When Kings Fall (The O’Sullivan’s Brides #3)

CHAPTER SIXDiarmuid

CHAPTER SIX

Diarmuid

THE DOOR CREAKS open under its familiar weight as I step into the dimly lit entrance of a bar called Church. The scent of aged whiskey and polished wood greets me like an old friend, but something else lingers in the air, something less familiar. Jack Higgins, the bar's manager and one of my men, stands by the entrance. His face breaks into a tight smile as soon as I enter.

“Evening, sir,” Jack says, his voice pitched lower than usual. My eyes narrow ever so slightly. Sir? Jack has always called me by my name—never "sir." The shift is subtle but unmistakable, like a draft of cold air in a warm room.

"Diarmuid," Jack continues, the word stiff on his tongue, "we’ve got a private room set up for you. Your brothers are already waiting."

I study the man in front of me. Jack’s eyes flit nervously to the floor, and he makes a hesitant move to extend his hand. My own hand remains at my side, ignoring the gesture as if it hasn't been offered at all. Jack recoils slightly, his smile tightening further, a bead of sweat glistening at his temple under the low light. The man’s demeanor has shifted since I took on the mantle of Don; that much is clear. There's fear there, a deeper kind than I've ever seen in him. If only Jack knew what Victor had him do.

I nod curtly and walk past Jack without another word, the soft thud of my footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet as I make my way down the narrow hallway. The bar is a well-kept secret, hidden away in the depths of a commercial building, far from the prying eyes of the cult that has been sniffing around the O’Sullivan family for years. It’s meant to be a sanctuary, a place where we can speak freely. But tonight, something feels off.

I push through the double doors at the end of the hall and step into the private room. The room is small, with dark wood paneling and a single, low-hanging chandelier that casts a soft, amber glow over the scene. Lorcan and Ronan sit at a table in the center, drinks in hand. Lorcan, the older of the two, immediately stands up, his broad frame casting a long shadow against the wall.

“Head of the family. I knew it would be you. Congratulations, brother,” Lorcan says, his voice carrying the warmth of genuine pride. He crosses the room in a few strides, clapping me on the shoulder with a heavy hand. The force of it is meant to be reassuring, but it only makes my shoulders tense.

Ronan, on the other hand, remains seated. He takes a slow sip from his glass, his expression unreadable. Boredom or indifference—I can’t tell. Maybe it’s both.

Ronan finally speaks, his tone as flat as his gaze. “He was the only option. I wouldn’t call it a victory.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. With Jack acting so unnatural, it’s almost a relief to see that Ronan, at least, hasn’t changed. He’s always been the cynical one, never one for sentiment or empty praise.

Lorcan turns back to Ronan, a small frown creasing his brow. “Wolfe was our uncle’s heir,” he says as if stating a fact that needs no further discussion. But there’s an edge to his voice, a hint of the tension that simmers beneath the surface.

Ronan leans back in his chair, his expression as unimpressed as ever. “Wolfe was an imbecile. Let’s face it. I’m only home when Victor calls me or when Diarmuid fucks something up. You’re too involved with the national government to be a successful Don. Diarmuid’s appointment is more of a participation trophy than a win.”

My jaw tightens for a brief moment, but I don’t bite. Ronan’s words, usually sharp enough to get under my skin, slide off me this time. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m now the official Don, or maybe I’ve just grown numb to my brother’s perpetual disdain. Either way, the usual anger doesn’t flare up. Ronan has always been this way—an asshole, through and through. Whether it’s due to his constant travels or being the third in line for anything that matters, he never misses a chance to take a jab at me.

In our younger years, these comments would have sparked an immediate brawl, with the two of us wrestling on the ground while our mother pleaded for us to stop. Even just a few weeks ago, I nearly took a swing at him. But that was before. Things are different now. I’m not just another O’Sullivan brother anymore—I’m Ronan’s Don. That fact alone brings me a quiet satisfaction, knowing that Ronan is seething at the arrangement, even if he tries to hide it behind his usual indifference.

A knock at the door interrupts the tension. Lorcan turns and opens it, revealing Jack standing there with a drink in hand. Jack doesn’t enter, only passes the drink to Lorcan before retreating back into the hallway. Lorcan hands the glass to me and then takes his seat beside me at the table.

I swirl the amber liquid in the glass, watching the way the light catches the edges. I look up at Ronan, who’s still lounging back in his chair, and decide it’s time to shift the conversation away from personal attacks. I have more important matters to attend to.

“Before we get into personal matters, I have to know, Ronan, how are our accounts overseas?” I ask, my tone firm and businesslike.

Ronan’s glare is sharp, a clear sign that he knows I’m testing his obedience. For a moment, the tension in the room thickens, and I half-expect Ronan to refuse to answer just to spite me. But then, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Ronan finally speaks.

“Your weapons trades are doing well because a lot of countries are starting to slow down their support for the numerous wars going on in the world,” Ronan begins, his tone flat but informative. “It’s been nothing but proxy wars since the '50s, and the public’s aware of it. Any country sending weapons to this side or that is bound to get outed by a whistleblower. Our investments in Taiwan and China are threatened by the rising hostility between those countries. And I don’t need to tell you that Japan has been granted permission by the United Nations to start building offensive military equipment. We’re already involved in that. I’m meeting with our oil guys in Saudi Arabia two days from now.”

