Counselor. A lawyer, then. One of my father's representatives.
"My client maintains that the Charlestown incident was unrelated to any agreement regarding Graven Hill," the lawyer responded smoothly. "A separate matter entirely, involving parties not directly under his control."
"Bullshit." This was Rafe's voice, harder than I'd ever heard it. "The men who hit our warehouse were on Patrick's payroll.We have proof. Names, bank transfers, the whole trail. Your client broke the agreement first."
There was a pause, the silence heavy with unspoken threats and calculations.
"Perhaps," the lawyer conceded finally. "But that doesn't change the current reality. Graven Hill is now under O'Sullivan control. The properties have been legally acquired. The businesses are being restructured. What's done is done."
"Nothing is done until we say it's done," Dante countered, his voice dangerously soft. "Patrick seems to have forgotten who he's dealing with. What the consequences of crossing us can be."
Another voice joined the conversation—older, rougher, with the distinctive cadence of South Boston. "Are we talking about the girl again? Because Patrick's been very clear on that point. She made her choice when she walked away from the family. When she rejected our ways, our protection. What happens to her is her own doing."
My blood ran cold. They were talking about me. About my father's position on my abduction.
"Sean O'Sullivan," Rafe said, identifying the speaker. My oldest brother. The one who had always been my father's right hand, his most loyal soldier. "Still speaking for your father when it suits him. Tell me, does Patrick know you're here? Or did he send you to do his dirty work while maintaining plausible deniability?"
"My father knows exactly where I am and what I'm saying," Sean replied, a hint of anger breaking through his controlled tone. "Grace stopped being his concern when she chose law school over family loyalty. When she moved out, cut ties, pretended she was too good for the O'Sullivan name while still spending O'Sullivan money."
The betrayal hit like a physical blow. My own brother, speaking about me as if I were a stranger. As if my abductionwere a natural consequence of choices I'd made rather than a violent act perpetrated against me.
"That's not the story Patrick told when we first took her," Dante observed, his tone almost casual. "Then, it was all demands for her return. Threats of consequences. Quite the performance, in retrospect."
"My father was... upset initially," Sean acknowledged. "A natural reaction. But he's had time to consider the situation more rationally. Grace made her bed. If she's lying in it with a Conti now, that's her problem, not ours."
I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle the sound that threatened to escape. My father had known. Had always known. Had initially demanded my return—for appearance's sake? Out of some residual paternal instinct?—but had ultimately decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Had written me off as if I were a bad investment rather than his daughter.
"So to be clear," Rafe's voice was controlled, but I could hear the tension beneath it, "Patrick O'Sullivan is officially washing his hands of his daughter. No longer demanding her return. No longer considering her abduction a grievance between our families."
"That's correct," the lawyer confirmed. "Ms. O'Sullivan's situation is no longer a factor in negotiations between the families. Mr. O'Sullivan has moved on from that particular... complication."
Complication. That's what I was to my father. A complication, easily set aside when it became inconvenient to care about my fate.
"And what about you, Sean?" Rafe asked, his voice deceptively casual. "She's your sister. Does family mean so little to the O'Sullivans that you'd abandon her without a second thought?"
There was a pause, and when Sean spoke again, his voice was colder than before. "Grace stopped being family when she chose her own path. When she decided our ways weren't good enough for her. She wanted independence. Now she has it—just not the kind she expected. That's not my problem."
The lawyer spoke again, his tone brisk and businesslike. "Now that we've clarified that particular issue, perhaps we can return to the matter at hand. Graven Hill. The properties. The businesses. What is your proposal for moving forward, Mr. Conti?"
The conversation shifted to territories and businesses, to percentages and timelines, to the cold calculus of power and profit. But I couldn't focus on the words anymore. Couldn't process anything beyond the revelation that had just shattered what remained of my world.
My father had abandoned me. Had known where I was, who had taken me, and had chosen to look the other way. Had decided I wasn't worth the trouble of retrieving. Had written me off as a loss, a complication, a problem solved by my disappearance rather than exacerbated by it.
And my brother—my own blood—had supported this decision. Had spoken of me as if I were a stranger who had brought misfortune on herself. As if being kidnapped were a natural consequence of wanting a life beyond the family business.
I backed away from the vent, my legs unsteady, my vision blurring with tears I refused to shed. Not here. Not now. Not where anyone might see.
I needed to get back to the blue room before Marco discovered my absence. Needed to compose myself, to process this revelation, to decide what it meant for me—for my understanding of my past, my present, my future.
But as I turned to retrace my steps, I found my path blocked by a figure I hadn't heard approach. Luca Conti—Rafe's younger brother, whom I'd met only briefly during my time at the estate—stood watching me with an expression that mingled surprise and something like pity.
"Ms. O'Sullivan," he said quietly. "You shouldn't be here."
I straightened, refusing to show weakness despite the turmoil inside me. "No, I shouldn't. But then, apparently I don't belong anywhere. Not with my family, who's written me off. Not with yours, where I'm just another piece in someone else's strategy. Maybe I shouldn't exist at all. That would be most convenient for everyone, wouldn't it?"
Something flickered in his eyes—not quite sympathy, but a recognition of the pain behind my words. "Let me take you back to the blue room," he said, his voice gentler than I'd expected. "Before Marco realizes you've slipped away. Before anyone else finds you here."
I nodded, too numb to argue, too shattered to care about the consequences of my eavesdropping. Luca led me through the corridors, taking a route that avoided staff and guards, that returned me to the blue room without incident.
