The weight of that trust wasn’t lost on either of us. By bringing her here, I was declaring her part of the family in a way that couldn’t be undone. The old guard would notice. They’d remember. And some of them wouldn’t like it.
Good. Let them try to object.
The main conference room was already packed when we arrived. Tommy sat hunched over his laptop in one corner, looking pale and jittery from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Connor stood near the windows, his silver hair catching the light as he surveyed the grounds with professional paranoia.
But it was the other faces that made my jaw clench. Representatives from the O’Sullivan family, the Flanagans, the Murphys—old Irish bloodlines that had ruled this city’s shadows for generations. Men who remembered my father, who’d sworn oaths to the Creed name but weren’t sure about the son who’d inherited it.
"Roman." Elder Seamus Flanagan stood as I entered, his weathered face giving nothing away. "We came as soon as we heard. Thank Christ you’re alive."
"No thanks to Declan," muttered Jamie Murphy, whose scarred hands told stories about his younger days in Belfast. "Treacherous bastard nearly burned down half the estate."
The conversation stopped when Cassie entered behind me. I felt the shift in the room, the way eyes cataloged her presence with calculations I didn’t like. She was an outsider in a room full of people who’d killed for family honor. But she held her head high, meeting their stares with steady grace.
"Gentlemen," I said, my voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "Let’s get to business."
I moved to the head of the table, Cassie taking the seat to my right like she belonged there. Which she did, even if some of these old bastards would need reminding.
"Declan Smith has been stripped of rank and position within the Creed organization," I began, my voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "He burned my home, killed my men, and broke every oath he swore to this family."
"The question is what we do about it," Connor said, his kind eyes harder than I’d ever seen them. "He survived the fire. The firefighters pulled him out alive."
"Then we finish what the flames started," Jamie Murphy growled. "Betrayal demands blood payment."
Several heads nodded around the table. In their world, treachery was a terminal disease that required permanent treatment.
"With respect," Judge Thomas O’Sullivan interjected, "Declan has connections throughout the organization. Family in Belfast, allies in Boston. His execution could trigger retaliation."
"Let them try," young Tommy said without looking up from his laptop. "I’ve already tracked seventeen separate communications networks he used to coordinate with our enemies. The man was planning this for months."
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the weight of their expectations. These men wanted blood. Wanted the kind of justice that made headlines and sent messages to anyone else considering betrayal.
But I’d learned something in that burning mansion. Something about the cost of violence, about the difference between strength and cruelty.
"Declan lives," I said quietly.
The room erupted in protests.
"Roman, you can’t?—"
"—betrayal demands?—"
"—show of weakness?—"
"ENOUGH." The word cracked like a whip, silencing them instantly. "He lives. But not free."
I stood, commanding their attention through presence alone. "Declan Smith is hereby exiled to a guarded territory in Eastern Europe. Twenty-four-hour surveillance. No contact with family or associates. No possibility of escape."
"That’s not justice," Jamie Murphy said, his voice tight with disapproval.
"Dead men don’t suffer," I replied simply. "Every day for the rest of his life, Declan will wake up knowing he lost everything. His rank, his family, his future. He’ll die alone in a foreign country, forgotten by everyone who once respected him. That’s a fate worse than any bullet."
The logic was sound, but I could see doubt flickering on several faces. They wanted blood, wanted the primitive satisfaction of revenge served hot. My father would’ve given them what they wanted.
I wasn’t my father.
"There’s another matter," Elder Flanagan said, his pale eyes finding Cassie. "The girl."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. I felt Cassie tense beside me, but her expression remained calm. Professional. Like she was still my assistant, taking notes in a board meeting instead of the woman carrying my child.
