Murmurs of assent filled the room as the men processed this new reality, this unexpected transfer of power from father to youngest son, bypassing the traditional line of succession that would have placed Michael next in line after Sean.
"Grace is free to go," Connor added, his eyes finding his sister across the room. "Free to stay. Free to choose her own path without interference from this family or any other. That includes the arrangement with Vega. It's canceled. Permanently."
The declaration hung in the air, bold and unequivocal, a clear statement of intent from the new head of the O'Sullivan family. No one challenged it. No one spoke against it. The men simply nodded, accepting this new direction, this new leadership, with the pragmatism of those who had survived in a world where power shifted quickly and adaptation was necessary for survival.
As the room cleared—Michael organizing the removal of Patrick's body, the others dispersing to spread the news of the change in leadership—Connor approached Grace, his expression softening as he took in the bruise on her cheek, the evidence of their father's violence.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "For not stopping him sooner. For not finding a way to help you when the Contis took you. For everything."
Grace studied him for a long moment, then nodded, accepting the apology without words, the connection between them evident despite everything that had happened, everything that still lay unspoken between them.
"You're really free now," Connor continued, glancing briefly at me before returning his attention to his sister. "Free to go wherever you want. With whomever you want. Or alone, if that's what you choose."
The offer hung between them, sincere and unqualified, a gift from brother to sister that acknowledged her autonomy, her right to self-determination, in a way their father never had.
I remained where I stood, gun now lowered but still in my hand, watching this exchange with a mixture of hope and fear and something else—something that felt like respect for this young man who had made a choice, had taken action, had risked everything to protect his sister when everyone else in her family had failed her.
Finally, I holstered my weapon and moved to stand before Grace, close enough to see the details of her face—the bruisedarkening on her cheek, the shadows beneath her eyes, the wariness and hope warring in her expression as she looked up at me.
"Grace," I said, her name soft on my lips, laden with everything I couldn't express in this moment, in this place, with her brother watching and the bodies of her father and other brother being removed from the room. "It's time to go. If you want to."
I extended my hand to her—not grabbing, not demanding, not assuming, but offering. A choice. Her choice. The thing I had never truly given her before, had never understood the importance of until I'd faced the possibility of losing her completely.
She looked at my outstretched hand, then up at my face, her eyes searching mine for something—reassurance, perhaps, or confirmation, or some truth she needed before making this decision, this choice that would determine her path forward in a world suddenly transformed by violence and death and unexpected freedom.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she placed her hand in mine.
The simple contact—warm skin against skin, her smaller hand fitting perfectly in my larger one—sent a surge of emotion through me so intense it was almost painful. Relief. Joy. Gratitude. And something deeper, more fundamental, more transformative than anything I'd ever experienced before.
Love. Not possession. Not obsession. Not the need to control or dominate or own. But love—the willingness to risk everything for her happiness, her freedom, her choice. Even if that choice had led her away from me.
But she had chosen me. Had placed her hand in mine. Had decided, in this moment of newfound freedom, to come with me rather than stay with what remained of her family or strike out on her own.
"Let's go home," I said softly, the words a question as much as a statement, an acknowledgment that "home" might mean something different now, something we would need to define together rather than by my dictates alone.
She nodded, her fingers tightening around mine, her eyes never leaving my face. "Home," she agreed, the word carrying a weight, a meaning, a promise that transcended the simple syllable.
We turned to leave, still hand in hand, passing Connor who stood watching with an expression that mingled sadness and understanding and something like approval.
"Take care of her," he said quietly as we passed, the words directed at me but loud enough for Grace to hear. "Or I'll finish what I started today."
The threat was clear, unambiguous, delivered with the calm certainty of a man who had just killed his own brother to protect his sister. I nodded, acknowledging both the warning and the care behind it, the genuine concern for Grace's welfare that had driven Connor's actions today.
"I will," I promised, meaning it more deeply than any vow I'd ever made. "With everything I am."
We left the O'Sullivan estate as we had arrived—through the front door, past guards who now looked at us with uncertainty rather than hostility, into the bright afternoon sunlight that seemed to symbolize the new beginning, the fresh start, the possibility of something different from the darkness that had defined our relationship from its inception.
As we drove away, Grace beside me in the passenger seat, I glanced at her profile—the strength evident despite the bruise on her cheek, the quiet dignity that had never left her despite everything she had endured at her father's hands and at mine.
"Where do you want to go?" I asked, the question encompassing more than just our immediate destination, morethan just the physical location where we would spend the night. "Anywhere. Your choice."
She turned to look at me, her eyes meeting mine with a clarity, a certainty, a resolve that took my breath away. "With you," she said simply. "Wherever that is. Whatever that means. I choose you, Rafe. Not because I have to. Not because I'm afraid. But because I want to. Because I see you. All of you. And I choose you anyway."
The words hit me with physical force, knocking the air from my lungs, making my heart stutter in my chest. This was what I had wanted from the beginning, what I had tried to force through captivity and control, what I had finally understood could only come freely or not at all.
Her choice. Her surrender. Not coerced, not manipulated, not born of fear or necessity, but freely given. A gift beyond price, beyond value, beyond anything I had ever dared to hope for.
"I love you," I said, the words escaping before I could consider them, filter them, control them as I had controlled every other aspect of my life for so long. "I love you, Grace. Not as a possession. Not as a prize. But as a person. As yourself. As the woman who has changed everything about who I thought I was, who I could be."
