The boardroom was quiet, but it was the loaded quiet of a war room after a successful campaign, not the silence of peace. The main screen, which had previously shown the Murphy Cartel’s network blinking into oblivion, was now dark. Quinn Delahunty sat back in his chair, a rare, thin smile on his lips. Across the table, Sean Doherty had a grin that was anything but rare. He looked like a wolf who had just feasted.

  “He’s blind, broke, and his own people think he’s either a traitor or a fool,” Quinn summarized, his voice crisp. “His attack on Newbury Street was a public relations disaster, thanks to Eddie. His entire US operation is either in our custody or in the morgue. And his bank accounts…” Quinn tapped a finger on his tablet. “His bank accounts now belong to the O’Malley Holding Company.”

  Tommy O’Malley slapped the mahogany table with a loud crack. “So it’s over. We won.”

  “No,” Meeka said from the head of the table. Her voice cut through the celebratory mood like a shard of glass. Every eye turned to her. She hadn't moved, her posture ramrod straight, her expression unreadable. “We haven’t won. We’ve crippled a rabid dog. It’s still alive. It’s still cornered. And a cornered dog is the most dangerous.”

  Eddie O’Malley, fresh from his masterclass performance with the Boston police, nodded in agreement. “Declan Murphy is all ego. Humiliating him won’t make him stop. It will make him more desperate, more unpredictable. What’s to stop him from hiring another sniper? A car bomb? He’s got nothing left to lose.”

  “Exactly,” Meeka said. “We cut off the limbs. We took out the eyes. Now we cut off the head.”

  A new tension filled the room. This was the end game.

  “My teams are ready,” Caitlyn said, her voice a low murmur. “Give me a week, and I can have a squad in Dublin. We can hit his compound.”

  “A week is too long,” Meeka stated flatly. “And you won’t be leading the squad.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over her general and her assassin. “You’ll be going with me.”

  The silence that followed was heavy with shock.

  “Absolutely not,” Eddie said, his gentle demeanor gone. “Meeka, that’s insane. You’re the Matriarch. The CEO. You don’t put yourself on the front line. That’s what we’re for.”

  “I want to go,” Tommy interjected, standing up. “Let me lead the team. Let me be the one to put my boot on his throat.”

  Meeka held up a hand, silencing them both. She looked directly at her uncle. “Uncle Eddie, I respect your caution. But this isn't just business. He targeted my son. He made it personal. The leader of the Clann must be the one to answer that. Our people need to see that. Our enemies need to see that.”

  She then turned to Tommy. “And you, cousin, are needed here. You’re the underboss. If something happens to me, you have to be ready to step in. The family needs its leadership secure in Boston.” The words were both a compliment and an undeniable order. Tommy sat back down, his jaw tight, but he didn’t argue.

  Her gaze settled on Sean Doherty. “Sean? What does the general think?”

  Sean’s wolfish grin returned, wider this time. “I think it’s been too long since an O’Malley set foot in Dublin with authority. I think it’s a brilliant feckin’ idea. He wants an old-world fight? Let’s bring it to his doorstep.”

  Meeka nodded, the decision made. “Caitlyn, Sean, you’re with me. We travel light and fast. Quinn, I need schematics for Declan’s compound outside Dublin. Everything you can find. Local assets, power grids, security systems. Eamon, you’ll coordinate our exfiltration route. We’re wheels up in six hours.”

  No one else argued. The Matriarch had given her decree. The war was crossing the Atlantic.

  ***

  The preparations moved with the silent efficiency of a well-oiled machine. While Sean coordinated with allies in Ireland via encrypted channels, Caitlyn laid out their equipment in a sterile room deep within the casino complex. This wasn't a military invasion; it was a surgical strike. The gear reflected that. Lightweight ceramic body armor, suppressed pistols, compact submachine guns that fit in a briefcase, and an array of tactical electronics that Quinn’s team had prepared.

  Meeka left them to their work and took the elevator down to the secure garage. Cillian already had the armored sedan running. “The hospital, Cillian. And step on it.”

  The waiting room of the ICU was quieter now. Rosie and Liz had gone back to the estate to get some rest, leaving Ty alone, keeping vigil. He was sitting in the same chair, though he’d changed into fresh clothes. He looked up as Meeka approached, his eyes full of worry.

  “Any change?” Meeka asked softly.

  Ty shook his head. “The doctor said her vitals are stable. That’s all they’ll tell me.” He looked at his mother, at the grim determination in her eyes. “Where are you going, Mamai? You look like you’re going to war.”

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  Meeka sat beside him, taking his hand. It felt cold. “I have to go away for a few days. Business.”

  “What kind of business requires you to look like that?” he pressed, his voice strained. “This is because of what happened to Gema, isn’t it? To me.”

  She didn’t lie to him. “Yes. This is about settling the score. For good.”

  “Let someone else do it,” Ty pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please. Mamai, just stay. What if something happens to you?” The thought of losing her, after so nearly losing Gema, was clear on his face.

  Meeka squeezed his hand, her grip firm. “Nothing will happen to me. I have Sean and Caitlyn with me. But this is something I have to do myself. A leader can’t ask her soldiers to face a risk she won’t face herself. Especially not when her own family is the target.” She looked through the glass at Gema, lying still and pale in the hospital bed. “They hurt our family, Tadgh. They tried to take you from me. And they did this to her.”

