DAWN BREAKS WITH the harsh clarity of reality. The full extent of last night's disaster becomes apparent as reports filter in—three men dead, five injured, and significant damage to our reputation. News travels fast; by now, everyone knows the Walsh family was outmaneuvered by the O'Reillys.
My phone hasn't stopped buzzing since sunrise—calls from allies seeking reassurance, neutral parties recalculating their positions, even Father's old associates concerned about the Walsh leadership.
I ignore most calls, focusing instead on identifying the source of the leak. Tony and I spend hours reviewing every detail of the operation, narrowing down who had access to critical information.
"It has to be someone high up," Tony concludes grimly. "Someone who knew not just the location, but the timing, the team compositions—everything."
He hands me a surveillance photo from yesterday. Gerald Quinn seated across from Eileen O'Reilly at the Shelbourne Hotel.
"It's circumstantial," I caution, though my gut tells me otherwise. "A meeting alone doesn't prove betrayal."
"There's no innocent reason for Gerald to be meeting Eileen O'Reilly," Tony argues firmly. "Not now, not with everything that's happening."
He's right, and we both know it. The question is what to do next. Gerald’s potential betrayal suggests either my father’s involvement or Gerald's independent play for power. Neither scenario bodes well.
"We need more concrete evidence," I decide. "Put Gerald under round-the-clock surveillance. Track his movements, calls—everything."
Tony nods before touching the bandage on his head.
“How are you holding up?” I ask.
He waves off my concerns. “My head is the least of our worries. We got more news, but I’m not sure if it’s another setup.”
I fold my arms across my chest as if I can brace myself for more bad news.
"Surveillance just picked up Deckie O'Reilly entering The Sanctuary. He’s arranging a private meeting for tomorrow evening. All their key lieutenants, plus new allies—it's big."
I nod. The Sanctuary—an old church converted to an exclusive club, maintained as neutral ground by mutual agreement. It's the perfect location for a high-level strategy meeting, especially one involving multiple factions.
"If they're gathering the key players in one location," I muse, "it could be an opportunity."
"Or a setup," Tony repeats his earlier concerns. "They might be expecting us to make a move after last night."
He's right, of course. The timing is too convenient, the information too easily acquired. But the potential advantage of catching the O'Reilly leadership in one place might be worth the risk—if approached carefully.
"We need to confirm the location before planning anything," I decide. "Put our best surveillance on The Sanctuary, but keep a safe distance. I want visual confirmation of O'Reilly's arrival before we commit to any action."
Tony nods, accepting these instructions with his usual efficiency before leaving.
Sasha enters shortly after, her expression worried. "What's going on?"
"The O'Reillys are meeting tomorrow," I explain briefly. "It could be a critical opportunity."
"Or another trap?" she questions softly as she closes the door behind her.
"Possibly," I admit. "But worth the risk if we're careful."
She studies me, clearly weighing the danger. "You're planning something specific, aren't you?"
She studies my face, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or confirmation.
“Yes,” I answer simply.
"Then let me help with whatever comes next," she says firmly.
The request surprises me, though perhaps it shouldn't. Sasha has never been content with passivity, has consistently pushed for greater involvement rather than retreating from danger. It's one of the qualities I admire most about her, even as it terrifies me.
"Alright," I agree, against my better judgment. "But there are limits, Sasha. Lines I won't let you cross, no matter how much you want to help. Your safety isn't negotiable."
She accepts this condition with a nod, though the determined set of her jaw suggests we may revisit this boundary in the future. For now, though, we have more immediate concerns.
If Gerald is indeed the traitor, if the O'Reillys are gathering their forces tomorrow night, if my father is potentially complicit in these machinations—we're facing a perfect storm of threats from all sides. The next twenty-four hours could determine not just the future of the Walsh family business but our very survival.
And Sasha, whether I like it or not, is now irrevocably part of that fight. The thought simultaneously strengthens my resolve and fills me with dread.
"We need to move quickly," I tell her, already shifting into tactical planning mode. "If the meeting is tomorrow night, we have less than twenty-four hours to confirm the intelligence and develop a viable strategy."
She nods, accepting the urgency without question. "What can I do to help?"
"For now, maintain your routine," I instruct. "If Gerald is working with the O'Reillys, if my father is potentially involved, we can't let anyone suspect that we know. You spend time with Lily, keep Karen distracted. Everything must appear normal until we're ready to act."
"And Michael?" she asks, lowering her voice despite the privacy of my office. "He's watching everything."
"Michael reports to my father, not Gerald," I remind her. "For now, that distinction might work in our favor. Continue treating him with the same cautious respect you have been."
Sasha accepts this with a nod.
"There's something else we need to consider," she says after a moment. "If Gerald is betraying you...we should have a contingency plan for Lily and Karen. Somewhere safe, away from all this."
The suggestion is practical, forward-thinking—and another reminder of how quickly Sasha has adapted to thinking in terms of threats and vulnerabilities. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or concerned by this evolution.
"You're right," I acknowledge. "I'll have Tony arrange a safe house, completely off the books. Known only to him and us."
Relief flashes across her face, confirming that despite her willingness to engage with danger, her primary concern remains her family's safety.
"Thank you," she says simply.
A knock at the door interrupts our planning. Michael enters without waiting for permission, his scarred face impassive as always.
"Your father's on the line," he informs me, nodding toward the secure phone on my desk. "Says it's urgent."
I nod to Michael in acknowledgment, waiting until he withdraws before picking up the phone. Sasha moves to leave, giving me privacy.
