All words die in my throat.
He's in a fucking wheelchair. Darragh Killaney, the man who once beat three rivals unconscious with his bare hands when they tried to muscle in on our territory. The man who taughtme to shoot when I was nine, his hand steady on my shoulder. The man who's always, always stood tall, proud, now looks diminished. He's thinner than I remember from just a few weeks ago.
Keira rises immediately, crossing to him and placing a kiss on his weathered cheek. "Daddy," she says softly, and I hear the careful control in her voice. She's hiding her shock better than I am. "You should've told us."
He waves it off and the nurse wheels him behind the desk. "Leave us for a moment," he orders, and she disappears silently, closing the door behind her.
No one speaks. We wait, as we've always waited, for him to begin.
Dad looks at each of us in turn, his gaze lingering on me a moment longer, as if gauging my reaction. Then he folds his hands on the desk.
"I won't drag it out, so here it is," he says, voice gravelly but composed. "The sickness has the upper hand right now. And if I want any shot at beating it, the doctors say rest. No stress. Your mother, bless her sharp tongue, told me the other night I was either being arrogant or scared. Too scared to hand over the reins."
His eyes shift to Callum, who sits straight-backed in his chair.
"So I'm stepping back. Callum will run things day-to-day. Weeks, maybe months. I pray it's shorter rather than longer. But I need to live."
The word hangs in the air between us. Live. As if he might not otherwise.
"Where's Mom?" Keira asks.
Dad's eyes soften slightly at the mention of her. "She went ahead to Ireland to get the cottage ready. Going to fly out in the morning and stay there for a bit. I'll be alright." His gaze hardens again as he looks between Keira and me. "Don't fuck up things and listen to your brother. Both of you."
The nurse reappears as if summoned, though none of us called for her. Dad gives a slight nod, and she wheels him out, leaving the three of us alone in the suddenly too-quiet study.
I stare at the empty doorway for a moment, then turn back.
I clap slowly. Half-sarcastic. Half not.
"So. Big brother finally gets the helm. Officially."
Callum nods. "One of those things you dread taking because when it comes, you know what it means. But," he says and stands, "been groomed for it since we were kids so here we go." He says evenly. "But it's not just me. I want both of you beside me. We're doing this together."
Keira and I look at one another and then at Callum. "Of course. Anything for the family," we both say in almost unison.
Callum's expression shifts. "On that note, we've had two more routes hit since your ship went up in flames."
My jaw tightens. "I know. And I still don't know who's responsible."
Callum reaches into his pocket and tosses something small onto the desk between us. It clinks against the polished wood. A broken silver chain with a pendant.
"One of our guys found that at one of the sites," he says, watching us. "They didn't take anything. Just destroyed everything."
I reach for it, turning it over in my palm. My gut drops, a cold sensation spreading through my chest.
"A feather," I say.
Keira leans forward. "Wait. What?"
I meet Callum's gaze, and I know it's time to come clean. Keeping things to myself might do more harm than good now.
"It wasn't just him," I say, clearing my throat. "One of my fighters was killed with one in his mouth," I admit. "On the ship that burned, someone spray-painted a black feather on the hull. And now this."
Callum's eyes narrow. "Dec, are you fucking serious? Why didn't you say anything?"
I toss the pendant back onto the desk. "Because it sounded stupid. Some low-level gang tagging their kills. I figured one would slip, grab, and I'd find out, but no one's taking credit for any of this. And they don't seem to be stealing anything, just destroying things."
Keira brushes her red hair out of her face. "Fucking us over more like it, and that feather, it's like some type of calling card."