  Her voice was a steel wire. “That debt has to be paid in full. By me.” She stood up and kissed him on the forehead. “I love you. Your Auntie Liz will be here in an hour to sit with you. I’ll call when I can.”

  Ty watched her walk away, her back straight, her stride purposeful. He wasn’t just watching his mother leave. He was watching the Matriarch of the O’Malley Clann go to war, and for the first time, he remembered the stories of her standing guard at a barricade in Derry.

  ***

  The O’Malley private jet, a sleek Gulfstream G650, looked like a luxury executive aircraft from the outside. Inside, it had been converted into a mobile command center. The plush leather seats had been arranged around a central holographic table, currently displaying a 3D model of a large, walled estate.

  Meeka, Sean, and Caitlyn sat in silence for the first hour of the flight, the quiet hum of the engines the only sound as they climbed to cruising altitude over the vast, dark Atlantic. They had changed from their business suits into practical, dark travel clothes. They looked more like private security contractors than globe-trotting executives.

  Finally, Sean broke the silence. “Declan’s a creature of habit. Quinn’s intel confirms he hasn't left the compound since his US operation went dark. He’s scared. He’s hunkered down.”

  Caitlyn pointed a finger at the holographic model, her nail tracing the perimeter. “The compound is old-world. High stone walls, cameras on the corners, and a single main gate. The guards are his personal crew, more like pub brawlers than soldiers. Their patrols are predictable. Their blind spots are here,” she indicated two points along the rear wall, “and here.”

  “He has twelve men on rotating shifts inside,” she continued, her voice flat. “Armed with handguns and a few shotguns. The house itself has a basic alarm system, but it’s tied to a private security firm in Dublin, not the police. Response time is fifteen minutes, best case.”

  Meeka studied the layout. Declan Murphy’s ‘fortress’ was a joke compared to her estate in Weston. It was the stronghold of a man who ruled by fear and bravado, not by strategy.

  “He'll expect an attack on the gate,” Sean said, leaning forward. “A car bomb, a frontal assault. Something loud. Something he would do.”

  “And that’s exactly what we won’t do,” Meeka replied. She looked at Caitlyn. “The rear wall. What’s behind it?”

  “A hundred meters of dense woodland, leading to a country lane,” Caitlyn answered immediately. “Our local assets have already secured the lane. We can approach undetected and go over the wall.”

  “A silent insertion,” Sean nodded with approval. “My kind of party.”

  “Sean, you and your men will create a perimeter in the woods,” Meeka commanded, her role as matriarch replaced by that of field commander. “No one gets in or out of that compound without our say-so. Your job is containment and overwatch. I don’t want a single one of Declan’s men getting away to become a problem later.”

  “And us?” Caitlyn asked, her eyes already calculating angles of attack.

  “We go in through the house, just the two of us,” Meeka said. “You’ll get us past his guards and his alarms. Your only job is to clear the path. Declan Murphy is mine. I will face him alone.”

  Sean looked like he wanted to protest, but one look at Meeka’s face told him it was pointless. This was never just a tactical operation. This was a verdict being delivered in person.

  Caitlyn gave a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”

  The rest of the flight was spent memorizing layouts, synchronizing watches, and running through contingency plans. By the time the jet began its descent, the sun was beginning to rise over the green fields of Ireland. They didn’t land at Dublin Airport. Instead, the plane touched down on a small, private airstrip in County Meath, used for agricultural aircraft.

  A nondescript black van was waiting at the end of the runway, its engine running. The man behind the wheel was a familiar face to Sean, a former IRA quartermaster who owed the O’Malley Clann more than one favor. He got out as they deplaned, his expression grim.

  “Sean,” he said by way of greeting, giving a respectful nod to Meeka. “The place is ready. Your gear is in the back. The target is still in his den, licking his wounds.”

  “Thank you, Liam,” Sean said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  The ride into Dublin was quiet. The city was just waking up, the streets still damp from an overnight rain. It was a world away from the gleaming skyscrapers of Boston. This was a city of old stone, layered history, and long memories. It was the land Meeka’s family had left generations ago to build an empire. Now, she was back to finish a war they didn’t start.

  The van pulled into the underground garage of a modern, anonymous-looking apartment building in the Docklands. The penthouse, owned by a shell corporation for decades, served as the O’Malley’s primary Dublin safe house. It was clean, spartan, and secure.

  Inside, Sean’s advance team of four Saighdiúirs was waiting. They were hard-faced men, the best of his command, and they snapped to attention as Meeka entered.

  A table was set up in the middle of the living room, a high-resolution satellite image of Declan Murphy’s compound spread across it. Physical blueprints, acquired by Quinn through means no one asked about, were laid on top.

  Meeka walked over to the table and placed her hands on it, looking down at the layout of her enemy’s home. The place where he had felt safe enough to order the death of her son. That safety was about to end.

  She looked up, her gaze meeting Caitlyn’s, then Sean’s.

  “Final checks,” she commanded, her voice ringing with cold authority. “We move in one hour.”