Dark Prince: An Age Gap, Forced Marriage Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

Grigori, Lev, and I sit across from Declan O’Leary in the dim light of O’Malley’s, a traditional Irish pub, where there is a faint smell of aged whiskey in the air. The place has an authentic feel, with dark wood paneling and stained-glass windows casting colorful patterns on the floor. The din of muted conversations and laughter surrounds us. It’s the kind of place where deals are made, and secrets are traded over a pint of good Irish stout.

We have come for answers, and I waste no time cutting to the chase.

“Declan,” I begin, “we’ve got a problem. Another assassination attempt on my wife—at my home, no less—and all signs point back to the Irish mob.”

Declan, with his easy smile and a twinkle in his eye, plays the part of the congenial host to perfection. But I’m not fooled. Behind that friendly façade lies a mind as sharp and as dangerous as any blade. Declan is the head of the O’Leary crime family and is known for his brutality as much as his business acumen. A man doesn’t rise to the top of Dublin’s underworld by being nice.

Declan leans back, feigning surprise, but there’s a calculating look in his eyes. “Luk, my friend,” he responds in his heavy Irish brogue, “that’s a serious accusation. You know I’d never sanction such a thing against you.”

I lean forward, locking eyes with him. “Maybe it didn’t come from you but it was a member of an Irish mob, no doubt about it. There was a Celtic cross tattoo on his wrist. Ring any bells?”

There’s a brief flicker of recognition in Declan’s eyes before he attempts to mask it by taking a sip of his drink. “There are many with such tattoos,” he says noncommittally. “It’s a popular symbol.”

I notice the subtle shift in Declan’s demeanor; his casual dismissal sparks a surge of anger within me. My voice takes on a darker, more menacing tone. “Popular or not, someone’s using it to mark targets on my back.”

Lev places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, a silent plea for restraint. I take a deep breath, fighting against the primal urge to unleash violence in retaliation for the threat against Maura. The very thought of anyone daring to harm her ignites a fury in me, a desire to tear through the city until I find the responsible party.

Declan watches the interplay with a hint of amusement in his eyes, seemingly entertained by the display of raw emotion. Yet, as the conversation progresses, he adopts a more serious tone. “Luk, the man wasn’t one of mine,” he asserts, a note of sincerity in his voice that I begrudgingly accept as truth. “But I’ll keep my ears open. If anything comes up, you’ll be the first to know.”

There’s a moment where our gazes lock, an unspoken understanding passing between us. Despite the undercurrents of rivalry and the brutal nature of our world, there’s respect, a silent recognition of the lines we don’t cross. I nod, the tension easing slightly. “Thank you, Declan. I appreciate it.”

With that, we take our leave. The weight of the conversation lingers in my mind as we exit the pub.

Stepping out into the cool embrace of a drizzly, gray afternoon, the city’s mood mirrors my own—unsettled and brooding. We get into our car, and the hum of the engine provides calm as we move farther away from the pub and the discussion within.

As we weave through the streets of Chicago, I catch a glimpse of the skyline, a jagged silhouette against the overcast sky. It’s a city of contrasts, of power and vulnerability, much like the delicate balance of our own lives within its shadowy limits.

Lev and Grigori break the silence, their voices a low rumble in the confined space of the car. We dissect the meeting, poring over Declan’s words and judging his sincerity.

“Do you think he was being straight with us?” Lev asks, skepticism lining his tone.

I let the question hang in the air for a moment as I consider Declan’s parting words. “Declan’s tough, no doubt, but he’s not a fool. He knows well enough that if we wanted to, the Bratva could crush his family without a second thought,” I respond, a stark reminder of the power at our command and the threats that lace our interactions.

My confidence in Declan’s truthfulness doesn’t stem from trust, per se, but from a mutual understanding of the consequences of betrayal. Yet despite his assurance, the mystery of the Celtic cross tattoo nags at me. It’s a symbol that points unmistakably to a connection within the Irish underworld.

Our discussion is abruptly interrupted by the buzz of my phone. A text lights up the screen. The contents shifts my focus, providing a new piece of information, perhaps a new lead.

The text is from a contact within the Mancuso crime family, offering to meet with me. I glance up from the screen, meeting Lev and Grigori’s expectant looks.

“We’ve got a lead. The Mancusos are willing to talk,” I declare. I’ve already decided that we will listen to whatever they have to say. We’re diving deeper into the underworld’s intricacies, and every piece of information is a weapon in its own right.

We direct the driver toward Little Italy, a neighborhood where the scent of authentic Italian cuisine fills the air, and old-world charm masks the modern machinations of crime syndicates.

We pull up to a restaurant that appears to be one of modern elegance. Its windows are darkened, a sign indicating it’s closed for lunch but we know it is a front. We enter, our footsteps echoing in the quiet, tastefully decorated space.

At a booth in the corner, Vic Mancuso, the picture of isolation and control, sits. He’s a man who effortlessly carries his power and his presence is commanding even as he awaits our arrival. His thick, salt-and-pepper hair is swept back from his ruggedly handsome face and his dark eyes are sharp, missing nothing. Dressed in a tailored suit that speaks of wealth and taste, Vic cuts a figure that’s at once imposing and charismatic, a lion in his den.

