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

Walking through Bridgeport feels like stepping into another world that’s far removed from the high-stakes drama of our lives. The neighborhood’s got an old-school, lived-in vibe, with brick houses standing shoulder to shoulder like aging soldiers. There’s a sense of community here that’s strong and obvious, even to someone like me, who’s more accustomed to the cutthroat dynamics of the Bratva.

Lev breaks the silence, his voice cutting through the city’s hum. “You know, brother, I’ve noticed something different about you lately.”

I shoot him a glare, the kind that would send most men scurrying. “Don’t start, Lev. We’re not here to talk about my personal life.”

But Lev just smirks, undeterred by my warning. “Come on. It’s written all over your face. You’re head over heels for her. When’s the last time you looked at anyone the way you look at Maura?”

I grumble, knowing that he’s not entirely wrong. “It’s not like that. We’re just… it’s complicated, all right?”

Lev laughs, a sound that’s both annoying and somehow comforting. It’s a brother thing, I suppose. “Complicated,” he says. “Luk, everything’s complicated when it comes to love. But in a good way. You’re in it, deep. Looks good on you.”

I shake my head, trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. “Focus, Lev. We’re here for a reason. Maura’s safety is our top priority.”

He nods, but I can tell he’s not ready to let it go. “All right. But just remember, brother, love makes us stronger, not weaker. Maura’s making you a better man.”

I don’t have a comeback for that, mainly because part of me knows he’s right. Maura has changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand myself. But right now, there are bigger issues at hand.

“We’ll talk about this later,” I finally concede, knowing full well that later means never if I can help it. “Right now, we need to figure out who it is that’s after her and why.”

Lev nods, a sign that he’s willing to drop the subject for now. “Agreed, but so that you know, we’re all rooting for you two. Maura’s one of us now.”

We step into O’Malley’s, a corner tavern that wears its Irish heritage like a badge of honor. The dark wood paneling, stained glass windows depicting Celtic knots, and the ever-present aroma of stout and whiskey create an inviting and unmistakably Irish ambiance. A few heads turn as we make our entrance. We’re recognized either by reputation or by the fact that we stand out like sore thumbs.

Without missing a beat, we slide into a booth, and I signal the bartender for a round of Guinness. The foam-topped dark stouts arrive quickly. I take a moment to survey the room, noting the tattoos adorning the arms of several patrons—a few of them Irish mob insignias. It’s clear we’ve found the hangout of the neighborhood’s underworld.

The bartender, a stocky man with a face as weathered as the bar he tends, approaches our booth with a cautious curiosity. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asks with a thick brogue—no doubt a first-generation immigrant like myself. The look he gives me makes it clear he knows exactly who I am.

I lean forward; my tone is casual yet commanding. “We’re looking for information. There’s been some trouble, and we believe it’s connected to someone from around here.”

The bartender’s eyes narrow slightly as he raises his chin, suspicion and recognition flashing through them. “Trouble, aye? We’ve got no shortage of that around here. But I’m not sure how much help I can be to you lads.”

Lev chimes in, his voice smooth and reassuring. “We’re not here to cause problems. We just need to understand what’s going on and why.”

I nod, adding, “It concerns the safety of someone very close to us. We think there’s a connection here. Any information you have could be crucial and will be very much appreciated.”

The bartender pauses, considering our words. Then, with a resigned sigh, he sits down opposite us. “All right, I’ll hear you out. But I can’t promise anything. This place, these people, we look out for our own, just as I suspect your kind does.”

I acknowledge his stance with a nod. “Understood. And we respect that. But believe me when I say the safety of my wife is non-negotiable. We will seek out the information we need, one way or another.”

“And what is it exactly that you’re looking to find out?” he asks.

“Sharon Flanagan. Or Sharon Halsey, as she was known before her marriage. I want to know everything you know about her.”

I notice a flicker of recognition in his eyes—a spark that tells me we’re about to wade into dangerous waters. “Sharon, aye?” he muses, leaning closer as if the walls themselves might be eavesdropping. “Now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a good while around these parts.”

Lev and I exchange a look, both of us sensing the shift in the air. “You know, I don’t believe that one bit.”

The bartender hesitates, glancing around the dimly lit pub as if reassessing the wisdom of speaking freely. “Look, as I said before, I don’t want any trouble,” he says, his voice lowering. “But if you’re going to be asking about Sharon, you should know this place has a history with her.”

Lev shifts his posture, his demeanor commanding. “We’re not here to stir up the past for no good reason. Trust me when I say there is a purpose behind every move we make and every question we ask.”

