Mafia bosses from each established family gather in Torin's foyer, suited, booted and fully armed. Frank has at least three bodyguards trailing him, no doubt taking every precaution after what happened to Aidan. Smaller—less established families—are also here, keen to pledge their allegiance with the top dogs. I'm surprised at how many there are and even more so surprised at how many of them seem to know exactly who I am. They all look, but not one person has made the effort to address me personally. All with the expectation of one.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but everyone is staring at you."

A tall man roughly my age with a dark complexation and gorgeous eyes comes sauntering over, outfit impeccable. His mint green suit does not fit the vibe of everyone else at all, and I get the impression that's exactly what he was hoping for. He stands out. An intruder amongst dangerous men. He intrigues me.

"I have noticed," I respond, ignoring the many stares. "I expect this is what a lion must feel like at a zoo."

He laughs at my analogy. "If you're the lion, does that make Frank O'Neil the fast cheetah?"

"More like a quivering coati."

He smiles, showcasing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. "Is that any way to talk about your future father-in-law, princess?"

I regard him closely, wondering who on earth this man is and why I like him so much.

"You seem to know an awful lot about me."

"Knowledge is power," he replies, eyes leisurely travelling around the room.

It doesn't go unnoticed that he lingers ever so slightly longer on all the important people.

"I disagree," I offer. "Knowledge is not always power."

He nods, silently speculating my words.

"Besides, there's something else much more powerful than knowledge."

"Care to share?"

"Having people underestimate you."

He quickly turns his attention back to me, gaze curious.

"Take you, for example," I begin. "You wear outrageously fabulous suits to draw just the right amount of attention to yourself. No one of real power will ever take you seriously."

"Is that right?"

I nod. "Which is exactly what you want. Instead, you cosy up to the wives. Feed them compliments. You might even sleep with some of them."

He laughs.

"And then you infiltrate. To gather secrets and then you use them to your advantage."

His eyes glow a magnificent gold. "Therefore—knowledge is power."

I smile, considering his words in retrospect. "I suppose you're right."

"I like you, Imogen," he randomly shares. "I can see why Aidan wants to marry you."

I refrain from rolling my eyes. "You know Aidan?"

"Honey," he begins, leaning in close enough so that his lips graze my ear. "I'm sleeping with him."

"Xavier!"

Torin interrupts our conversation before I can respond.

"It's good to see you!"

To my surprise, Torin greets Xavier like they're old pals.

"Likewise," he replies. "Your newest addition was keeping me company."

Torin cuts his gaze across to me, smile genuine.

"She's a delight. I can see why you want to keep her around."

"Now, now, Xavier. Don't go spreading rumours," teases Torin, smirking. "You know I'm an engaged man."

"Ah—yes! If only that meant something around here."

I laugh, immediately infatuated with Xavier's personality. It's refreshing to say the least. So often, the mafia is filled with corporate businessmen and evil fucks. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying Xavier is neither of those things, but at least he brings a sense of humour with it.

"Gents, shall we?" prompts Frank, gesturing towards Torin's office door.

I watch as men assemble into their respected groups, awaiting their turn behind the elite. Torin is moments away from leading the sit down when the front doors open, revealing a tall man, flanked by at least ten other men.

Cillian McCarthy.

"Fuck—things must be bad if McCarthy has crawled out of his cave to be here," mumbles Xavier.

I've only ever met the man once. I was fourteen and he caught me smoking my first cigarette. I for sure thought he'd tell my father, which would've resulted in an arse beating. Instead, he ordered me to put it out and presented me with a cigar. He insisted I share it with him whilst he talked about holidaying in the Apls. Two puffs and I was done. I still remember the vile taste to this day. I also remember what he said to me as he left.

"Cumhachtach."

He's an alluring man. Handsome as fuck.

"McCarthy, long time no see!" offers Finn, no doubt trying to state his dominance by being the first to speak.

Cillian McCarthy and his family still reside in Ireland for the most part. Or at least I think they still do. Their estate in Dublin is tremendous and just thinking about it now has me longing for home. I haven't been back since the night I fled, and I've not yet had the chance to ask Torin why he made the move to London. It's probably down to business. As a child, I remember my father often visiting London to attend meetings and other important events. It makes sense to be near the hustle and bustle of everything, but I miss my Ireland. And I commend Cillian and his desires to stay there.

