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“What the fuck were you thinking?” Luca hisses, the second Viktor is out of earshot. “Viktor and I both warned you–”
“If you’re referring to my marrying Ana–”
“Of course, that’s what I’m referring to.” Luca glares at me. “Sofia told me about it. We warned you not to do this, Liam, that there would be consequences–”
“We have an alliance,” I remind him. “This isn’t a democracy–”
“The Kings are a hell of a lot closer to a democracy than the mafia or the Bratva,” Luca snaps. “And the alliance was made with theKings, not with you personally. If you can’t do what needs to be done to lead them, someone else will.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I growl, but Luca is already striding away, along with his underboss, Alessio. I’m left where I stand, my anger mounting by the second when I hear a familiar feminine voice behind me.
“Today isn’t going to be a good day for you, Liam, from what my father says.”
I turn to see Saoirse standing there, her strawberry hair falling loosely over her shoulders, pulled half-up in the front. She looks as if she’s dressed for a funeral in wide-legged black pants, black heels, and a sleeveless black chiffon shirt that buttons down the front, emerald studs in her ears. She’s as beautiful as always, but she looks sad, her eyes barely meeting mine. I glance down to see that the ring is no longer on her finger, as I’d expected.
“Your father should worry more about himself,” I say curtly. “I’m sorry, Saoirse, for what happened between us. I–”
“No.” She cuts me off brusquely. “You’re the one that’s going to be sorry, Liam.” Saoirse bites her lower lip, looking up at me. “You should have married me,” she says softly, and then she pushes past me too, following the others into the meeting room as they start to arrive.
The mood of the room is intensely somber when I take my place at the head of the table, Niall on my left as always. The other Kings look unsettled by Luca and Viktor’s presence there, except for Graham, who looks only angry. He glares at me with a grim expression as he goes to sit at the end of the table instead of his usual spot at my right hand, a clear message to the table. He’s quite literally facing off with me, with Saoirse just behind him with a wounded expression on her face.
Once everyone is assembled, I stand up slowly. “What I have to say to you today, some of you may not like.” I look around the table, avoiding Luca and Viktor’s gazes. “But I assure you, I have considered my place here when making this decision. It was not made lightly.”
“What are you on about, lad?” Colin O’Flaherty speaks up, and it’s clear from his tone that he has some idea of what’s going on. “Out with it.”
“Have some respect when you speak to the McGregor,” Niall says harshly, stepping forward. “He’s your leader, aye?”
There’s a rumble around the table, but I ignore it, pushing forward with what I have to say. “I have informed both Saoirse O’Sullivan and her father of my intent to break the betrothal contract between us. It was not my wish to hurt her or insult her family name. Saoirse is a good woman, and any man would be lucky to have her as a wife–it is not my intent to devalue that in setting her aside. But my heart and soul are with someone else, and it would be a lie before God to stand up and swear her my fidelity.”
“What are you saying?” It’s Flynn O’Malley who speaks up this time, his eyes narrowed in his wrinkling face. “Lad, who is it you intend to wed, then?”
“It’s who Ihavewed,” I say firmly, and the table erupts, drowning me out. “Anastasia Ivanova is my bride,” I say, raising my voice above the din, and every head turns to face me.
“A Russian?” Denis Mahoney fairly spits the word. “You’d put a Russian half-breed heir in that seat after you?”
“Not only that,” Graham says, rising slowly to his feet. “He’s already put that heir in her. He’s come to you today to tell you that you’ll accept a Russian woman in his bed and a half-Russian child to lead you some years hence, and what if that child doesn’t choose a good Irishwoman to marry? There won’t be a drop of Irish blood at the head of this table a generation or two hence, and where will we be then? Not the Irish Kings I’ve helped to lead, I’ll say that!”
“We won’t stand for it.” Colin O’Flaherty bangs his fist against the table. “This is an insult to a good woman, to Graham O’Sullivan, who served your traitorous father faithfully up until the day of his treachery.” He turns to look at Saoirse. “Will you confirm this, lass? That Liam McGregor told you he intended to break a lawful contract made with you for your hand?”
“It’s true,” she says clearly, her voice strong and emotionless though her face is pale, her gaze sweeping over the table. “My father told me, too, that he’d gotten her pregnant. I’ll confirm that. This marriage is news to me, though.” Her eyes lock with mine, and I can see in that instant that whatever feeling Saoirse O’Sullivan might have had for me is gone.
Graham holds up a hand to quiet the rumble of conversation that breaks out around the table. “This man has broken a contract, married outside of the families without the approval of the table, insulted my honor, and disgraced my daughter’s. By the laws of the Kings, the table should sit in judgment on him. Up to and including death or banishment, this table should decide the punishment for the man who would so disgrace the seat that he holds.”
The rumble of agreement shocks me into momentary silence. I’d expected anger, outrage even, but I hadn’t expected them all to side with Graham so easily or consider such harsh punishment. In the back of my head, I'd known that it was a possibility. Grahamhadthreatened it–but I’m the last of my family’s line. I hadn’t expected them to consider, even for a moment, exterminating the bloodline that has held this seat for generations.
But then again, perhaps this table is more power-hungry than I’d realized.
“Set the marriage aside,” Flynn suggests. “Force him to marry Saoirse.”
“What’s done in the eyes of the Church cannot be undone,” Colin argues. “The marriage is valid, lad? Done properly, by a priest?”
I tense. According to what they’re asking, it’s not. Max is defrocked–the state of Massachusetts considers Ana and I husband and wife, but I also know the Irish Kings don’t give a fuck about that. They care if the marriage is valid in the Church–and it’s not.
But I’m not about to tell them that.
“It is, and it was,” I say firmly. “Anastasia is my wife, and nothing can undo that.”
“Then you’ve signed your own death warrant, lad,” Michael Flanagan says. “We might ally with the Russians, but I’ll not have one leading us at our own table. I vote that Liam follows his traitor father to the grave.”
