8. Cian

The estate comesinto view as I pull up, the familiar sight of home doing nothing to ease the sickening feeling of being here. Two hours away from BlackBriar’s campus, from Victoria, and I’m stepping into a different kind of hell. I kill the engine of my old Jeep, the thing coughing like it’s on its last legs. I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text to Victoria, for once, not waiting for her reply as I get out of the car.

The late morning sun, struggling to escape the grey clouds, should be welcoming, but it doesn’t reach me. The front door swings open when I reach for the handle, which instantly puts me on alert.

Pulling Clyde out of the holster at my side, I walk in deeper into the vast mansion, and the world explodes into noise and violence. Gunfire pops and echoes off the high ceilings, men shouting, glass shattering. The thud of bodies hitting the floor rings out, a soundtrack to the madness. My dad’s men are locked in a fight with intruders, masked men who move with deadly intent through the halls of my childhood.

Adrenaline surges through me like lightning, sharp and hot.

What the fuck is this?

“Cover him!” I hear someone yell, and I recognise the voice – it’s one of Oisin’s security team, a guy who’s been around for as long as I can remember. They’re scattered, taking cover behind the expensive furniture, firing back at these invaders.

I don’t stop to think. I can’t afford to. The training that’s been drilled into me since I could throw a punch takes over. I pick up a fallen gun, its grip familiar and cold in my hand, and I move forward, sliding into the fight without hesitation. Dad’s men acknowledge me with quick glances and nods.

We charge ahead, methodically sweeping through each room. My mind is eerily calm as if I’ve been numbed to the horrors of this war zone. My family has always been unfazed by violence and death; we were bred for it. It’s almost sickening how effortlessly we wade into the bloodshed like it’s just another day at the office.

Every step I take, I’m aware this isn’t just some random attack. This is personal, an assault on our very foundation.

There’s no room for error, not here, not now. Every move is calculated, and every shot counts. I make my way towards Dad’s study at the back of the house. The heavy oak door of his study ahead is partially open, and voices spill out.

I burst through the study door. There’s a crack that splits the world open, louder than anything else. The world comes to a screeching halt as I watch my father collapse to the floor. A dark pool of blood spreads beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the hardwood.

The bastard with the gun, wearing a ski mask, all black, like a shadow you can’t shake, turns to see me, and he launches at the windows, firing off a shot to crack the glass before he rams his shoulder into it, shattering the remaining pane, and leaps out headfirst.

“Well, shit.”

I glare down at my father. Definitely dead.

And I feel nothing.

Not a single fucking thing.

Except maybe a crushing realisation that this is it. This is what he trained me for. All those days and nights spent honing skills, forgetting how to feel, until there is nothing left but a black hole where your soul used to be.

I’m in charge now. The eldest Gannon, thrown into the deep end with the sharks circling.

I turn around, bracing myself against the surge of security pouring into the room, their eyes wild with panic and confusion. Their boss is dead, and I’m what’s left. They’re looking to me for orders, for some reassurance that the world hasn’t completely gone off its hinges, but fuck, I’m trying to wrap my own head around it all.

It’s not even about Oisin. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. It’s about who the fuck had the stones to walk in here and take out a major player on the board in his own home without a thought to the consequences.

“Through the window,” I state coldly and turn to stride mechanically from the study, blood roaring in my ears. Chaos unravels like a storm around me. Clyde’s grip is firm in my hand as I ditch the empty gun and sprint towards the commotion.

My breaths come out even, measured. It’s precision. Debris scatters and a vase explodes near my head, shards flying like lethal rain. I don’t even duck. I just keep moving like the fucking Terminator.

The rage that simmers beneath my skin ignites, burning through every nerve ending. This isn’t just about taking down intruders anymore. It’s personal. It’s not even fucking vengeance. It’s about showing these fuckers that you don’t fuck with a Gannon. You can take out the head of the snake but the one waiting to pop up and take over is just as ruthless, just as deadly and now they’re going to know that. I don’t bother with orders; these guys know what’s expected of them. The only thing on my mind is to get rid of as many of these masked assholes as possible. I don’t even want any of them alive. I want every last one of them dead. I know who this is. It’s Kellerman. It has to be. And if I’m wrong and it’s not, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is sending a message. Clyde, my trusty knife gripped in my hand, wants blood, and I’m not one to deny him.

