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"You were supposed to keep watch until I was finished," Ronan says, his voice a blend of jest and jab.
"We don’t have that much time, brother," Lorcan replies, glancing at his watch with exaggerated attention.
Ronan gives the dancer one last, deep kiss that seems to speak volumes about endings. With a practiced ease, he eases her off his lap. A playful smack on her rear sends her on her way, a flirty giggle echoing behind her. He fixes his clothes with quick fingers, his gaze lifting to meet mine as he buckles his belt. His all-too-familiar grin, spreads across his face.
"Jealous?" he teases, his eyebrow arching in challenge.
"Not at all," I shoot back, my tone flat.
"Why should Diarmuid be jealous? He has two beautiful brides waiting for him at home," Lorcan quips, a smirk dancing on his lips as he leans out of the booth, catching the eye of a passing server with a snap of his fingers. He murmurs our drink order before ducking back into our secluded spot, the velvet curtain swaying slightly at his movement.
The three of us gather around the small, dimly lit table. The air is thick with the residue of earlier indulgences and the underlying tension that seems to follow Ronan and me like a shadow.
"You lost your Bride to Wolf. That is a kick to the balls," Ronan throws at me, his voice low but edged with a kind of cruel amusement.
"Wolf was given something I no longer wanted," I respond calmly, though the muscles in my jaw tighten just enough to betray my irritation.
"After he had already sampled it," Ronan adds, a smirk pulling at his mouth, his eyes glinting with provocation.
The air between us crackles, every word laden with old grudges and unspoken grievances. Lorcan senses the rising tension—he always does—andexcuses himself. I glare at Ronan.
“Your shirt is hanging out,” I say.
He glances down and starts to tuck it in.
Lorcan returns moments later with three glasses, each filled with a dark liquid. He sets them down with a precision that feels more like a peace offering than a simple gesture of hospitality.
"Look, both of you need to keep your dicks away and your mouths shut because I have news," Lorcan begins, his tone a mix of irritation and seriousness. We both quiet, turning our attention to him. "As you know, Tyrone Lynch is our new Taoiseach, which leaves his ministry position completely open for the taking. The President is favoring me for Minister of Justice."
The significance of his words sinks in. For the Hands of Kings, Lorcan's potential appointment is a monumental advantage, a strategic position that could sway political currents in our favor. For our family, it's a badge of honor, a step towards solidifying the O’Sullivan name in the annals of power.
Ronan is the first to break into a grin, clapping Lorcan on the back. "That's brilliant, brother! Minister of Justice, eh? Who would've thought?"
I echo the congratulations, my words coated in a veneer of pride and support. "That's a great achievement, Lorcan. Truly."
But inside, a storm brews. It’s not just about the position or the power. It’s the ease with which my brothers seem to navigate these waters, while I find myself continually caught in the undertow of their successes and my own missteps.
Lorcan, holding his drink like a judge about to pronounce a sentence, turns his gaze toward me. His expression is somber, as if he's weighing the cost of every word before he speaks. "This means that we need to be more careful than we’ve ever been in our family’s history." He pauses, taking a measured sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "Now, Ronan, I’m not too worried about you. All of your shit is still legal, right?"
Ronan laughs, a sound full of mirth and carelessness. "Well, legal enough that the authorities won’t do anything. All palms have been properly greased."
"Excellent." Lorcan nods, apparently satisfied, but the air shifts as his focus tightens on me. "The only problem that I may have is you." His tone is flat, almost regretful, yet there’s an edge to it—a sharpness meant to cut through any pretense.
Ronan’s grin broadens, reveling in the drama, his earlier jests forgotten as he senses the tide turning in a direction he finds immensely entertaining.
"Me, brother?" I respond, keeping my voice even, masking the surge of frustration boiling inside. I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the cool liquid temper the heat of my emotions. I need to tread carefully; this conversation could define much more than my role in the family—it could determine my very path forward.
Lorcan sets his glass down with a precision that mirrors his intent. "Yes, you. Your... ventures have always skirted the edge of what’s permissible. And with this new position, if I take it, the spotlight won't just be on me. It will be on all of us, on every move we make. Any slip from you could not only undermine my position but could bring the whole family down."
I nod slowly, the weight of his words not lost on me. The room feels colder, the shadows darker. "I understand the stakes, Lorcan," I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "You’ll have no trouble from me. I’ll keep my affairs in order."
Lorcan studies me for a moment longer, as if searching for any sign of deceit. Finally, he nods, apparently satisfied with my assurance. "I need more than just words, Diarmuid. I need actions. Prove to me—and to the family—that you can handle this. That you’re not just another liability."
Ronan’s smirk fades into a more contemplative expression as he watches our exchange. He knows as well as I do that this isn’t just about legality or maintaining a facade; it’s about survival, about the delicate balance we maintain in a world that’s always one step away from chaos.
As the conversation drifts towards other matters—plans and precautions, strategies and safeguards—I find myself more isolated than ever. The path I’ve chosen, the one that leads away from the darkness of the cult that has ensnared my family, seems lonelier and fraught with danger. Lorcan’s potential ascent within the cult’s political arm isn’t just a complication; it’s a direct challenge to everything I hope to achieve.
The night winds down with empty glasses and hollow laughter. Lorcan and I part ways with Ronann and backslaps that promise to stay aligned, but as I step out into the night, the cool air feels like a balm. I’m left with a resolve hardened by the evening’s revelations. Convincing Lorcan to turn away from the allure of power the cult offers won't be easy, but necessary. My plans, my hopes for our family’s future depend on it. And as I walk away from the bar, the shadows no longer feel like just concealment for my thoughts—they feel like the companions of my resolve.
