Page 28 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

PATRICK

I woke up to the news this morning that Dylan is dead. According to his nurse, he passed away peacefully in his sleep with Mairead holding his hand. I haven’t seen her yet this morning, but she must be devastated.

It’s almost as though he hung on until I fulfilled his wishes and took a wife, and as soon as he’d assessed her, and us, he felt able to go.

On my way downstairs, I hover outside Sorcha’s bedroom, my hand raised to knock.

In the end, I change my mind. No one questioned my request for separate bedrooms, least of all Sorcha.

I’m unsure why I haven’t fucked her yet.

She’s mine. I can do as I please when I please, but something’s holding me back.

Perhaps I’m waiting for her to come to me.

I like the idea of her begging for it, although I would say we’re some way off that. It’s okay. I’m not nineteen. I’m perfectly capable of restraining myself. Besides, if the urge takes me, there’s always a hot shower and my hand.

Mairead is alone at the kitchen table warming her hands around a mug of tea when I arrive. She looks at me, eyes swimming with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Mairead.” I move toward her, squeezing her shoulder.

She covers my hand with her own. “He’s at peace now. I think he was waiting for you, Patrick.”

I nod. “Had the same thought myself.” Pulling out a chair, I reach for the teapot and pour myself a mug. “The business will thrive under me. I guarantee I will continue his legacy.”

“I know you will.” She sips her tea, a deep sigh lifting her chest. “We’ll bury him tomorrow.”

It’s fast, but that isn’t altogether unusual in our circles. The new boss can’t properly assert his authority until the former leader is laid to rest and the will is read.

“Do you need any help?”

“No. He made the provisions before he got too sick. Andrew is taking care of the invitee list.”

I keep my expression schooled. Mairead doesn’t need to know my plans for Dylan’s underboss. The man will find out what’s in store for him soon enough.

“That’s good.”

We fall into silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

Vastly different thoughts I would imagine.

Mine are already running amok with plans to grow and expand what Dylan built.

There will be dissenters. There always are when a death enforces a change of leadership, and I will deal with those the way my father would have. Severely.

A shuffle of feet draws my attention to the doorway. Sorcha. Her gaze swiftly moves from me to Mairead.

“I heard, Mrs. Mahoney. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Mairead stands, opening her arms and beckoning to my wife.

The two women hug as though they’d known each other for years rather than a single day.

I narrow my eyes, studying their body language.

My wife does appear to have a gift of winning people over.

It’s a useful asset in our line of work.

Originally, I had planned to keep her as far away from my business as possible, but I may have to rethink that strategy.

There’s time. Especially now that we’re stuck with each other. Besides, if I give her something to do, she’s less likely to have time to plot how to stab me in my sleep. Funnily enough, the thought makes me smile rather than grimace. I’m coming to enjoy her fire.

“Patrick.” Sorcha takes the seat next to mine and briefly touches my arm. “I’m sorry for you, too. He was a lovely man.”

A lovely man who’s killed dozens of people in the name of power and turf.

It just goes to show how many layers my cousin had.

Before he got sick, he could put the fear of God into men with a single glance, a character trait I have in spades.

But he was also a family man, adored by adults and children alike. That is where our lives diverge.

As I reflect on what she said, it becomes clear—this was Dylan’s wish for me. Not only to be feared and respected within our ranks, but to have a wife, and eventually children, to bring out my softer side.

I’m not sure I have a softer side. Time will tell.

I grunt in response, downing the rest of my mug of tea before standing. “I’ll leave you to it. I have work to do.”

Sorcha’s face crumples, but she gathers herself quickly, molding her features into a blank stare.

I frown, confused. It’s as though she wanted me to stick around.

Odd. I caress her soft cheek with the back of my hand, noting how she leans in rather than flinching at my touch.

Now that Dylan has passed and the business is mine, there isn’t a reason for her to keep up the charade. Yet she is .

Maybe it isn’t a charade anymore.

Dropping my hand, I walk away, an uncomfortable tightness spreading throughout my chest.

Hundreds of mourners turn up to Dylan’s funeral, further cementing how well liked and respected he was, despite the brutality of his chosen career.

I can’t help wondering how many would attend my funeral.

Nowhere near this many. It’s never bothered me before, but Dylan’s death, and the ripples it’s caused throughout our community, has given me pause.

A subset of mourners is invited back to the house, and after the obligatory food has been consumed and stories shared, people begin to drift away.

There are still a few stragglers left when Dylan’s lawyer, Frank, approaches me.

He lowers his head, and as is befitting of my status, I hold out my hand.

He draws it toward him and kisses the signet ring passed down to me by my father.

“If it pleases you, it’s time to read the will.”

“Let’s do it.”

When we arrive at Dylan’s office, Mairead and Andrew are gathered already there.

Frank closes the door, and all three wait for me to sit.

I move behind Dylan’s desk, and once I’m situated, the other three sit also.

The fact that Andrew is here means Dylan has left him something.

It’s unsurprising considering how long Andrew worked for Dylan, but Andrew really should have known that family will always come first.

Frank removes a folder from his briefcase, and the reading begins.

It’s as expected. I inherit the entirety of Dylan’s business interests, including a sizable investment portfolio.

Mairead receives five million dollars, this house, plus a holiday home in Jamaica.

Andrew is bestowed a small sum of one hundred thousand dollars and Dylan’s watch collection.

