his expression softening slightly. "The dinner with the Giordanos is important, Grace. I'm not asking you to marry anyone. I'm asking you to be there. To show respect."

The door opened before I could respond, and Connor stepped in, his eyes darting between us.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?"

"Not at all," my father said, standing. "We were just catching up. Where are your brothers?"

"Sean's on his way. Michael called—said he'd be late."

My father nodded, his attention already shifting. "Tell Mrs. Flanagan we'll eat at seven-thirty, then."

Connor gave me a quick, questioning look. I shook my head slightly. Later.

Dinner was a tense affair, despite Mrs. Flanagan's excellent cooking. Sean arrived just as we were sitting down, his handsome face flushed from the cold or something stronger. He kissed my cheek with exaggerated affection, his breath smelling faintly of bourbon.

"The prodigal daughter returns," he said, taking the seat across from me. "To what do we owe the honor?"

"Father insisted," I replied, keeping my tone light.

"Ah, the old man still has some pull, then." Sean winked at our father, who merely raised an eyebrow.

Michael arrived halfway through the first course, muttering apologies about traffic. At thirty-four, he was the oldest of us, and the most like our father—calculating, controlled, with eyes that missed nothing.

"Grace," he said, nodding to me as he took his seat. "Good to see you."

"You too, Michael."

The conversation flowed around me—business disguised as small talk, power plays masked as family updates. I picked at my food and sipped my water, answering questions when directly addressed but otherwise staying silent.

It wasn't until dessert that my father brought up the real reason for the dinner.

"The Giordanos have agreed to meet next week," he announced, cutting into his apple tart. "Thursday evening. Here."

Sean whistled low. "That's a surprise. Thought Anthony was still pissed about the Charlestown situation."

"Water under the bridge," my father said dismissively. "We have mutual interests to discuss."

"What kind of interests?" Connor asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"The kind that keep peace in this city." My father's eyes swept over all of us. "The Contis have been making moves. Getting bolder. We need to present a united front."

"The Contis?" I couldn't help myself. "I thought they operated in New York."

"They do. But Dante Conti has been expanding his territory. Testing boundaries." My father's gaze settled on me. "Which is why this dinner is so important. All of us will be there. Including you, Grace."

It wasn't a request.

"And what exactly will my role be at this dinner?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

"You'll be yourself. Charming. Intelligent. A credit to the O'Sullivan name."

"And a potential connection to the Giordano heir," I added.

Michael's eyebrows shot up. "Marco Giordano? He's a piece of work, from what I've heard."

"He's a Harvard graduate with connections in legitimate business," my father corrected. "Something Grace might appreciate."

The implication hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"I have class that night," I said, setting down my fork.

"Skip it."

"I can't just?—"

"You can and you will." My father's voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "This isn't a debate, Grace. This is family business."

"I'm not part of the business."

"You're part of this family." He looked at me, his blue eyes—so like my own—hard and unyielding. "And in this family, we stand together."

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of tension and forced pleasantries. As soon as it was over, I made my excuses and headed for the door, desperate for fresh air and distance.

Connor caught up with me in the foyer.

"Hey," he said, his voice low. "You okay?"

"Fine." I shrugged into my coat, avoiding his gaze.

"You don't have to do this, you know. The dinner."

"Don't I?" I looked at him then, seeing the concern in his eyes. "You heard him. In this family, we stand together."

"Grace—"

"It's fine, Connor. Really." I forced a smile. "It's just dinner, right? I'll survive."

He didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Call me tomorrow?"

"I will."

Outside, the night air was crisp and clean, a welcome relief after the stifling atmosphere of the house. I walked quickly, my heels clicking against the pavement, putting as much distance between myself and my father's expectations as possible.

By the time I reached my apartment, my anger had cooled to a dull ache. I kicked off my shoes and headed straight for the piano, not bothering to turn on the lights. The moonlight streaming through the windows was enough.

I sat down and placed my hands on the keys, feeling the cool ivory beneath my fingertips. Then I began to play—Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the first movement. Slow, haunting, filled with a quiet sort of desperation.

The music flowed through me, each note a release. This was mine. Not my father's, not the O'Sullivan legacy, not the weight of expectations and obligations. Just mine.

I played until my fingers ached and my eyes burned with unshed tears. Until the knot in my chest loosened enough to breathe again.

In the morning, I would go back to my carefully constructed life—law books and coffee, highlighters and case briefs. I would pretend that tonight never happened, that my father's words hadn't reopened old wounds.

But for now, in the darkness of my apartment with only the piano for company, I allowed myself to feel the full weight of what it meant to be Grace O'Sullivan—caught between worlds, belonging fully to neither.

The last notes of the sonata hung in the air, fading slowly into silence.

Tomorrow, I would be strong again. Tonight, I let myself break a little.