Page 1 of Royal Deception (Royals of the Underworld #2)

RORY

T his silence is all wrong.

It’s unnatural.

There’s plenty of noise outside my office. Between the steady thrum of traffic, the muffled shouts of workers unloading shipments in the alley, and even the occasional snatches of conversation in the hallway, there’s noise around me.

But this silence gnaws at me.

It’s been almost a year since our standoff with the Russians—when they snatched up Kellan’s little girl and we went toe to toe to fight them off. Since the confrontation, there’s been nothing but dead silence from their side of town.

I lean back in my chair, the reports spread across my desk, contemplating our victory over the Russians. It should feel like a win, but it doesn’t. I know that the Russians are still out there.

I know they’re waiting. Plotting. Things aren’t over between us.

Tossing my pen down, I rub a hand over my jaw, the sandpaper stubble evidence that I’ve been having more than a few sleepless nights.

My older brother Kellan disagrees with my fears. He thinks we’ve broken them, that they’ve cut their losses and slithered back into the dark.

But he’s wrong. The Bratva doesn’t lick its wounds. It sharpens its knives.

The thought sits in my chest like a weight, but I can’t shake it.

My phone buzzes against the desk, dragging me out of my head. I glance at the screen and see Lucky’s name flash across it with a message about an afternoon meeting. Shaking my head, I let it go unanswered, the vibration fading as I grab one of the reports to start looking it over.

We might have come out on top, but that doesn’t mean I’m letting my guard down. Complacency gets you killed, and I didn’t claw my way up from nothing just to fall now. The Brannagans don’t fold.

Still, my thoughts circle back to the last few months—not just the Russians but everything. The wedding, its aftermath, and the mess I made with Clary.

I grit my teeth, shutting the thought down as I cross to the window. Outside, the city moves on like nothing’s wrong, like we’re not sitting on a powder keg waiting to blow.

But nothing stays quiet forever.

My phone rings again, startling me out of my silent musing. I pick it up, glancing at the screen long enough to see Kellan calling me this time.

Reluctant to ignore my elder brother, I put him on speakerphone as I sort through these piles of reports. “Rory,” I answer, furrowing my brow at the stack of invoices in my hand.

“Just confirming that we’re still on for drinks at Clover & Thistle,” Kellan says, his deep voice crackling through the speaker. “You’ve been staying late at the office every night this week and I’m worried about you, dear brother .”

Guilt churns in my gut, and I sigh, running a hand through my hair. I’d forgotten about that, to be honest. I scheduled this meetup with Kellan weeks ago.

“Yeah, I know,” I grind out, reaching for the tumbler of whiskey on my desk. I take a sip, letting the burn slide down my throat as I mentally try to decide whether I should cancel.

“You’re not canceling on me again.” Kellan’s voice is stern, authoritative, leaving no room for argument. I stiffen, chafing against the protective big brother tone.

“Come on,” Kellan says, his tone softening. “I have some new pictures of the kids,” he offers, dangling the proverbial carrot. I smother down my irritation, the temptation of seeing my niece and nephew enough to temper the guilt, frustration, and stress swirling around inside me.

Another sigh escapes me, and I push back from the chair, straightening my tie. “Fine,” I concede. “But only an hour.”

Kellan chuckles.

An hour and a half later, we’re three drinks in, and the tension of the day has fallen from my shoulders as I swipe through photos of Rose and little Patrick.

“That’s from the day we took Patrick to the botanical gardens,” Kellan explains as I pause on a photo of a butterfly landing on the handle of Patrick’s stroller.

Rose is holding onto the handle as well, and twisting slightly to look behind her.

The photo is adorable, and I can’t help the clench I feel inside as I take it in.

Family is everything to me, and despite my prior reservations about Darcy and Kellan’s arrangement, I’m truly glad things worked out. I wouldn’t trade my niece and nephew for the world.

“How’s Darcy?” I ask, settling back in my seat as I wrap my hands around my beer.

“She’s great,” Kellan says, his face splitting into a beaming grin. “Her book’s a bestseller, and she’s already wrapping up the next one!”

Kellan’s pride is obvious, and I swallow down the faint sting of jealousy. I’m happy for my brother, but I know the family life isn’t for me.

I’m the leader of this godforsaken empire we’ve built, and I have to stay committed to the cause if we want to keep things going. So I push those feelings to the back of my mind and continue swiping on more photos of the kids.

“Is Rose okay?” I ask, glancing up at Kellan. He swallows his sip and sets his drink down, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Like, after the whole kidnapping thing,” I explain. “And losing her grandpa. It’s been almost a year since then, right?”

“She saw a kid therapist for a few months, but everything is fine,” he assures me. “Rose is a tough little kid. She’s a lot like me and you, I guess.” He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I know you’re worried the Russians are biding their time, aren’t you?”

I take a long drink instead of answering. Kellan might have moved on, but I couldn’t. The Russians aren’t the type to let things go. I know that better than anyone.

“You have to stop stressing about that shit,” Kellan says. “It’s been a year, Rory. We’re fine.”