I listen intently, nodding as Ronan lays out the situation. His assessment is thorough, and despite the tension between us, I’m satisfied with the progress. But there’s something else on my mind—an itch I need to scratch.

“You will pull out our investment with that Taiwanese director,” I say calmly but firmly.

Ronan’s eyes narrow. “You’re joking. He produces the most successful movies in that country.”

My gaze doesn’t waver. “Which will be affected by the fact that you’re sleeping with his girlfriend.”

Ronan barks out a laugh, finishing off his drink in one long gulp. Without a word, he reaches under the table and presses a hidden buzzer, signaling for another drink. “She’s a terrible actress but a good lay,” he says with a smirk as if that excuses the whole affair.

I lean forward slightly, my voice lowering to a more serious tone. “You will need to prepare yourself to let go of that life soon. I’m almost certain Victor will be choosing Brides for you soon.”

Lorcan, who has been quietly observing the exchange, perks up at this. “Does that mean that you’ve chosen a Consort?” he asks, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

I lean back slightly in my chair, the weight of my new authority pressing down on the room. “Not entirely,” I begin, my tone measured, “but enough time has passed since my ceremony for Victor to start eyeing one of you.”

Ronan scoffs, his lip curling into a smirk. “He can eye all he wants. I do nothing but travel for that asshole; I need my stress relief.”

My eyes harden, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “You will do what Victor tells you, or you answer to me.”

The room falls into a heavy silence after that statement, the tension palpable. Ronan’s eyes meet mine with a defiant gleam, the challenge clear in his gaze. I can feel the tension building within my own body, my muscles coiled and ready to strike. My fingers twitch, the instinct to fight bubbling just below the surface.

Come on, little brother, make the first move, I think, my eyes never leaving Ronan’s. The air seems to thicken between us, a silent dare hanging in the balance.

A knock at the door breaks the standoff, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet room. Ronan’s replacement drink has arrived. Lorcan, ever the mediator, stands and retrieves the glass, handing it to Ronan without a word. The moment passes, the tension easing but not disappearing entirely.

Lorcan returns to his seat, but his expression has shifted, a hint of seriousness overtaking his usual calm demeanor. “If you two are done with your pissing match,” he says, his voice cutting through the lingering tension, “there’s something that I need from you, Diarmuid.”

I turn to my older brother, curiosity piqued. “What do you need?”

Lorcan takes a deep breath, his tone taking on a more formal edge. “Uncle Andrew was very involved with my career, and honestly, you need to be, too. Not everyone in Ireland is aware of what exactly we do, but everyone knows that the O’Sullivans are one of the most influential families in the country. If you’re going to be Don, the people of my world need to know you. It’s time for you to rub some elbows.”

I feel a wave of irritation rise within me. Politics. I despise the very word. The world Lorcan inhabits is filled with the kind of people I can’t stand—liars, manipulators, and backstabbers, the sort of people I wouldn’t mind slaughtering if given the chance. Where Lorcan thrives onduplicity and maneuvering, I find it all nauseating. Lorcan is a master at wearing masks, shifting his persona to fit whatever situation requires it, almost psychopathic in his ability to deceive. It’s a talent I both admire and loathe in my brother.

As much as Ronan draws attention with his bluntness, Lorcan appears to be the friendly and peaceful one, the smiling face of the family’s public side. But I know better. Lorcan hides his darkness well, keeping it tucked away behind his practiced smiles and easy charm.

I lean back in my chair, still grappling with the idea of mingling with the high tiers of politics. I’ve always been convinced that everyone in that world is the same—deceitful, power-hungry, and treacherous. The thought of trying to fit into that crowd makes my skin crawl.

“I don’t know if I would make the best impression with that crowd,” I say, a hint of reluctance in my voice.

Lorcan leans forward, his expression serious. “You need to. Ronan’s businesses and, frankly, your position as the head of the family depend on the connections we make in that world. The only reason why Interpol isn’t constantly on our asses is because of the friends I’ve made there.”

I raise an eyebrow, my skepticism plain. “So, what do you want me to do? Send a gift basket?”

Lorcan chuckles softly. “That actually isn’t a terrible idea, but no. I need you to attend this benefit dinner happening next week.”

I have to stop myself from groaning out loud. The thought of sitting through a stuffy benefit dinner, filled with insincere small talk and false smiles, sounds agonizing.

“We can’t have a private dinner?” I ask, a note of desperation creeping into my voice.

Lorcan shakes his head firmly. “No, you must never do that with any of those people. There are rumors about our family, and we’d only confirm them if you were meeting in secret with some of these big dogs.”

“So, your solution is for me to parade myself like a pampered pony?” I retort, the disdain in my voice clear.

Lorcan’s eyes gleam with a mixture of amusement and seriousness. “A powerful and rich pony that needs this connection just as much as they do. And bring your Brides.”

My lips press into a thin line. The thought of parading my Brides in front of those political vultures doesn’t sit well with me either. But I know Lorcan is right. The connections we need can’t be forged in secret; they have to be public, undeniable, and strategic. This is just another part of the role I’ve taken on—a part I hadn’t fully anticipated but one I can’t ignore.

“Fine,” I mutter, my reluctance clear. “I’ll go to the damn dinner. But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

Lorcan smiles, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied nod. “That’s all I ask, brother. Just make sure they remember who you are. In our world, appearances can be just as deadly as actions.”