Page 4 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

RAFE

T he war room was silent except for the shuffle of papers and the occasional clink of ice against glass.

I stood at the head of the table, hands braced against the polished mahogany as I surveyed the spread before me. Surveillance photos. Financial records. Property deeds. Phone transcripts. The entire O'Sullivan empire laid bare in black and white.

Knowledge is power. My father taught me that before he taught me how to shoot.

"These shipping manifests," I said, tapping a document with my index finger. "They don't match what our guy at the port reported."

Luca leaned forward, brow furrowed as he examined the paper. At thirty-two, he was two years younger than me but looked older—stress and suspicion had carved permanent lines around his eyes.

"They're moving more than they're declaring," he confirmed, voice low and measured. "Question is, what and where?"

Dante would have known immediately. But Dante was in Europe with Emilia, touring some estate tucked in the hills of Lausanne.

Ivy on the walls, private schools down the road—one of those places built for legacy.

She never said anything directly, but she didn’t have to.

I don’t think she’s pregnant. Not yet, at least. But she’s thinking ahead.

And while they map out a future, I stayed behind to clean up the present.

"Weapons," Marco suggested from his position by the window. The youngest of us at twenty-eight, he was still eager to prove himself. "Has to be. The Irish have always been gun runners."

I shook my head, picking up another document. "No. Patrick O'Sullivan is smarter than that. Guns leave a trail. Bodies leave a trail." I flipped through the pages, scanning columns of numbers. "This is something else."

The Conti estate library had been converted to our war room years ago—bookshelves replaced with secure filing cabinets, antique furniture giving way to reinforced tables and chairs that could withstand the weight of men and weapons.

The only original features were the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured grounds and the crystal decanters of liquor that had belonged to my grandfather.

Old money pretending to be older than it was. That was the Conti way.

"What about their connections to City Hall?" Luca asked, sliding another folder toward me. "The O'Sullivans have three councilmen in their pocket and a judge on the federal bench."

I skimmed the file, committing names and faces to memory. "Political influence is valuable, but it's not enough to explain these numbers." I tapped the shipping manifests again. "They're moving something big. Something worth killing for."

The unspoken hung in the air between us. Something worth betraying us for.

Giovanni's body had been found floating in the harbor that morning. The official story would be a mugging gone wrong— another tragic statistic in the city's crime reports. The truth was messier, as it always is.

"What about the sons?" Marco asked, moving to the table and picking up a photo. "Sean O'Sullivan runs their street operations. Michael handles the legitimate businesses. And the youngest?—"

"Connor," I supplied. "Still green. Patrick keeps him close, but he doesn't have real power yet."

Marco nodded, studying the surveillance photo of Connor O'Sullivan leaving a nightclub, a blonde on each arm. "Seems like a liability. Party boy with daddy issues."

"Don't underestimate him," Luca warned. "The quiet ones are always more dangerous."

I moved around the table, examining each piece of intelligence we'd gathered.

The O'Sullivans had been a thorn in our side for generations—an Irish family that had clawed their way up from street thugs to legitimate power brokers.

They controlled the north side of the city, the ports, and enough politicians to make them untouchable.

Or so they thought.

"What about this?" Luca slid another folder across the table. "Came in this morning from our guy at Harvard."

I opened the file, expecting more financial records or political connections.

Instead, I found her.

The photo was clearly taken without her knowledge—a young woman leaving a lecture hall, books clutched to her chest, blonde hair falling in waves past her shoulders.

She wasn't smiling, her expression focused, almost severe.

But there was something in her eyes…intelligence, determination, a quiet intensity that seemed to reach through the paper and grab me by the throat.

"Grace O'Sullivan," Luca said, watching my reaction. "Patrick's only daughter. Twenty-five. Harvard Law. Top of her class."

I stared at the photo, taking in every detail. The elegant slope of her neck. The slight furrow between her brows. The way she held herself—straight-backed, chin lifted, like someone who refused to be intimidated by the world around her.

"She's not involved in the family business," Luca continued, flipping through the file. "Keeps her distance, from what we can tell. Uses her mother's maiden name at school. Minimal security detail—just one guy who watches her apartment from a distance."

I picked up another photo. This one showed her at a piano, taken through a window. Her face was different here; softer, more vulnerable. Lost in the music.

Something shifted in my chest. A recognition. A hunger.

"She's their weak spot," Marco said, misreading my interest. "We could use her as leverage."

My hand tightened on the photo. "No."

Both my brothers looked at me, surprised by the sharpness in my voice.

