The polished mahogany of the boardroom table reflected the grim faces seated around it. An hour ago, this room had been empty, a silent testament to corporate power within the Weston estate’s fortress walls. Now, it was a council of war. The air, usually cool and sterile, was thick with grief and a simmering, dangerous energy. At the head of the table, Meeka sat with a stillness that was more intimidating than any outburst. A large monitor on the wall behind her was dark, but ready. Ashley stood discreetly to her right, a tablet in hand, her expression neutral but her eyes missing nothing.

  The O’Malley Clann Leadership Board was assembled. Tommy sat coiled like a spring, his knuckles white where he gripped the arms of his chair. Across from him, Reese looked pale, his usual suave demeanor replaced by a deep, anxious frown. Caitlyn and Finn Doherty sat side-by-side, their shared loss manifesting as a cold, predatory focus. Caitlyn’s wife Gema Banks was a statue of military calm. Rory Delahunty, the young accountant, looked terrified but determined. Quinn Delahunty, the lawyer, just looked tired, as if he could already feel the weight of the coming legal battles.

  The retired leadership, Whitey’s widow, Elizabeth and Eamon Doherty were present, seated slightly back from the main table. Their grief was a palpable force in the room, a chorus of unspoken demands for a justice they understood better than anyone. Elizabeth’s eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, were fixed on her niece, Caitlyn.

  Meeka broke the silence. “Amir Talibi has sent his preliminary report.” Her voice was a flat, hard surface. “Ashley.”

  Ashley tapped her tablet, and the monitor on the wall lit up. It displayed a satellite map of a neighborhood in Cairo, a red circle drawn around a block of buildings. Next to it, faces appeared, grainy surveillance photos of bearded men. Organizational charts, crude and full of question marks, followed.

  “This is the Holy Islamic Army,” Meeka stated. “According to Talibi and our regional sources, they’re a well-funded splinter group. Not sophisticated, but zealous gowls. They specialize in high-impact, low-tech attacks. Suicide vests, car bombs. Their goal is chaos.”

  She gestured to the screen. “Talibi’s team has identified their primary cell in Cairo. He has a location for their safe house. He also has chatter identifying a training camp in the Libyan desert, and a financial conduit operating out of Algiers.”

  Tommy leaned forward, his eyes locked on the screen. “So we have them. Safe house, training camp, money men. What are we waiting for fecks sake?”

  “We’re waiting for a plan that doesn’t end with our entire Middle Eastern operation being dismantled by international authorities,” Reese cut in, his voice strained. “Tommy, listen to what she said. Cairo. Libya. Algeria. This isn’t a back-alley hit. This is a multi-national military operation. We don’t have the authority, the jurisdiction, or the political cover.”

  “They killed my father!” Tommy slammed his hand on the table, the sharp crack making Rory jump. “They killed Sean! Cover? Jurisdiction? That’s the language of cowards, Reese. We are the authority! We have been since Buach O’Malley ran Southie.”

  “That was a hundred years ago!” Reese shot back, his frustration boiling over. “We don’t run a neighborhood, we run a global corporation!”

  “Our corporation exists because of the muscle my father and Sean and Whitey provided!” Tommy roared. “You forget where our money comes from. It comes from being stronger and more ruthless than everyone else.”

  Caitlyn spoke, her voice cutting cleanly through the argument. It was not loud, but it commanded immediate silence. “Talibi’s intelligence is strong. The Cairo cell is a decapitation target. The Libyan camp is a body blow. The Algiers connection is their lifeline. We hit all three. Simultaneously.”

  Finn nodded in agreement, his arms crossed over his chest. “My guys can handle Algiers. Quietly. A few unfortunate accidents with their finances. As for the camp… that’s bigger.”

  “It’s a declaration of war,” Reese said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Caitlyn, you’re talking about deploying a private army across sovereign borders.”

  “I’m talking about killing the people who murdered my father,” Caitlyn corrected him, her gaze like chips of ice. “My Saighdiúirs are trained for this. This is why we exist.”

  Gema Banks finally spoke, her voice calm and measured, shielding the grief that she felt for her father-in-law. “Logistically, a simultaneous three-pronged attack is feasible. Our long-range transport is on standby. We have the assets. We have the equipment. The challenge, as Reese points out, is exfiltration and fallout. The mission itself is within our capabilities. Surviving the aftermath is another question.”

  Meeka let them all speak, her eyes moving from one face to the next, gauging the currents of rage, caution, and grief in the room. She saw Tommy’s raw need for action, Reese’s desperate plea for sanity, and Caitlyn’s chilling, professional bloodlust. They were all right. And they were all wrong.

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  “You’re all thinking about this as one war,” Meeka said, drawing every eye back to her. “It’s two. The first war is against the Holy Islamic Army. It will be swift, total, and silent. The second is against the world who will be watching. It will be a war of deflection, misinformation, and political maneuvering. We will fight both at the same time.”

