"I'm saying that whether you like it or not, you're part of this family. And families protect each other." He leaned back, his expression softening slightly. "The dinner with the Giordanos is important, Grace. I'm not asking you to marry anyone. I'm asking you to be there. To show respect."
The door opened before I could respond, and Connor stepped in, his eyes darting between us.
"Sorry, am I interrupting?"
"Not at all," my father said, standing. "We were just catching up. Where are your brothers?"
"Sean's on his way. Michael called—said he'd be late."
My father nodded, his attention already shifting. "Tell Mrs. Flanagan we'll eat at seven-thirty, then."
Connor gave me a quick, questioning look. I shook my head slightly.Later.
Dinner was a tense affair, despite Mrs. Flanagan's excellent cooking. Sean arrived just as we were sitting down, his handsome face flushed from the cold or something stronger. He kissed my cheek with exaggerated affection, his breath smelling faintly of bourbon.
"The prodigal daughter returns," he said, taking the seat across from me. "To what do we owe the honor?"
"Father insisted," I replied, keeping my tone light.
"Ah, the old man still has some pull, then." Sean winked at our father, who merely raised an eyebrow.
Michael arrived halfway through the first course, muttering apologies about traffic. At thirty-four, he was the oldest of us, and the most like our father—calculating, controlled, with eyes that missed nothing.
"Grace," he said, nodding to me as he took his seat. "Good to see you."
"You too, Michael."
The conversation flowed around me—business disguised as small talk, power plays masked as family updates. I picked at my food and sipped my water, answering questions when directly addressed but otherwise staying silent.
It wasn't until dessert that my father brought up the real reason for the dinner.
"The Giordanos have agreed to meet next week," he announced, cutting into his apple tart. "Thursday evening. Here."
Sean whistled low. "That's a surprise. Thought Anthony was still pissed about the Charlestown situation."
"Water under the bridge," my father said dismissively. "We have mutual interests to discuss."
"What kind of interests?" Connor asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"The kind that keep peace in this city." My father's eyes swept over all of us. "The Contis have been making moves. Getting bolder. We need to present a united front."
"The Contis?" I couldn't help myself. "I thought they operated in New York."
"They do. But Dante Conti has been expanding his territory. Testing boundaries." My father's gaze settled on me. "Which is why this dinner is so important. All of us will be there. Including you, Grace."
It wasn't a request.
"And what exactly will my role be at this dinner?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
"You'll be yourself. Charming. Intelligent. A credit to the O'Sullivan name."
"And a potential connection to the Giordano heir," I added.
Michael's eyebrows shot up. "Marco Giordano? He's a piece of work, from what I've heard."
"He's a Harvard graduate with connections in legitimate business," my father corrected. "Something Grace might appreciate."
The implication hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