"Let's get this started, shall we?" speaks Cillian, accent thick.

Torin approaches him, arm extended.

"O'Brien! You've not changed one bit!" he delights, voice obscenely loud. "You good-looking fuck!"

Torin smiles a genuine smile, as though happy to see such a presence in his home. "How are Niamh and Bridget?"

Cillian's twin daughters. They were eleven when I left, making them sixteen now.

"Far too fucking smart for their own good," he replies, laughing.

Frank and Finn come sauntering over, keen to weasel their way into their conversation.

"It's good to see you, old friend," offers Frank.

Cillian—despite obviously not wanting to—smiles. "Likewise."

"God—it's like watching everyone fight over the popular girl at school," whispers Xavier, eyes glued on the scene before us. "Cillian McCarthy is Regina George."

I piss myself laughing, the sound of my amusement echoing throughout the foyer obnoxiously loud. My gaze widens as I clamp my mouth shut, all eyes suddenly on me.

"Imogen Murphy!" announces Cillian, finally removing his designer sunglasses. "It's good to see you, sweetheart."

"You too," I respond, smiling. "Maybe we can catch up over a cigar once you sort this nonsense out with my brother."

A few gasps sound from around the room, clearly coming from those in shock that a girl would even so much as breathe the same air a Cillian McCarthy.

"Sounds wonderful," replies Cillian, grinning.

Frank huffs his displeasure and prompts everyone to get moving, stating the importance of today's sit down. I understand his desperation. Had it been Maeve who was shot, I'd move hell on earth to get revenge too. But that's just it. This isn't about revenge. It's about saving those poor women and children currently held captive my Shane. Frank O'Neil should want to help for that reason and that reason alone. Not because Shane almost cost him his bloodline.

"Well, this is where we part ways, princess," states Xavier, having the decently to look somewhat apologetic.

Women are never invited to join sit downs. Simply put, it's not their place. God forbid we have to sit through the brutality of day-today life in the mafia. And don't even get me started on negotiating a business deal. I swear, you'd think having tits made us less capable of holding an ounce of intelligence. These men see us as nothing. Disposable. Perhaps that's why it's taken Torin so long to get the support he really needs?

"Imogen?" Torin's voice travels all the way to where I'm standing on the opposite side of the room to where his office door is. "Are you coming?"

I want to gawk. To question whether I heard him right. I also want to jump up and down and squeal when I see the smallest of smirks stretching his lips. Instead, I roll back my shoulders, pull up my chin and nod.

"I'd love to."

People stare as I walk towards the four most powerful men in the UK, heels clicking against the marble floor. I'm glad I wore my red blouse and black pencil skirt today. That being said, had I known Torin was doing this, I would've gone for something a little more revealing. Ya know—to show off the tits that seem to make me so incapable of doing even the simplest of tasks deemed a man's birth right by pretentious pricks like Frank O'Neil and Finn Gallagher. But, I'll have to make do with what I've got.

"Ladies first," offers Cillian, extending his arm towards Torin's office door.

In just two words, he's announced to the entire room where his loyalties lie.

With Torin.

"Thank you," I state, purposely levelling my voice as to appear more confident.

In reality, I'm shitting myself.

Don't drop that smile, Imogen and for God's sake, never let them know what you're thinking.

Torin follows closely behind, subtly placing his hand on my body and offering my hip the smallest of squeezes. I appreciate his silent encouragement and use his gesture as incentive to fucking rock this. I take a seat in the centre of the table, rather liking the idea of each man having to work around me to find their own seat. If I'm to gain even an ounce of respect, I need to assert my dominance.

"I appreciate everyone coming," announces Torin, sat to my right.

Finn and Frank are positively seething, no doubt at the sight of Torin and I sat side-by-side.

"As you're all aware, we have a complex situation on our hands—"

"Murphy attempted to kill my son!" interrupts Frank, face an unusual shade of red.

I refrain from rolling my eyes.

"Yes," acknowledges Torin. "Shane is also operating a sex trafficking ring."

I appreciate him using Shane's first name as opposed to our family name. Once upon a time, being a Murphy was an honour. A privilege. I'm proud of my roots and so help me god, I will not be associated with the kind of business my brother operates.

"Murphy needs stopped—"

"Shane," I insist, adding emphasis to the word. "Shane needs stopped."