As we approach, his gaze lifts to meet ours, a flicker of interest crossing his features. “Luk,” he says, greeting me with a shady smile. His voice is smooth, with the hint of an Italian accent coloring his words. The tone is warm, but the underlying steel is there—a reminder that in our world, friendliness is often a mask for strategy.

I nod, taking the seat opposite him, Lev and Grigori flanking me. “Vic,” I acknowledge, using an equally measured tone. “You said you had information,” I add, getting straight to the point.

Mancuso’s outward demeanor is warm, his hospitality almost disarming, but I’m well aware of the man’s reputation. His hands are stained with more blood than Declan’s. I don’t let my guard down for a second.

Leaning forward, I pull up a photo of the would-be assassin on my phone, sliding it across the table toward him. As if on cue, thunder rumbles outside, and the rain begins to pelt against the restaurant’s windows.

Vic takes a moment to study the image, his expression unreadable. Meanwhile, he gestures toward the array of food platters on his table, a spread that looks more suited for a banquet than a lunch for one. “Where are my manners?” he quips, waving his hand and offering us food and drink.

Lev starts to voice his interest but I cut him off with a sharp look. “Thank you, but we’re here strictly for information,” I state firmly, redirecting the conversation back to the matter at hand.

I lean in further, lowering my voice. “You’re known for your extensive network, Vic. Your access to intel is unmatched,” I begin, my tone indicating that I want to dispense with the pleasantries. “And let’s not forget your past connections to the Flanagans.” The mention of Maura’s family name hangs heavily between us, a clear signal that I’m aware of the depths of his involvement in the city’s underworld dynamics.

Vic sets down his wine glass, and his gaze sharpens at the mention of the Flanagans. The convivial atmosphere shifts subtly, an uncomfortable tension almost visible in the air. It’s clear that we’re venturing into territory where alliances and old loyalties are as complex as the network of streets in Chicago itself.

His confusion is clear, his brow furrowing as he tries to piece together the relevance. “Why the interest in the Flanagans, Luk? That’s your wife’s family, right?”

“Yes, it is,” I confirm, my voice steady, betraying no undercurrent of the personal stakes involved.

Vic shrugs nonchalantly, the wineglass paused at his lips. “Truth be told, the Flanagans are not what they used to be. They had their time in the sun, but when the old man passed, it all but evaporated.” He takes a sip of his wine, savoring the taste before continuing. “There was chatter at one point about Maura stepping up. She always was a bright girl. But as time went by, it seemed like she didn’t want any part of it.”

He sets his glass down again, his gaze drifting off as if recalling the details. “And Sharon,” he adds, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “she sure loves the spotlight and the power that comes with being in charge. But acumen? That’s a different story. She’s all show. She’s got no real depth when it comes to running things.”

Vic’s words paint a picture I’m all too familiar with. The Flanagans, once a name that commanded respect and fear in equal measure, were now a shadow of their former glory. Maura’s disinterest in taking the reins is something I’ve known and respected, and Sharon’s superficial grasp on power is a detail that doesn’t surprise me in the least.

“What about the Halseys? Sharon’s lot?” I press. My voice is hard and demanding.

Vic can’t help but laugh, a derisive sound that tells me all I need to know before he even speaks. “The Halseys? They’re nothing. A smaller fall from grace compared to the Flanagans’, but a fall nonetheless.” He shakes his head, taking another leisurely sip of his wine. Sharon thought she was stepping up when she married into the Flanagans. She dreamed it would be her ticket to the big leagues.”

He leans back, his smirk widening as he continues: ‘ The Halseys have been easy to push around since Sharon’s old man passed. But that Sharon… she’s somewhat of an unknown. She’s power-hungry, no doubt about it. And when power-hungry people get their taste, they don’t step away from it so easily.

“The point is,” Vic adds as his eyes lock onto mine, his tone more serious, “everyone fears the Bratva. The Italians, the Irish—everyone. No one in their right mind would go after a Bratva bride on her wedding night. It’s not just bad for business; it’s a death wish.”

I lean back in my chair. “Everyone fears the Bratva, huh?” my voice is sharp like a blade. ‘I hope that includes you.’

Vic’s laughter rings out, a sound of confidence rather than defiance. “Yes, Luk, I know where I stand in the pecking order. I like my place and have no interest in stirring up trouble. I’ve got a cozy operation running.”

He meets my gaze with a newfound seriousness. “And that’s why I’ll be the first to let you know if there’s chatter.”

“Good,” I reply, the single word heavy with intent. “Because I’m going to get to the bottom of this. And I’ll remember who helped me—and who didn’t.” The threat hangs in the air, its effect immediate. Vic’s demeanor shifts, a touch more compliant, a subtle nod acknowledging the power dynamics at play.

As we stand to leave, Vic calls out to one of his men. “Bring out a crate of that fine Brunello di Montalcino for Mr. Ivanov as a token of my gratitude.”

As we leave the restaurant, Vic’s assistant follows with the crate of wine. We reach our car and get in as the crate is loaded into the trunk. The rain—cold and relentless—seems an almost fitting reflection of the path that lies ahead: dark, uncertain, and fraught with danger, but a path I’ll navigate with the full force of the Bratva at my back.

Vic’s cooperation and his willingness to share what he learns is a start. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s just one piece of a larger puzzle.

Someone dared to target my family, to disrupt the fragile balance of power with a bold, calculated move.

And for that, they’ll answer to me.