The slur hung in the air, ugly and deliberate, designed to provoke a reaction from both of us. I remained still, my expression unchanged despite the fury building inside me, the need to respond to this insult with immediate, decisive violence.
Grace's reaction was different—a flinch, barely perceptible but unmistakable to someone who knew her as well as I did. Not at the word itself, but at the source—her own father, speaking of her with such casual cruelty, such deliberate degradation.
"I asked you a question," Patrick snapped, rising from his chair, moving around the desk to stand before Grace. "Have you nothing to say to the man who ruined you? Who took you from your family? Who made you forget your place, your duty, your obligations to the O'Sullivan name?"
Grace lifted her chin slightly, a small act of defiance that sent a surge of pride through me despite the danger of the situation, the precariousness of our position surrounded by armed men loyal to Patrick.
"He never hit me," she said quietly, echoing my earlier words, her gaze still locked with mine across the room. "He never called me names. He never treated me as less than precious."
The parallel was deliberate, pointed, a clear message to everyone in the room about the contrast between her treatment at my hands and her father's.
Patrick's reaction was immediate and violent. His hand flashed out, striking Grace across the face with enough force to snap her head to the side, to send her stumbling back a step before catching herself.
"You ungrateful little bitch," he snarled, all pretense of paternal concern, of business decorum, stripped away to reveal the rage beneath. "After everything I've done for you. After the life I've provided, the opportunities I've created, the future I've secured. This is how you repay me? By defending the man who took you, who used you, who turned you against your own family?"
Grace straightened slowly, her hand coming up to touch her cheek, her eyes now fixed on her father with a clarity, a certainty, a resolve that seemed to radiate from her despite her physical vulnerability in this room full of armed men.
"You're not my family," she said, her voice steady despite everything. "You never were. Not really. Not in any way that matters."
Patrick's hand raised again, preparing for another blow, his face contorted with a rage that had nothing to do with paternal concern and everything to do with control, with ownership, with the fury of a man whose possession has dared to speak against him.
I moved without conscious thought, without calculation, without the strategic consideration that had defined my actions for so long. Three steps across the room, my hand reachingbeneath my jacket, the gun appearing as if by magic, the barrel pressed against Patrick O'Sullivan's forehead before anyone else in the room could react.
"Don't," I said, the word soft but carrying such menace that Patrick froze, his hand still raised, his eyes widening with the sudden realization of his mortality, of the death that stood before him in the form of a man he had underestimated, had dismissed as a threat because he had come alone, had approached without obvious aggression.
For a heartbeat, time seemed suspended—Patrick frozen with his hand raised, Grace watching with wide eyes, the men around the room reaching for weapons but not yet drawing them, caught in that moment of indecision that often precedes violence.
"You won't do it," Patrick said, his voice betraying a confidence his eyes didn't share. "Not here. Not surrounded by my men. Not when you're outnumbered, outgunned, with no way out."
I didn't respond with words. Didn't need to. Simply pulled the trigger, the sound deafening in the enclosed space of the study, the impact driving Patrick backward, a neat hole appearing in the center of his forehead, his expression one of almost comical surprise as death claimed him before he could fully process its arrival.
Chaos erupted. Sean reached for his weapon, his face contorted with rage and shock. Michael backed away, hands raised, clearly wanting no part of what was about to happen. The other men in the room drew guns, creating a Mexican standoff with me at the center, Grace still standing to the side, her expression a mixture of shock and something else—something that looked almost like relief.
"Drop it, Conti," Sean ordered, his gun aimed at my chest, his hand steady despite the emotion evident in his voice, thedisbelief at what had just happened, the reality of his father lying dead on the expensive carpet of his study. "Drop it or die where you stand."
I didn't move, didn't lower my weapon, didn't take my eyes off Sean despite the other guns trained on me from around the room. "You know why I did it," I said, my voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the hyperawareness of every detail around me—the positions of the men, the distance to Grace, the potential paths to the door if this went badly. "You saw what he did. What he was about to do again. To your sister. To Grace."
"She's not my sister," Sean spat, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Not anymore. Not after she chose the Contis over her own blood. Not after she defended you against her family. Not after?—"
The gunshot interrupted him, but it didn't come from my weapon or from Sean's. It came from behind me, from the doorway I'd entered through minutes earlier.
Sean's expression shifted from rage to confusion to pain as a red stain blossomed on his chest, spreading rapidly across his expensive shirt. He looked down at it almost curiously, as if unable to comprehend what had happened, then collapsed to his knees before falling forward, dead before he hit the floor.
I turned, gun still raised, to find Connor O'Sullivan standing in the doorway, a smoking pistol in his hand, his expression grim but determined as he surveyed the room—his father and brother dead, the remaining men frozen in various states of shock and uncertainty.
"It was about time someone stood up to him," Connor said, his voice steady despite the enormity of what he'd just done. "And for her." He nodded toward Grace, who stood watching with wide eyes, her hand still pressed to her bruised cheek, her expression a mixture of shock and dawning hope.
"Lower your weapons," Connor ordered, his tone carrying an authority I wouldn't have expected from the youngest O'Sullivan son, the one who had always seemed most removed from the family business, most uncomfortable with the violence that underpinned their empire. "All of you. Now."
There was a moment of hesitation, of calculation, as the men in the room assessed this new development, this unexpected shift in the balance of power. Then, one by one, they lowered their guns, recognizing the reality of the situation—Patrick dead, Sean dead, Connor now the de facto head of the O'Sullivan family unless someone challenged him directly.
No one did.
"Michael," Connor said, addressing his remaining brother. "Take Father's body to his room. Make the arrangements. Quietly. The official story is a heart attack. Natural causes. Nothing that requires investigation or attention from outside the family."
Michael nodded, clearly relieved to have direction, to be given a task that didn't involve further violence or difficult decisions about loyalty and succession.
"The rest of you," Connor continued, his gaze sweeping the room, "spread the word. I'm in charge now. Anyone who has a problem with that can come to me directly. Anyone who takes issue with my sister's status or choices can leave. Permanently. Is that clear?"
