I LOVE YOU, Marco Walsh.
Sasha's words echo in my mind as I study the maps and surveillance photos spread across my desk. The O'Reilly syndicate's properties are marked clearly, their known associates and movements meticulously tracked. It's been three days since the meeting with Deckie O'Reilly—three days of gathering intelligence, consolidating resources, preparing for the inevitable confrontation.
Three days since Sasha told me she loved me, changing everything.
I haven't said the words back. Not because they aren't true—they are, painfully so—but because saying them aloud feels like tempting fate. Loving someone in my world is a dangerous gamble, a vulnerability enemies can exploit.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Tony enters, his face grave.
"Surveillance team reports activity at the docks," he says bluntly. "O'Reilly's preparing for the shipment."
"Numbers?"
"At least twenty visible, possibly more inside."
Exactly as expected. This shipment is vital to the O'Reillys' planned expansion into Walsh territory, a move we can't afford to allow.
"Alert our men," I instruct. "We strike tonight."
Tony shifts uncomfortably. "There's something else, Boss."
"Go on."
"Gerald was spotted at the Shelbourne Hotel this morning. Meeting someone."
My jaw tightens instinctively. "Who?"
"A woman." Tony places a grainy surveillance photo on the desk. Gerald sits opposite an elegant blonde. "We're working on identifying her; we should have her identity soon."
"Make it priority," I order firmly.
Tony nods and is about to leave when his phone rings. He turns his back on me as he answers. “Okay, thank you.” He ends the calls, and his face is taut with controlled anger.
"They identified her," he says darkly. "It's Eileen O'Reilly. Deckie's sister. She handles their financials."
The confirmation hits me like a physical blow. Gerald, the man who's been at my father's side for decades, is meeting with the enemy. Betrayal is the only logical explanation.
"Keep eyes on Gerald," I instruct quietly. "Round the clock. I need proof."
“Do we inform your father?” Tony asks.
I already know the answer. “Not yet.” I need solid proof, and a part of me is praying that I’m wrong.
Tony nods without hesitation and leaves, understanding the gravity of this betrayal.
Fuck.
I slump into the office chair and run my hands across my face. How many more men are going to betray us?
A soft knock soon draws my attention again. Sasha enters, hesitant but determined.
"Am I interrupting?" she asks.
"Never," I say truthfully, and rise while extending my hand. She approaches, placing hers gently in mine. "Everything okay?"
"Karen wants to know when Lily can return to school." She sighs. "I've been putting her off, but she's getting insistent."
The question highlights one of the many practical complications of our situation. Lily has been at the estate for nearly two weeks now, missing school and normal social interaction. While the estate tutors I arranged have kept up with her education, it's a temporary solution at best.
"It's not safe yet," I say simply. "Not until the O'Reilly situation is resolved."
Sasha nods, her expression resigned. She's come to understand the dangers we face, even if she doesn't know all the details. "That's what I told her. She wasn't happy."
"Karen rarely is," I observe dryly.
I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, allowing myself this small moment of tenderness despite the preparations for violence that surround us. "Tonight should change things," I say carefully. "If all goes as planned."
Her eyes sharpen immediately. "What's happening tonight?"
I hesitate, caught between my instinct to shield her from the uglier aspects of my business and my growing recognition that she deserves honesty. Sasha has proven herself remarkably resilient, unafraid to face difficult truths.
"We’re intercepting an O'Reilly shipment. If successful, it weakens their position considerably."
She nods, her expression reflecting the same mix of determination and anxiety I feel. "Be careful tonight," she says softly. "Promise me."
"I promise," I reply, though we both know it's a vow I may not be able to keep. In my line of work, careful doesn't always equate to safe.
The rest of the day passes in meticulous preparation. I brief the teams, review contingency plans, ensure every man knows his role and position. By early evening, everything is in place. Twenty of my best men, armed and ready, waiting for my order to move against the O'Reilly shipment.
I find Sasha in the kitchen, preparing dinner with Lily. The domesticity of the scene strikes me anew—this glimpse of normalcy amid the preparations for violence feels like a window into another life, one I never imagined possible for myself.
"I have to go out," I tell her quietly when Lily is distracted with her task. "I'll be back late. Don't wait up."
Sasha nods, her eyes communicating everything she doesn't say aloud. She reaches up, straightening my collar in a gesture that feels oddly intimate, wonderfully ordinary.
"We'll be here when you get back," she says simply.
The confidence in her voice, as if my return is a certainty rather than a hope, steadies me in a way I hadn't expected. I brush my lips against her forehead, a promise without words, before stepping away.
Michael watches this exchange from the doorway, his scarred face expressionless. My father's spy, reporting everything back. Let him report this, too, I think defiantly. Let my father know exactly where my loyalties now lie.
"Tony's in charge of house security," I tell Michael as I pass him. "Any issues, you defer to him."
A subtle power play, reminding the older man of the chain of command despite his connection to my father. Michael merely nods, neither accepting nor challenging the instruction directly.
Outside, it’s dark as we all climb into our vehicles and make our way to the docks. The traffic is light, and I keep going over the plan again and again in my mind. This needs to go smoothly. I need to end this tonight.
We depart from our vehicles close to the docks and move on foot, armed and ready for what awaits. Darkness covers the docklands as we approach silently.
Tony, at my side as always, checks his weapon one final time. "Something doesn't feel right, Boss," he mutters, voicing the unease I've been trying to ignore. The docks are too quiet.
