I nod to my brother. Kratos is a good, steady voice of reason. Though Deimos, who’s holding down the fort back in London, is the true peacekeeper of all of us siblings.
A peacekeeper in the style of a nuclear deterrent, that is, not Gandhi.
“Oh, I agree,” Hades smiles brittly. “It’s good for peace and will bring an end to bloodshed. I mean, it’s not my cock that’s going to get chewed off.”
“Could you attempt to not be a dick for just two minutes, Hades?”
I turn to smirk quietly at Calliope, my sharp-tongued little sister, sitting on my other side. The youngest and smallest of all of us, and yet somehow, she’s the law-keeper. She’s got our grandmother Dimitra’s genes.
Across the room, the group of Kildare men who’ve been talking quietly amongst themselves finally come find seats at the table. Cillian and I catch each other’s eyes, and we nod.
This wasn’t his idea, or mine. It was Dimitra who first put it forward: a way to put the hostilities between our families and our subsidiaries behind us for good. As she pointed out, the closest we’ve ever gotten to peace before was when Atlas was set to marry Saoirse.
What better way to settle our differences than by becoming family?
But when I glance at Neve sitting across the table, still glaring pure malice at me, it’s clear her uncle still hasn’t told her what’s about to happen.
This should be interesting.
Cillian clears his throat, sitting back in his seat as his green eyes slice across the room, silencing it with a look.
“I’m not one for fancy speeches, so I’ll get straight to it. We’re here because the hostilities between our organizations have reached an untenable level. Rivalries are one thing. But we’ve crossed too many lines, and there’s too much blood in the streets.”
He pulls a silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket, opens it, slips one between his lips, and lights it deftly with a flick of a silver Zippo. Smoke curls around the Irishman’s head as his glinting green eyes pierce through it.
“I’m not going to get all weepy and sentimental. The truth is, the reason all of us are here is that war will mean ruin to both the Kildare and Drakos families. It will destroy our business interests. And there are already enough jackals circling, waiting for the first sign of weakness to strike. The Bolinaro Cartel. The Carveli Family. The Reznikov Bratva, not to mention their allies.”
Cillian’s icy gaze lands on me.
I don’t blink.
“So in the interest of not getting hit from behind by an enemy while we bicker like schoolboys, Ares and I have come to an arrangement—one that will end these hostilities forever, and make both of our families stronger than ever as a united front.”
I watch Neve’s face scrunch up in confusion as she turns to frown at her uncle.
Oh, this is about to get good.
“A united front?”
Goddamnit, Ezio.
I frown quietly as I lean forward, turning to stab my gaze down the length of the table to where Ezio Adamos is glaring daggers at Cillian.
“Please, go on about this fucking united front we’re supposed to have with—”
“Ezio.”
My voice is neither raised nor very forceful. But it cuts through the room all the same, quickly silencing him. He stares at me, fury and pain boiling behind his eyes.
The Adamos family is a subsidiary, tributary family to ours. Their allegiance has been pledged to the Drakos family for generations, and the way I can see Ezio about to suicide bomb this entire discussion has my jaw grinding harshly.
But I get it. And I feel for him.
Ezio’s only son, Jason, was at the meeting where Vasilis Drakos and Declan Kildare opened fire.
He was also killed.
“Ares, please,” he hisses at me, pain glinting in his eyes. “You cannot seriously be considering allying ourselves with these backstabbing, honorless Micks—”
“Be silent,” I snap.
I’m not completely heartless. I understand he’s in pain. But this is decidedly not the place for it. Or the time for him to start hurling slurs.
Cillian clears his throat, eying Ezio across the table.
“What would…ease your grief?”
Fuck.
This isn’t Cillian being diplomatic.
This is him going for the throat, and Ezio’s about to walk right into his trap.
“What would ease my fucking grief?!” He snaps at the Irishman.
“I don’t believe I stuttered, Mr. Adamos. What’s the going rate on grief these days? Ten thousand? Twenty?”
Goddammit.