Taking a deep breath, the bartender begins to unravel the tale. “This pub,” he begins, “was started by my father. And from what I’ve heard, it was like a second home to Sharon when she was a teenager. She skipped more classes than she attended, always trying to prove she wasn’t your average Catholic schoolgirl. She was ambitious, even back then. She made friends with some of the local lads who had connected families, families like the ones Rory Murphy comes from.”

I absorb his words, each piece adding depth to the puzzle of Sharon’s past. “Rory,” I echo, the name carrying more weight now. “So, this is where she pulled him into her orbit?”

“That’s right,” the bartender confirms. Rory was just another kid from the neighborhood in those days. But Sharon had plans—always did. She brought him into the fold, you could say. She helped him rise up the ranks until he became her right-hand man, her bodyguard. That boy would do anything for her.”

The pieces begin to click into place, a clearer image of Sharon’s manipulation and immoral ambition emerging from the bartender’s account. Her influence, it seems, started much earlier than anyone realized, sowing seeds that would grow into the tangled web we’re now trying to unravel.

“Thank you,” I say to the bartender, my words genuine. “It’s clear Sharon’s been playing the long game.”

The bartender nods. “I know you lads are more than capable of handling yourselves but be careful; Sharon’s got a reach and a reputation around here. Not all of it is good.”

Lev and I listen intently, absorbing every detail. “There’s always been talk,” the bartender says with a hint of disdain, “about Sharon and Rory being more than just employer and bodyguard if you catch my drift. It’s business; Rory was just a lad.”

I nod, the implications clear. “And after she married Mickey Flanagan?” I press, wanting to understand the full scope of her betrayals.

The bartender shrugs. It’s a gesture that conveys the open secret of their relationship. “No one could prove anything, but let’s just say Rory’s been more than just a shadow to Sharon. He’s her enforcer, her confidant, and probably more.”

Lev leans back, his expression darkening at the thought. “And what of her leadership? How’s she managing the Flanagan family?” he asks, his interest piqued by the bartender’s earlier insinuations of incompetence.

The bartender lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Leadership? If you want to call it that. Sharon’s got pride to spare but not the sense to back it up. She’s been trying to fill her father’s shoes and now Mickey’s, but she’s stumbling. Her attempts to keep the Flanagan name afloat are pathetic, frankly. She’s squandering what’s left of her father’s legacy, and Mickey’s along with it.”

I glance at Lev, both of us recognizing the gravity of the bartender’s words. Sharon’s actions, driven by pride and a lack of competence, have put at risk not just the Flanagan legacy but also Maura and our family. But to what end?

“Any specific machinations we should be aware of?” I ask, my tone hardening. “Anything that could explain the attempts on my wife’s life?”

The bartender leans in again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Yeah, there’s been some buzz about that. It’s an awful thing. The word is Sharon’s desperate. She’s been making risky moves, trying to shore up her position, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. There’s talk of debts—big ones—owed to some dangerous people. Apparently, she’s used up her inheritance from Mick, and now she’s playing a dangerous game that she’s not equipped to win.”

More pieces of the puzzle fall into place, forming a clearer picture of Sharon’s desperation and the lengths she’s willing to go to maintain a semblance of power.

As the bartender concludes his tale, Lev and I share a glance, our minds racing with the implications of his words. “Thanks again for the information and for taking the time to speak with us,” I say, offering a nod of appreciation. You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

The weight of Maura’s safety hangs heavy between us, coloring every word as we watch the bartender make his way back across the pub.

Lev breaks the silence, his tone serious: “Luk, we’ve got to find out how deep Sharon’s involvement is in all of this. We may need to warn Maura.”

I nod, thinking the same thing. “Absolutely. But we’re going to be smart about this, Lev. We need to approach it in the right way. No diving headfirst without a solid plan.”

Understanding passes between us, a silent vow that we’ll do everything in our power to keep Maura out of harm’s way. Whatever it takes.

I sit back and scan the room, eyeing the pub’s patrons for any sign of hidden threats or alliances.

My gaze lands on a group photo hanging on the wall, a momentary distraction before my thoughts realign. “All right. We lay low but pass this information along to security and tell them to up their surveillance without making Maura suspect anything’s amiss. It’s about her feeling safe, not trapped.”

We talk strategy and how to tighten the security net around Maura without her feeling the squeeze. It’s a fine line to walk, motivated by the deep-seated need to protect the woman I have come to love without suffocating her spirit. I’ve finally admitted to myself the depth of my feelings for her, and that admittance has only bolstered my protective instincts.

Rising to leave, my mind is on Maura, picturing her laugh and the way her eyes light up in amusement. The thought of her safety, her happiness, her everything propels me forward, ready to face whatever comes our way. Lev’s steady support and our brotherly bond feel like a solid anchor as we head out into the evening, the city’s distant noises a backdrop to our shared purpose.

“Whatever it takes,” I reaffirm aloud, the words echoing in the cool night air.