I cleared my throat, forcing my expression to remain neutral. "She's more valuable as intelligence. If she's estranged from the family, she might not know anything useful."

Luca's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew me too well. "There's more in the file. Academic records. Known associates. Daily routines."

I flipped through the pages, absorbing every detail of Grace O'Sullivan's life. Her coffee order (black, no sugar). Her class schedule (Constitutional Law on Mondays and Wednesdays, Criminal Procedure on Tuesdays and Thursdays). The fact that she played piano late at night when she couldn't sleep.

Each piece of information felt like a key turning in a lock inside me.

"Some of these reports look tampered with," Luca said suddenly, frowning as he examined a page. "The timestamps don't match up."

I glanced at the document, noting the inconsistency but filing it away for later. "Clerical error, probably. Focus on what matters."

"And what matters right now is...?" Marco let the question hang.

I closed Grace's file, keeping my movements deliberate, unhurried. "We need to understand what the O'Sullivans are moving through the port. And why they felt the need to bomb our warehouse to cover their tracks."

Luca nodded, accepting the change of subject. "I'll put more men on the docks. See if we can intercept whatever's coming in next."

"Do it quietly," I instructed. "I don't want them knowing we're watching."

"And the Giordano meeting?" Marco asked. "Word is, Patrick O'Sullivan is sitting down with Anthony Giordano next week."

My jaw tightened. The Giordanos were old-school Sicilian, territorial and traditional. If they were meeting with the Irish, it meant an alliance was forming. Against us.

"Let them meet," I said, my voice cold. "Let them think they have the upper hand."

"And then?" Luca prompted.

I smiled, the expression not reaching my eyes. "And then we show them exactly why the Contis have ruled this city for three generations."

The meeting continued for another hour, strategies formed and discarded, contingencies planned. Throughout it all, I was aware of Grace's file at my elbow, the weight of it disproportionate to its physical presence.

When we finally adjourned, Luca lingered behind as Marco left to make calls.

"You want to tell me what that was about?" he asked once we were alone.

I raised an eyebrow. "What what was about?"

"The girl. Grace O'Sullivan." He leaned against the table, arms crossed. "I saw your face when you opened that file."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit." Luca's voice was quiet but firm. "I know you, Rafe. Better than anyone. And I know that look."

I turned away, pouring myself another drink to avoid his scrutiny. "She's Patrick O'Sullivan's daughter. Of course I'm interested in what she knows."

"Is that all it is? Professional interest?"

The whiskey burned down my throat, a welcome distraction from the heat building under my skin. "What else would it be?"

Luca sighed, pushing himself off the table. "Just be careful. We can't afford distractions right now. Not with Dante away and the Irish making moves."

"I know my priorities," I said, the edge in my voice a warning.

He held up his hands in surrender. "Your call, brother. Always has been."

After he left, I returned to the table and opened Grace's file again. In the silence of the empty room, I spread out the photos, arranging them in chronological order. A timeline of Grace O'Sullivan's life over the past month.

Walking to class. Studying in the library. Having coffee with a friend. Playing piano in her apartment.

Living her life, unaware she was being watched.

Unaware she was being hunted.

I picked up the photo of her at the piano again, studying the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her profile.

There was something compelling about her—a quiet strength, a contained passion.

She wasn't conventionally beautiful in the way that caught most men's attention.

Her features were too sharp, her gaze too intense.

But I couldn't look away.

I slid my finger along the edge of the photo, imagining it was her skin beneath my touch. Soft. Warm. Alive.

Mine .

The thought came unbidden, startling in its possessiveness. I'd seen countless women, bedded more than my share. None had ever triggered this immediate, visceral response. This need to possess, to control, to consume.

I gathered the photos and documents, tucking them back into the folder. Then, instead of returning it to the pile of intelligence, I slipped it under my arm and left the war room.

My private office was on the third floor of the estate, away from the main areas where business was conducted. It was my sanctuary—the one place where I could let my guard down, if only slightly.

I locked the door behind me and went to my desk, opening the bottom drawer where I kept my most sensitive files. I placed Grace's dossier inside, then hesitated, pulling out the photo of her at the piano one last time.

I studied it in the dim light of my office, committing every detail to memory. The slight tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers hovered over the keys. The single strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail, curling against her cheek.

In that moment, something shifted inside me—a realignment of priorities, a clarification of purpose.

The O'Sullivans were business. A problem to be solved. An obstacle to be removed.

But Grace... Grace was something else entirely.

I placed the photo in my inside jacket pocket, close to my heart, and closed the drawer.

Business could wait.

I had a new target now.