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41 - Break, But Don't Beg.

"Frankie told you, didn't she?"

A fresh wave of rage crawled up my spine, coiling in my throat. "Yeah, she fucking told me," I growled, stepping closer. "Now you're gonna tell me the rest. Everything."

Conor exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "Your father, Wayne, and John Hansley... they were like brothers. They had a dream—a cleaner Chicago, no drugs, no bullshit." He paused, eyes dark with regret. "Theodore didn't give a fuck about any of that. Power. Money. That's all he ever cared about. When Wayne refused to play along, Theodore got pissed. Real fucking pissed."

I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat.

""They fought like hell to keep the streets clean," Conor continued. "But Theodore? He was playing dirty behind their backs. Running drugs. Making his own empire in the shadows. And when Wayne got too close to exposing him..." Conor's voice faltered, jaw tightening.

I already knew what he was about to say.

"He got taken out," I said, my voice hollow. "And John too."

Conor nodded. "And there's only one bastard who had everything to gain from that."

The air in the room shifted. The walls seemed smaller, the space tighter, like the world itself was closing in on me. My uncle, my fucking uncle, had killed my father. For what? Money? Power? I couldn't wrap my head around it.

I swayed on my feet, breathing through my teeth, trying to keep the rage from swallowing me whole.

"The Don wouldn't let me go after Theodore," Conor admitted. "Said it'd spark a war."

Fuck the Don. Fuck diplomacy. Fuck everything.

"I'll handle this myself."

I stood up to leave, but Conor stopped me.

"Son," he said quietly. "Stay. Please."

I glanced back at him, his eyes filled with something I couldn't quite place—regret, maybe even worry. For a second, I almost told him to fuck off, but this man was family.

Reclaiming my seat on the armchair across from Conor, I slumped back, exhausted and too fucking angry. His collection of Irish whiskeys caught my eye, mocking me like it knew I was about to lose my shit. My throat burned with the need for a drink—something strong enough to drown the anger I felt. Conor understood, sighing heavily and walking to the liquor cabinet.

He handed me a glass of The Emerald Isle. I didn't savor it, didn't bother with the theatrics of sipping. I threw it back in one go.

"Another," I demanded, and Conor obliged without a word.

"I know you and Frankie don't talk anymore," he said, breaking the quiet as he handed me a refill.

The sound of her name sliced through me like a fucking dull knife, stirring up feelings I'd been trying to bury deep.

"Frankie and I are done," I bit out, the words coated in bitterness. "Not just by fucking choice, but by circumstance. She'll never forgive me, not when my own goddamn blood was responsible for taking her father away."