The music filled the apartment, wrapping around me like a shield. This was the one thing in my life that had never been tainted by my family name. My mother had insisted on lessons from the age of four, believing that a proper young lady needed cultural refinement. What she hadn't anticipated was that I would fall in love with it—that I would find freedom in the discipline, peace in the precision.
I played until my fingers ached and the wine bottle was empty, until the anxiety of tomorrow's dinner had receded to a dull throb rather than a sharp stab. Then I closed the lid of the piano and went to bed, setting my alarm early enough to get in a few hours of studying before I had to face my father.
Morning came too quickly, the pale October sunlight filtering through my curtains and pulling me from a restless sleep. I dragged myself through my routine—shower, coffee, protein bar, review notes—with the dinner looming over me like a storm cloud.
By 6:30 PM, I was standing in front of my closet, staring at my options. Dinner with my father was always a performance, and wardrobe mattered. Too casual would be read as disrespect; too formal would suggest I was taking this more seriously than I wanted to.
I settled on a charcoal gray dress—conservative but not stuffy, expensive enough to pass inspection but not flashy enough to suggest I was trying to impress anyone. I paired it with simple pearl earrings (my mother's) and black heels that added three inches to my height. Armor, of a sort.
The O'Sullivan family home was in Beacon Hill, a four-story brownstone that had been in the family for generations. On paper, it was the residence of a respected Boston family with old money and older connections. In reality, it was the center of operations for one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast.
I took a deep breath before knocking, steeling myself for what was to come. The door opened almost immediately, revealing our longtime housekeeper, Mrs. Flanagan.
"Miss Grace," she said, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. "It's been too long."
"Hello, Mrs. Flanagan." I stepped inside, letting her take my coat. "How have you been?"
"Oh, can't complain. Your father's in the study. The others haven't arrived yet."
Of course. He'd want to speak to me alone first.
The house hadn't changed at all. The familiar dark wood paneling, same Persian rugs, same oil paintings of stern-faced O'Sullivan ancestors judging me from the walls. It smelled the same too—furniture polish, old books, and the faint trace of my father's cigars.
I made my way to the study, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors. The door was ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. I knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.
My father sat behind his massive oak desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed some document. He looked up when I entered, his face unreadable.
Patrick O'Sullivan was sixty-two but looked fifty, his hair still more black than gray, his body still solid and imposing. The only signs of age were the lines around his eyes and the slight softening of his jaw. He was handsome in that classic Irish way—strong features, clear blue eyes, and a smile that could charm or terrify depending on his mood.
"Grace," he said, standing and coming around the desk. "You look well."
"Thank you." I allowed him to kiss my cheek, his aftershave familiar and oddly comforting despite everything. "You wanted to see me?"
He gestured to the leather chairs by the fireplace. "Have a seat. Drink?"
"No, thank you."
He poured himself two fingers of whiskey anyway, the amber liquid catching the firelight as he sat across from me.
"How's school?" he asked, taking a sip.
"Fine. Busy."
"And your apartment? No problems?"
"None."
He nodded, studying me over the rim of his glass. "You've been avoiding the family."
Not a question. An observation.
"I've been focused on my studies."
"Your brothers miss you."
"Connor and I speak regularly."
"And Sean? Michael?"