“We’re not fine,” I hiss, leaning in. “The war with the Russians did more damage than you realize. Their smear campaign on us lost us half our political connections and even more of our business associates.”

“We’ll rebuild,” Kellan says, but uncertainty lines his eyes.

Kellan’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t argue. He knows I’m right.

“You’re right about one thing,” I say, my voice low, a mixture of frustration and resolve. “We’re not fine yet. But we will be.”

Kellan gives me a tight nod, and the silence stretches between us. Neither of us says it out loud, but we both know that things won’t really be fine until we’ve wiped the slate clean of the Russians for good.

I stand, grabbing the bottle and setting it down with a thud on the table.

"Enough of this," I mutter, straightening my shoulders.

The next morning, I’m back at the office, the weight of yesterday's conversation still pressing on my mind. Kellan's words linger like a bad taste, but I don't have time for it. There are deals to make, paperwork to sign, and people to remind why crossing me is a mistake.

A few minutes later, I hear a knock at the door.

“Mr. Brannagan?” Clary’s soft voice filters through.

I don’t look up right away. “Busy,” I say, motioning to the paperwork spread across my desk.

“It’ll only take a moment.”

She steps inside anyway, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt before squaring her shoulders. “I want more,” she says, her gray eyes locked onto mine.

Something stirs inside me. The way she says it—firm, unflinching—sends my mind somewhere it shouldn’t go. Heat coils in my chest before I shove it down, burying it beneath the weight of responsibility.

“More?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.

“In the office.” Her chin lifts slightly, like she’s daring me to challenge her. “I want to be involved in operations.”

I exhale sharply and pinch the bridge of my nose. “You already do plenty.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Her fingers curl slightly, gripping the fabric of her skirt—a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture. But I see it. I see everything.

“Absolutely not.” My tone is final, leaving no room for argument. “It’s dangerous, Clary.”

“I can handle danger.”

Her insistence grates on my nerves, not because she’s wrong, but because I don’t have time for this. And maybe, if I’m being honest, because I don’t like the idea of her getting close to this side of things.

“You need to let this go,” I say, leveling her with a look. “Now go see if Senator Burns is here yet.”

Clary swallows hard, her lips pressing into a thin line before she nods. “Right away, Mr. Brannagan.”

Her voice is quiet again. Controlled. But I don’t miss the flicker of something in her eyes before she turns and leaves.

Minutes later, Senator Peter Burns strolls in, a polished grin firmly in place. “Rory,” he says, extending his hand. I stand up and shake it firmly, squeeze it once, and drop my hand by my side.

“I have reservations for us at The Regency Room,” I say, naming a place just down the block. “Or we could go somewhere else.”

“Fine by me,” Burns says, nodding as I lead him out, the elevator ride down filled with the quiet hum of strategy.

Once we’re seated at our table, drinks poured, the conversation inevitably turns toward the growing whispers of the governor’s alleged affair.

“Speaking of rumors,” Burns says, lifting his glass of red wine to his mouth, “I heard the casino deal has been killed.”

My eyes roll. “The damned casino deal,” I mutter. “It’s been dead in the water for a while now, but the final nail in the coffin was Nexera pulling out. They were supposed to be our biggest investors.”

“It seems like Anatoly and his ilk did a lot more damage with their smear campaign, then,” Burns says, tone placid as he steeples his fingers together.

“They made us look like common thugs,” I agree. “And there was that whole business with the investigation into our mother’s disappearance.” My voice drops into a mutter. “Fucking nonsense. It didn’t even lead anywhere. We know our mother ran off and left us.”

All it did was rip open old wounds, dragging ghosts from the past I had no interest in resurrecting.

“If you want to gain back your reputation, you need to give yourselves more legitimacy,” Burns says, taking another sip of his wine just as our salads arrive. “You have a lot more to offer the world than shady deals and backroom operations.”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning forward as I spear into a tomato. “What do you mean by that?” I ask, uncertain what he’s saying.

“I think you should start getting out of the petty criminal underworld,” Burns says. “Empires don’t belong to warlords, Rory. They belong to kings.”

Turning his words over in my head, I consider the proposition. “So you’re saying we could attain control of the city if we ran a more legitimate business?”

“Think bigger," Burns says, eyes gleaming. "Bigger than the media moguls, bigger than the families who buy politicians. With the right moves, the Brannagans don’t answer to power. They become it.”

The thought is intriguing. Bigger than the biggest political dynasty? They have a level of power and political influence our family could only dream about. “You’ve got me hooked,” I admit. “How do we go about doing that?”

“Well, there’s a good market for private security firms right now,” Burns says, digging into his salad. “You offer protection to wealthy clients, celebrities, that sort of thing. People would pay a lot of money for security from former gangsters because they know you know how to handle a threat.”

I purse my lips, reaching for my scotch as I consider the idea. Burns is right. Our image is shit, and this might be a good way to go about turning the tide in our favor.

But would the rest of the family go for this? Would I?

Getting out of the underworld isn’t something we’d ever even thought about. All we knew was running a criminal empire.

The idea of a lasting legacy lingers, but I can’t shake the feeling that nothing in this world comes without a price.