"I beg your pardon?"

The enquiry comes from Finn's Under Boss—Nick.

"I do not appreciate the Murphy name being dragged through the mud."

Nick laughs. "You can't be fucking serious?"

Others join him, sharing their amusement regarding my request. Torin's hand squeezes my thigh from beneath the table, silently imploring me to keep my cool.

"Your brother pissed his pants at a Christmas party once," I state, raising my voice to be heard over the pretentious laughing.

Nick falters. "What?"

"I was fifteen. I remember it well."

"So?"

"So, perhaps that should be your family legacy? The Sullivan's...pants pissers."

His cheeks wobble as he attempts to hold his smile in place. "What my brother gets up to at parties has got nothing to do with me."

"Exactly," I state, smiling. "And what my brother gets up to in business has nothing to do with me."

Nick decides to challenge that. "Are you sure, princess?"

And there it is. The accusation Torin warned me about. I knew it was coming, I just hadn't been expecting it from people outside of Torin's compound.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, deliberately keeping my tone calm.

"We're all aware there's a rat amongst us..."

He lets his insinuation hang in the air, thick and unsettling. Finn smirks, though at least has the decency to disguise it by taking a sip of water. From underneath the table, Torin's squeeze intensifies, reminding me to take deep breaths and remain calm.

"Go on..." I implore, ready to hear exactly what he has to say.

"Well," begins Nick. "It would make sense for Murphy to have his little sister do his dirty work."

Murmurs pick up around the room, gaining interest from those who—as much as it sickens me—love to see a women put in her place.

"Hmm, I supposed you're right," I say. "Other than the fact it's too obvious."

"Too obvious?" interjects Finn.

"Yeah. My brother is a lot smarter than that."

Nick disagrees. "I'm not so sure."

An awkward silence settles around the room, everyone no doubt waiting for my reply. My explosion, perhaps? I'm known for acting rash. For allowing my emotions to dictate my next move. Torin's hold on my thigh feeds me the power to supress those urges.

"Can I ask you a question, Nick?"

He smirks. "Of course."

I level my gaze with his, paying him—and only him—attention. "Do you know what your mother looks like with her throat slit?"

A flicker of sympathy appears in his bright blue eyes. "No, I do not."

"And do you know what your older sister's blood smells like?" I question, continuing my interrogation.

The entire room has gone still. Even Finn drops the smirk he was previously wearing.

"No, I don't," offers Nick, voice much softer now.

"Right. Well, I do," I state. "And do you know why I know that?"

He nods. "Yes."

"Why?" I probe, compelling him to say it out loud.

"Because Mur—Shane killed them."

I purposely take a deep breath in, calming my nerves. "Exactly."

"Imogen—"

"I want Shane dead more than anyone else in this room," I state, unprepared to be interrupted. "More than that, I want to be the one that does it."

Hushed whispers start up again but before they can progress beyond that, I speak up, needing to say my peace.

"I am not working with or for Shane Murphy. I simply want the bastard dead."

Xavier slams his first on the table in front of him, dramatically declaring his allegiance. "Fuck, yeah!"

"How do you propose we do that?" asks a face I don't recognise.

He aims his enquiry towards Frank, completely bypassing my presence.

"First, we kill his empire, then we kill him!"

Many nod, too scared to speak up against his mediocre plan.

"May I suggest another plan?" asks Torin, merely wording his statement as a question for the sake of keeping his alliance with the O'Neil's.

All eyes turn to him.

"It seems a shame to destroy a perfectly good empire. Patrick Murphy and my father worked hard for years to establish themselves amongst the other families," he explains, making eye contact with everyone around the room, myself included. "I say we kill Shane and take his empire."

"And do what with it?" asks Finn, somewhat curious now that he might stand to gain something other than—ya know—helping people.

"Give it to its rightful owner."

"Who?" questions Frank. "The bloodline dies with Shane."

Torin shakes his head, quick to disagree. "Wrong. The Murphy name does not die with Shane."

My heart hammers against my chest as Torin's steel blue gaze meets mine, full of determination.

"What're you suggesting?" laughs Finn.

Frank looks just about ready to keel over.

"That Imogen becomes boss of the Murphy family?"

Finn's words are meant to be a joke, but at no point does Torin display even an ounce of humour.

"Yes, Finn," he replies, cool as a fucking cucumber. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting."