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Cillian

The Garage Of The O’sullivan Manor

I stand before the men.

A few faces I recognize. But mostly, I’m staring out at a bunch of strangers. Men I’ve never spoken to. Never fought alongside.

They are loyal to the O’Sullivan clan, but that just means they’re loyal to my father. To Kian.

I’m the black sheep they’ve only ever heard whispered stories about.

A whole different beast.

My gaze skitters over their faces, trying to absorb as much information as I can without being obvious about it. I don’t know them and they don’t know me.

The uncertainty in the air is almost tangible. It reminds me of just how important a don is.

“The leader sets the tone for everything,” Da used to tell Sean and me when we were boys. “A leader is the difference between life and death.”

I notice Kian enter the garage from the corner of my eye.

I’m pretty damn sure the doctor told him—and I quote—to “stay the fuck in bed.” But we O’Sullivans were never much good at listening.

He’s wearing a full leg cast from foot all the way up to his hip and is sporting dark wooden crutches. Every step draws a wince from him, though he steels his face against the pain.

Other than that, the kid looks great.

He moves forward slowly. The men part like the Red Sea. No one says a word as he limps determinedly towards where I stand up front.

But instead of coming to my side like I expected, he turns to the left before he even reaches me.

He goes to stand beside Rory and Rhys before focusing his gaze on me, as though he is merely another part of the rank and file.

I give him a subtle glare. I know what he’s doing and even though I appreciate the gesture, it’s unnecessary.

“Kian—”

“Go ahead, Don Cillian,” he grits. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

He should be up here with me.

Hell, he should be up here instead of me.

But I know he’s not about to do something he thinks will upstage me. The men need to know where to look, and if he’s standing there next to me, they’ll be uncertain. Divided.

So yeah, I get it.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“This is temporary,” I continue. “I’m not don. I’m just… acting don for the moment. Until we get back our leader—and we will get him back—think of me as a proxy. A blonder, taller, better-looking proxy.”

That get a little laughter from the men.

I take a breath and continue. “I’m not my father. I will do things differently. Prepare for that. But the one way I am similar to my father is this…” I let the smile drop from my face and the warmth fade from my tone so that’s all that remains is cold steel. “I expect loyalty.”

I pause and survey their faces. The laughter is gone. In its place is quiet, tempered professionalism.

These men have been to war for the clan before. They know what I mean when I say “loyalty.”


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