I plough through the chaos like it’s nothing, tracking the fleeing figures as they retreat toward the boundaries of the estate. My breath is a steady rhythm in my chest, each exhale a promise of retribution. I’m the fucking reckoning rising from the carnage of this place.

I hurl Clyde at the unsuspecting figure before me. It pierces through the air like a bullet, aiming straight for its target. The blade finds its mark in the man’s back like a fucking bull’s eyes.

“You run, you get stabbed in the back, asshole,” I sing-song as I stride forward. Reaching for the knife, I pull it out and kick the dying guy, the last of his kind, over. Without hesitation, I slice through the skin and muscle of his throat with ease. His final moments marked by a gurgling and desperate grasp for breath. Blood sprays out in a sick display, coating everything in its path with a gruesome shade of red. I straighten up with a twisted grin on my face, revelling in the carnage that surrounds me.

It’s brutal but necessary. The message is clear: Gannon territory is sacred, and violations will be punished.

Blood stains my clothes, but I feel nothing – no sickness or regret. Just cold practicality.

“Clean this shit up,” I say to some of the guys lingering around, looking lost now that the adrenaline has worn off. They jump to it without a word.

Walking back into the house, I survey the destruction as I make my way back to Oisin’s study. I glare down at him, dead. Gone. No longer of this world.

And I smile briefly, one moment in time where peace descends but is quickly dashed as I remember that this is my life now. His life is mine.

Somehow, I’m going to have to juggle this shit because I can tell you one thing… I’m not leaving Victoria at BlackBriar on her own. Not now, not ever. It’s non-negotiable. Without me there, she will forget about me. She will walk away and never look back and there isn’t a chance in hell I will allow that to happen. Whatever the cost, I’ll be balancing these two worlds now, one of bloody violence and ruthless power plays, the other keeping the only woman I can feel anything for next to me, however, that goes, whatever lies I have to tell.

I look up as an explosion goes off outside. Frowning, I walk over to the smashed window and let out a low chuckle. The guys, knowing exactly how this fucking game is played, are setting off a barrage of fireworks, despite it being mid-fucking day, to cover up this shitshow with whatever neighbours were close enough to hear something.

Leaving them to it, I storm through the house and up the stairs, crashing into my old room. I grab an old, clean black shirt, stripping off the bloodied tee and bunching it up.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I button up. Hard lines etch my face; determination or fury—I can’t tell which. There’s no denying who I am anymore. The reflection shows a man born of darkness and shaped by it, too. I’m every bit as dangerous as the old man was, maybe even more so because I’m not weighed down by decades of grudges and heavy-handed leadership.

Fuck that.

Closing my eyes and drawing in a deep breath, my cock goes hard from the fight, from thoughts of Victoria’s pussy clenching around me. Dragging my cock out, I stare myself in the eyes as I grip the shaft tightly and tug hard. My thoughts flash to Victoria, to the curve of her smile, the fire in her gaze when she challenges me.

Each stroke is like an electric shock, bringing back the twisted memories of her tied up and begging for more. It’s a sickeningly satisfying concoction, blending pain and pleasure until I can’t tell which one I crave more. My hand moves faster, driven by a sick obsession to reach my climax.

Visions of her naked body invade my mind—her chest heaving as she struggles against the ropes, her cunt getting wet under my touch, her screams muffled by my hand as I choke her.

With a guttural grunt, I cum against my palm, my depraved desires sated, at least for now.

Wiping my hand down the mirror over my reflection, I turn from it and walk across to the bathroom to methodically clean up, wondering what Victoria will think about me masturbating without her. Will it turn her on or make her pissed off that I found pleasure without her?

But it’s time to shove those thoughts aside.

Shit needs to get done. With everything that went down today, there are moves to make—calls to rally what’s mine by right of blood and violence.