Page 14 of The Final Contract

I grunt my acknowledgment. “I’ll find him.”

Lucian studies me as if measuring every ounce of my tension. His stare doesn’t waver. “What do you think about her proposal?”

My teeth grind. “Not my place to think about it.”

“Still,” he presses, “you have thoughts.”

I shrug, making it look easy when it feels anything but. “It complicates things. That’s all. Guarding her during a marriage contract… different logistics, different risks.”

His brow lifts slightly, like he’s waiting for more, but I give him nothing. “If it’s what she wants, it’s her choice. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

Lucian doesn’t buy it—I can see it in the way his mouth twitches, like he’s a second from calling me a liar. But he lets it slide, for now.

“Come up,” he says, jerking his chin toward the elevators.

The ride is silent except for Lucian’s voice filling it, low and sharp as he takes a call. Orders, barked quick and precise. Not Ledger business. The other side. The newer empire he’s been rebuilding piece by piece since the Italians burned themselves down.

I stare at the polished floor, jaw locked, pretending I’m not listening while every word brands itself into my skull.

When we step into his office, he shuts the door with a click.

Through the window, I catch the silhouette of stone rising just above the trees—what’s left of the old cathedral. Most wouldn’t notice it at all. I do. Ghosts of my past are buried there, and maybe we stirred them when Lucian and I spilled Irish blood that day.

I cut straight to anything but Seraphina. “How’s it going? Rebuilding the Italians.”

Lucian drags a hand down his face and lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s a fucking shit show.”

No surprise there.

Seraphina’s abduction had been the spark that lit the whole war and reduced half of Manhattan’s underworld to ash. Lucian against the Italians. His old friend Lorenzo—like a brother to him. That was a long time ago. Before Lucian walked away from that life. Same as me. Different story, same ending.

And when the Irish decided to stick their nose where it didn’t belong, both their heads ended up bleeding out the day we ended that war.

The Irish had a successor. The Italians didn’t.

So Lucian took the throne. Not to play king, but to do it the right way.

Lucian sinks into his chair, shoulders heavy, expression carved in stone. “The Irish aren’t doing so hot either. Blood at the top always rots the roots. You ever check in on the old family?”

I shake my head once. “No.”

He studies me, but he already knows. I cut them off cold. All of them.

Everyone except my mother.

She’d left long before I did—divorced my father when my brother and I were still boys. Walked away from the O’Malley legacy, took her name back, became Shaw again. Everyone called it betrayal. Cowardice.

But I knew better. It was survival.

She couldn’t take us with her. That would’ve been her death sentence, and she wasn’t stupid. So she left us in the lion’s den, and we stayed. Learned to fight, to bleed, to survive under O’Malley fists and rules.

I’d always wished we’d gone with her. Both of us. Me and Cormac.

But when the time came, when I finally broke free, I did exactly what she did. Walked away. Took her name. Left the O’Malleys bleeding behind me and never looked back.

Lucian’s gaze lingers on me, sharp as ever. “You might want to rethink that. The Irish are shaky right now. Some of your old allies could still be in place. Might be useful to pull on a few strings while we hunt this stalker.”

The answer comes out clipped, final. “No.”