Page 16 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

PATRICK

“There is no way she’s making it to her next birthday.” Liam adds another two fingers of whiskey to his glass. He raises it in the air, a toast to the sanity slowly draining out of me like hope from a condemned man.

Except I chose this.

No, not chose. Niamh was the wife I chose. This one is a necessity. I despise feeling as though I’m cornered, that circumstances outside my control have forced me into making a decision I would not ordinarily make. It makes my fucking skin itch.

“She doesn’t have to.” I round my desk and retake my seat. “If everything goes according to plan, Dylan will sign the American business over to me, then conveniently die. After that, I have no use for her.”

“So, you plan to just… kill her?” Out of the three of us, Darragh has the closest to what I guess would be described as a conscience. Not that it stops him doing what needs to be done, but he at least has a moment of sympathy for those who suffer at our hands.

I do not have that emotion.

“That depends on whether or not she continues this intractable behavior.” I scrape a hand through my hair.

“Just because the agreement with Dylan is likely to have a no-divorce clause in it doesn’t mean she can’t meet with an unfortunate accident.

And if she doesn’t quit the backchat, that’s precisely what will happen. ”

Liam chuckles. “The red hair should have given it away. Remember Fíadh?”

“Oh yeah.” Darragh grins. “She was a spitfire.”

“Which is why you dumped her after a week,” I say.

“Aye, but what a week.” Liam stares off into the distance. “She wasn’t just a spitfire out of the sack.”

I roll my eyes. “Can we focus now? The call is in five minutes.”

Knots in my stomach pull tight. I don’t often suffer with nerves, but I can’t hide the bride switch from Dylan any longer.

There may be an ocean between us, but news, both good and especially bad, travels fast in our business.

I want to be the one to fill in the details of the O’Sullivan family’s untimely demise and the subsequent McCarthy massacre.

Dylan doesn’t care who I marry, as long as I do, but the last thing I need is him thinking I’ve lost control of my own fucking territory.

I don’t fucking lose control.

On the dot, I make the call, putting the phone on speaker so my brothers can listen in. They’re not here to contribute, but this saves me repeating how the meeting goes. On the third ring, the call connects.

“Patrick.” Dylan’s Irish accent has faded after decades living in the United States, but it’s still there, if faint. “How are you doing, son? ”

I bristle. Only one man has the right to call me son, and he’s been in the ground for fifteen years. Liam shakes his head, correctly reading my irritation.

Painting a smile on my face that should transfer to my voice, I say, “All good here, Dylan. More importantly, how are you?”

“Ah.” He sighs. “Hanging in there.”

“Are you still having chemotherapy?”

“Yes, although it’s not working like it once did. Still, we all have to go sometime.”

He seems remarkably calm about it all. I can’t say I’d feel the same in his situation.

Then again, when a doctor says you’re terminal, what else is left other than acceptance.

In our world, showing weakness is pounced upon.

Even when your body is eating itself from the inside out, there’s an expectation on the leader to show no fear. To remain in charge of their empire.

“Have they given you any further indication how long?” The clock is ticking, hence my urgent bride situation.

If Dylan dies before I’ve put a ring on Sorcha’s finger and taken her to meet him, the entire business will pass to Andrew.

Dylan and his wife lost their two sons some years ago in a turf war, which saw Dylan’s territory more than double.

His only brother died last year from a heart attack, which means me and my brothers are the only blood family he has left, and I intend to make sure I inherit what’s ours.

“Oh, you know doctors. Could be a month, could be six. Who knows?” A groan comes down the line, and he’s breathing heavily. I look at Liam, then Darragh.

“Time is running out,” I mouth, receiving dual nods in agreement.

“So,” he continues. “When are you bringing your bride to meet me?”

“Soon.” I roll my shoulders, stretching the tight muscles. “About that, I have both good news and bad news.”

“Oh. And what might that be?” There’s a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“The O’Sullivan family are dead. All of them. Including Niamh.”

There’s a momentary pause and more heavy breathing. “I see.”

He sounds surprised which means the news hadn’t traveled across the pond as I thought it may have.

“The McCarthys wiped them all out, and in a fucking church, too. They have no fucking shame.”

“They never did,” Dylan says. “Always went their own way. Never abided by the code we all live by.”

“No.”

“And the good news? Because you know the rules of accession, Patrick.”

“Aye, sir. That I do.”

“Well?”

“Let’s just say the McCarthys have joined the O’Sullivans in the afterlife. Except one.” I decide to keep Cathal’s existence to myself. It’s always good to hold back a card or two.

“You left one alive?”

“Yeah, although he’s having regrets,” Liam murmurs, grinning.

I widen my eyes in a silent shut the fuck up. “The youngest daughter. Sorcha. My fiancée.”

Dylan chuckles, then a bout of coughing ensues. Man sounds as though he’s right at death’s door. I have to break this woman, and fast .

“And how does the girl feel about marrying a man who wiped out her entire family?”

“She’s… coming around.”

“Giving you a hard time, is she?” he snickers.

“She’s got spunk. A redhead. Says it all.”

“Indeed. So, tell me, when is the wedding?”

“Soon.” Once I’ve made sure she won’t scream bloody murder the second we’re out in public.

“Shortly after we’re married, I’ll bring her to see you.

I’m sure you’ll approve. She’s a beauty, that’s for sure, and primed to produce a long line of Mahoney heirs to continue the legacy started by our ancestors decades ago. ”

“I look forward to it.” Another round of coughing delays our conversation for a solid thirty seconds. He sounds as though he’s hacking up a lung.

“I’ll let you go, Dylan. Get some rest. I’ll be in touch soon.”

I cut the call, locking my gaze onto Liam and Darragh. Liam grimaces. “Tick tock, brother.”

“Aye.” I pick up my phone and call my assistant.

“Call the priest and tell him to make himself available for a week on Saturday.” That gives me ten days to bring Sorcha to heel.

Will that be enough time? Can Dylan make it that far?

I fucking hate feeling like I’m backed into a wall, but what other choice do I have?

“A funeral, birth, or a wedding?” she asks, a clear tone of amusement in her voice.

I chuckle. My assistant is one of the few people I’ll take impudence from. Now, it seems, I can add Sorcha to the list.

“A wedding.”

“Better get my suit dry-cleaned,” Liam says. “Think it’s still got blood splatters on it from your last wedding.”

“Won’t happen again,” I growl.

“True,” Darragh says. “There’s no one left in Ireland who wants to murder you.”

“Inaccurate.” Liam points to the back of the house where Sorcha is probably still outside with the guard. “I can think of one.”

“You’ll have to spend the rest of your life sleeping with one eye open,” Darragh says.

“I can handle a slip of a girl.” As she will soon find out.