He must’ve brought his acting skills to the table because he doesn’t react to what amounts to a slap in the face against what he hoped he’d inherit, but I’m not fooled. Inside, he’s seething.

At the first opportunity, this guy is going to try to off me.

And when he does, I’ll be ready. I almost want him to make his move.

Killing him now, when Dylan’s not even cold in the ground, could set off a mutiny.

Andrew is known to these people, whereas I’m an unknown entity.

But if he gives me an excuse to, well, wouldn’t that be a fucking dream outcome?

After Frank leaves, Andrew gets up to go, too.

“Andrew, wait.” I rise to my feet and round the desk, holding out a hand to Mairead. Leaning in, I kiss her on both cheeks. “Would you give us a moment, Mairead?”

“Of course.” She follows Frank outside, closing the door behind her. I remain standing, but I motion for Andrew to sit. He does so, reluctantly.

“Pack your things. We leave for Ireland tomorrow.”

His eyes flare, jaw flexing. “What do you mean? Don’t you need me to stay on and run things over here?”

“No. That role is taken. You will move to Ireland where I will find a suitable position for you.”

A muscle flickers in his cheek. “I have far more value here.”

I plant both hands on the arms of his chair, my face mere inches from his. “Are you questioning my authority?”

He draws back as far as the chair will allow. “No. Of course not. But Dylan’s death will mean our adversaries sensing a weakness, especially if you aren’t here to put the fear of God into them. I can do that.”

“I have complete confidence in the individual I have chosen. My decision is final. Either move or leave. It’s your decision.”

I’ve presented it as a choice when we both know it isn’t a choice at all. If he says he’ll leave, it will be in a body bag. No one who’s worked as closely on the inside as he has gets to walk away and impart our secrets to those who seek to dethrone and conquer.

Eventually, he capitulates, bowing his head. “I would be honored to serve you in Ireland.”

Liar . “Good man.” I straighten, using my height to my advantage. “I knew I could rely on you. We leave at eight o’clock in the morning. You are dismissed.”

He slowly unfolds himself from the chair and, without making eye contact, leaves the room.

That evening, I hold a brief meeting with Dylan’s captains to introduce Fionn who will run the U.S.

operations. As he speaks, I scan the room, watching for signs of defiance, but there are none.

Maybe Dylan smoothed the way, and this won’t be a difficult transition of leadership after all.

Taking Andrew out of the picture will only help to cement the change.

Fionn will do a grand job, a highly capable, fucking scary man who knows our business inside and out.

Silence hangs in the air after everyone has left, exhaustion washing over me.

I sink onto the couch and rest my head on the plump cushion.

The last twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind, and I haven’t had a chance to catch my breath.

The coming days won’t be any less tiring either.

Integrating two businesses an ocean apart won’t be easy, but will be necessary.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were in here.”

I lift my head, crooking my finger at my wife. “Come in. Sit.”

She approaches warily, as though she’s unsure whether I’ll kneel at her feet or snap her neck. When she chooses the chair adjacent to the couch, I shake my head and pat the spare seat beside me.

Without question, she rises and sits beside me. “You must be wrecked.”

I hold out my hand, palm up. There’s no hesitation before her hand touches mine. I wrap my fingers around hers, squeezing slightly.

“You did well.”

“It’s been a difficult day for everyone. Death is so final, and grief is soul crushing.”

Guilt, slick and hot, courses through me.

I’ll never regret what I did to her father and brothers.

Those fuckers had it coming after slaughtering the O’Sullivans and several other guests doing nothing more than attending a wedding.

But Sorcha is different from her family.

Softer, when she isn’t battling with me that is.

It could be because she wasn’t drawn into the brutality of our life, allowing her to maintain… her humanity, I guess.

I didn’t even allow her to bury them. To mourn them. To have the closure standing around a graveside provides to those who’ve lost people they love.

“We’re flying home in the morning.”

“So soon?”

“Yes. There’s no point in staying on now.”

“You got what you wanted?”

I nod.

“Does that mean you’ll let me go?” Her voice lifts in what sounds like hope. I crush it underneath my boot.

“Sorry, mo mhuirnín. Dylan’s will ties us together for life. If we divorce, or you meet a… an unexpected death, the entire business reverts to Andrew.” I lift her hand to my mouth, my ey es on hers as I press my lips to her knuckles. “You’re stuck with me.”

She holds my gaze for as long as she’s able, then looks away. “I see.”

“I meant what I said yesterday. You played your part, and as a reward, I will extend certain privileges to you on our return.” I grip her chin, forcing her to look me in the eye. “But make no mistake. Step out of line and those privileges will turn into punishments faster than you can blink.”

“I won’t step out of line,” she murmurs, her eyes dropping to my mouth, and lingering there.

The temptation to lift her onto my lap and have her grind on me is difficult to dismiss, but I do. She’s emotional, today’s funeral no doubt bringing back memories of her own crushing loss. I should fuck her, get it over with, but I like the idea of her pleading for it a little too much.

“It’s getting late, and we’ve an early start.” I release her hand and get to my feet, waiting until she joins me. We trudge up the stairs together, and as we reach her room, she hesitates.

Go on. Beg me.

“I-I.” She shakes her head, hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight, Patrick.”

Not quite ready yet, mo mhuirnín. That’s fine. I can wait.

“Goodnight.” I leave her standing outside her bedroom door and enter mine, firmly closing the door behind me.