  She looked at Reese. “Your war comes first. You and Quinn will start now. I want you to use every contact, every marker we hold. Fabricate a narrative. We were the victims of a tragic terror attack. Our security consultants, former special forces, top-tier private contractors, are assisting local authorities in the investigation. Leak rumors of inter-agency friction. Suggest that the CIA or Mossad are running a shadow op in the region. Cloud the water so much that no one knows who is shooting at whom.”

  Reese stared at her, a flicker of understanding, and apprehension, in his eyes. “That’s a dangerous game, Meeka. Lying to our government contacts…”

  “We’re not lying, we’re managing the narrative,” Meeka countered flatly. “It’s what you do best. Keep them chasing ghosts while we hunt monsters. Can you do it?”

  Reese hesitated for a long moment, the weight of the task settling on him. He glanced at Quinn, who gave a grim, slight nod. “...We can try.”

  “Don’t try, do it.” Meeka then turned to Gema. “You will coordinate logistics. I want a ghost fleet. Deniable transport, sterile weapons, untraceable comms. The teams that go in will have no connection to the O’Malley name. If they are caught, they are mercenaries, nothing more. Understood?”

  “Perfectly,” Gema affirmed, her focus absolute.

  Finally, Meeka looked at the three people who would be the tip of her spear. “Finn, you have Algiers. I want their money cut off within forty-eight hours. No explosions, no bodies. Just a series of quiet, catastrophic financial heart attacks. Make them destitute.”

  Finn’s lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. “A pleasure.”

  “Caitlyn,” Meeka continued, her voice dropping. “You have Libya. The training camp. I don’t want survivors. I want a message written in fire and ash. You will take your best Saighdiúirs. You will erase that camp from the map.”

  Caitlyn’s chin lifted. There was no smile, only a stark, solemn acceptance. “It will be done.”

  Then Meeka turned to Tommy. His face was a storm of conflicting emotions. He had been left out of the tactical assignments. The rage began to build in his eyes again.

  “And you, Tommy,” Meeka said, preempting his outburst. “You get Cairo.”

  Tommy froze. “Cairo?”

  “The cell that carried out the attack. The men who built the bomb and the man who wore it. Talibi has them pinpointed. They are the ones with your father’s blood on their hands.” She paused, letting the weight of the words sink in. “But you will not go in guns blazing. This is not a street brawl. Caitlyn is giving you a squad of her Saighdiúirs. Elite operators. You will go with them. You will lead them. Your job is to be the hammer. But you will follow the operational plan laid out by Caitlyn and Talibi to the letter. You are the Underboss of this family, and you will show them the discipline and control that position requires. You will take them apart, piece by piece, and you will bring back whatever intelligence they have. This is not just revenge. It is the first step of the entire war.”

  She had given him what he craved, direct, personal vengeance, but she had wrapped it in the chain of command, leashing his impulsiveness to Caitlyn’s professionalism. It was a test as much as it was an assignment.

  Tommy stared at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The wild rage in his eyes slowly cooled, replaced by a dark, focused intensity. He looked at Caitlyn, who met his gaze with a single, sharp nod. He was getting his war, and she was getting hers.

  “This is the plan,” Meeka announced to the room. “A silent, three-front war. Surgical, ruthless, and deniable.” She leaned back in her chair, her gaze sweeping over the faces of her family, the active and the retired. “As I restructured this Clann, all major family decisions are put to a vote. This is such a decision. It is a vote for war. All in favor of this course of action?”

  Her own hand went into the air first, decisive and unwavering.

  Caitlyn’s hand shot up, quickly followed by Finn’s.

  Tommy raised his hand, his movement sharp, definite.

  Gema and Ashley raised theirs. Rory, looking at Meeka for reassurance, slowly lifted her hand as well.

  Then, from the back of the room, a frail but firm hand went up. Elizabeth O’Malley. Her face was a mask of sorrow, but her eyes held a fire that had not been there minutes ago. Eamon Doherty’s hand followed. The old guard raised their hands, voting for the only justice they knew.

  Only Reese and Quinn abstained, their hands remaining on the table. It wasn’t a no. It was a silent, grim acknowledgment of the role they had been given.

  “The Clann has decreed,” Meeka said, her voice like the closing of a vault door. “This meeting is over. You have your orders.”

  The tension in the room broke. People pushed back their chairs, the scraping sound loud in the suddenly business-like atmosphere. Gema was already speaking quietly into a wrist device, rattling off codes and call signs. Finn pulled Caitlyn aside, their heads bent together over a schematic of the Libyan camp already displayed on his phone.

  Tommy stood up and walked over to Meeka. The wild grief was gone, replaced by something colder and harder. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse.

  “Don’t thank me,” Meeka replied, her eyes on the flurry of activity as her war machine spun to life. “Go make them pay.”

  Tommy nodded once, a predator given a scent. He turned and strode out of the room without a backward glance, his purpose clear. Caitlyn and Finn were right behind him, their departure leaving a vacuum in the room. The Angel of Death and her hunters were on the move.