"Stay sharp," I reply, scanning the area. The warehouse looms ahead, dimly lit and seemingly less guarded than expected. "Team Two, status?"
"In position," comes the quiet response through my earpiece. "No movement on the east side."
"Team Three?"
"South entrance secure. No visible guards."
The lack of security is concerning. Intelligence indicated at least twenty O'Reilly men on site, yet we've encountered none so far. Either our information was wrong, or...
"It's a trap," I realize, the certainty hitting me like a physical blow. "Pull back, all teams. Repeat, pull back immediately."
I've barely finished the order when the night erupts in gunfire—not directed at us, but into the air, powerful spotlights suddenly flooding the area around the warehouse. We're exposed, caught in the open with limited cover.
"Walsh!" a voice booms through a megaphone. "We've been expecting you."
Deckie O'Reilly steps into the light, flanked by men with automatic weapons. His expression is one of smug satisfaction—the look of a man who knows he's won before the game has even properly begun.
"Quite the reception committee you've brought," he calls, gesturing to my men, who are now pinned down behind whatever cover they can find. "All for little old me. I'm flattered."
I remain in the shadows, assessing our options. We're outnumbered, outgunned, and caught completely by surprise. The operation has failed before it even began.
"You might as well show yourself," O'Reilly continues. "My men have the entire area surrounded. No one's leaving without my permission."
Tony glances at me, waiting for direction. I calculate our chances—slim, but not zero if we can create a distraction and withdraw in organized groups.
"Team Four," I murmur into my comm. "Execute Delta protocol."
There's a moment of silence, then a series of explosions rock the far side of the docks—the diversionary charges we set earlier as a contingency plan. The blasts aren't large enough to cause serious damage, but they serve their purpose. O'Reilly's men turn toward the commotion, their attention momentarily diverted.
"Now," I order. "Fall back to exit points, teams of three."
My men begin to move, using the confusion to withdraw from the trap. But O'Reilly isn't so easily fooled.
"Stop them!" he shouts, and gunfire erupts in earnest.
What was meant to be a clean interception becomes a chaotic firefight. I fire back, covering Tony as we retreat toward the nearest exit route. Around us, my men do the same, professional even in the midst of an ambush.
"Boss, this way," Tony urges, pulling me toward a narrow alley between warehouses.
We're almost clear when the explosion hits—a deafening blast that throws me against the wall of the nearest building. Pain blossoms in my side as debris cuts through my jacket.
"Tony?" I call, ears ringing from the blast.
"Here," he groans, staggering to his feet, blood streaming from a gash above his eye. "Keep moving."
We continue our retreat, gunfire still echoing behind us.
By the time we reach the cars, it's clear the operation has been a complete failure. Three of my men are dead, several more wounded. The O'Reillys knew we were coming. They were prepared.
"Someone talked," Tony says grimly as we speed away from the docks, sirens wailing in the distance as police respond to the explosions and gunfire.
"Yes," I agree, pressing a hand to my bleeding side. And I think we know who.
The estate is quiet when we arrive; most of the household is asleep despite the relatively early hour. I send the wounded to the medical room we maintain for situations exactly like this—gunshot wounds and injuries that can't be explained at regular hospitals.
"We need to debrief," Tony says, his voice rough with fatigue and pain.
"Tomorrow," I decide, noting the exhaustion evident in his posture. "Get that head wound looked at. We'll regroup in the morning."
He nods, too tired to argue, and heads toward the medical room. I make my way upstairs, moving carefully to avoid aggravating the cuts along my ribs. Nothing fatal, but painful enough to remind me how close we came to disaster.
I expect to find my bedroom empty, but there she is—Sasha, curled in an armchair by the window, clearly having fought sleep as long as possible while waiting for my return. The sight of her there, vulnerable and trusting despite the violence that surrounds my life, hits me with unexpected force.
She stirs as I close the door, eyes blinking open, immediately alert when she registers my disheveled state.
"You're hurt," she says, rising quickly and coming to my side.
"It's nothing serious," I assure her, though I wince when her hand brushes my injured side.
Sasha's expression makes it clear she doesn't believe me. "Sit down," she orders, her tone brooking no argument. "Let me look at it."
Too tired to resist, I comply, easing myself onto the edge of the bed. She helps me remove my jacket and shirt, her sharp intake of breath telling me the injuries look worse than they feel.
"These need to be cleaned," she murmurs, examining the cuts with gentle fingers. "Wait here."
She disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with a first aid kit I keep stocked for minor injuries. With practiced efficiency, she cleans and bandages the wounds, her touch clinical but tender.
"The mission failed," I tell her as she works, needing her to understand the gravity of our situation. "They were waiting for us."
Her hands pause momentarily, then resume their careful ministrations. Once she is done, she sits beside me on the bed, her presence a comfort I didn't know I needed. "What happens now?"
"We regroup. Develop a new strategy." I run a hand through my hair, exhaustion beginning to overtake the adrenaline.
Sasha gently touches my face, and my eyes flutter closed. My mind was spinning with everything.
“Lie down, Marco.” She says softly as she helps me into the bed. Then curls beside me, careful to avoid my injured side. The simple intimacy of her presence—the warmth of her body against mine, the soft scent of her hair—soothes me in ways I never thought possible.
A light kiss touches my jawline, and I reach around and pull her small frame into my body before pressing a kiss to the back of her head.