“Stay, I point to a large armchair that she reluctantly occupies.
"Father," I answer, my tone carefully neutral.
"The O'Reillys made you look like amateurs last night." No greeting, no preamble—just the cutting assessment of my failure. Patrcik Walsh has never been one to soften blows.
"We had bad intelligence," I reply, matching his directness. "The situation is being addressed."
"Is it?" His skepticism cuts through the line. "Because from where I'm sitting, my son and heir just led twenty good men into an ambush that cost three lives and yielded nothing of value. The O'Reillys are openly mocking us, and our allies are questioning whether the Walsh name still commands respect."
Each word lands like a physical blow, precisely calibrated to strike at my deepest insecurities. My father has always had this talent—the ability to dismantle confidence with surgical precision.
"What would you have me do?" I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath the surface.
"Clean up your mess," he instructs coldly. "And do it quickly. We can't afford to appear weak, not now."
"I'm already working on a response," I tell him, deliberately vague. Until I know where my father stands regarding Gerald's potential betrayal, I can't risk sharing detailed plans.
"See that it's decisive," he replies. "And effective. Gerald will be in touch to coordinate."
The mention of Gerald sends alarm bells ringing in my mind. If Gerald is indeed working with the O'Reillys, having him "coordinate" our response would be tantamount to announcing our plans directly to the enemy.
"Actually, I was hoping to discuss some concerns about recent security breaches," I say carefully, testing the waters. "There are indications that someone high up may have compromised last night's operation."
A long silence follows—so extended that I briefly wonder if the connection has been lost. When my father finally speaks, his voice has dropped to a dangerous register I know all too well.
"Be very careful what you're suggesting, Marco."
"I'm not suggesting anything, Father," I reply evenly. "I'm reporting a security concern that requires investigation."
"Gerald has been loyal to this family for over thirty years," he says stiffly. "Since before you were born. I won't entertain baseless accusations against him."
The vehemence of his defense is telling. Either my father genuinely believes in Gerald's loyalty, or he's complicit in whatever game Gerald is playing. Neither option simplifies our current predicament.
"Of course," I concede, knowing when to retreat tactically. "I'll keep you informed of our progress."
He grunts in acknowledgment before hanging up without a farewell, leaving me staring at the silent phone, mind racing with implications.
Sasha watches me expectantly, having heard only my side of the conversation. "He doesn't suspect Gerald," she surmises accurately.
"Or he's protecting him," I counter, setting the phone down carefully. "Either way, we proceed as planned, but with additional caution. If my father mentions this conversation to Gerald..."
"He'll know you are onto him," Sasha finishes.
"Exactly." I move to the window, staring out at the estate grounds where security teams maintain their patrols, oblivious to the internal threats that may be more dangerous than any external enemy.
“Marco.” Sasha’s soft voice has me turning to her. I wish I could keep her out of all this. The dark circles under her eyes are a tell that this is taking its toll.
“I know this isn’t the best time, but I would like to see my father.”
She’s right; it isn’t the best time, and a part of me doesn’t have the heart to tell her she can’t, but I’m lucky when a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I say quickly.
Tony enters, his expression suggesting news of significance.
"Surveillance picked up Deckie O'Reilly entering The Sanctuary thirty minutes ago," he reports.
"Who else knows about this?" I ask Tony.
"Just the surveillance team and us," he confirms. "I've compartmentalized the information, as instructed."
"Good. Keep it that way." I turn back to the desk, my mind already mapping out potential approaches. "We need detailed plans of The Sanctuary—entry points, security systems, staff schedules. Everything."
Tony nods, understanding the implications. "I'll handle it personally."
Once he leaves, Sasha approaches, her expression troubled. "You're planning to hit them during the meeting," she says. It's not a question.
"It's our best opportunity," I explain, though I suspect she's already reached the same conclusion. "All their key people in one location. We could cripple their entire operation in a single strike."
"Or walk into another trap," she counters, echoing my own doubts. "If Gerald is feeding them information..."
"That's why only a select few will know the details," I assure her. "Tony, me, and now you. No one else."
The gravity of this inclusion—the level of trust it represents—isn't lost on her. She straightens slightly, accepting the responsibility with characteristic determination.
"What's the actual plan?" she asks, all business now.
I can’t keep sharing information with her; she will worry more.
“I’m not sure yet, but for now, Tony will track Gerald's movements," I decide. "You focus on maintaining normal appearances with Lily and Karen. I'll develop the operational details for tomorrow night."
I already know exactly how I will execute this.
I walk to Sasha and kneel down in front of her cupping her face in my hands. “If something goes wrong..." I hesitate, forcing myself to articulate the contingency we both need to acknowledge. "If something happens to me, Tony has instructions. He'll get you all to safety."
Her expression tightens, the possibility of my death clearly distressing despite her attempt at composure. "Nothing's going to happen to you," she insists, echoing my own promise to her from days earlier.
I don't contradict her, though we both know it's a promise neither of us can guarantee. In our world, tomorrow is never certain—a reality Sasha is learning all too quickly.
"Just be careful," she adds softly. "Remember what's waiting for you here."
"I will," I promise, meaning it more deeply than any vow I've ever made. "Always."
“And I’ll let you know about your father soon,” I say, knowing I can’t ignore that conversation forever.
She isn’t exactly happy as I release her face and stand.
I need this to work tonight.
“I’ll go and check on Lily,” Sasha says.
I want her to stay; I want more time with her, but I also need to have a clear head for tonight.