It's not every day a mafia boss goes against all expectations and straight up suggests you take over your brother's entire business empire once you've killed him. Torin has a habit of going against the grain and doing the unexpected. It's what I admire about him most, but a fucking heads up would've been nice.

"Don't be so fucking ridiculous!" barks Finn, severely annoyed.

"I fail to see how I'm being ridiculous," counters Torin, voice calm.

Finn—however—is the optimum of stressed.

"Imogen can't be boss. She's—she's..."

"She's what?" I implore, daring him to complete that sentence.

"A woman," he finally concludes, gaze deadly.

"You're right!" I declare. "Having a vagina does affect the way I lead."

To my left, Xavier laughs.

"Don't be so fucking crude," argues Finn, throwing daggers straight through me.

"Crude?" I laugh. "Finn, you pull out people's fingernails for a living and you want to lecture me on being crude?"

I can tell I've angered him by the way the vein in his neck pulses.

"Speak down to me again and I'll kill you," he warns.

I want to relent. To quit while I'm ahead, but how am I supposed to show that I'm capable of running an entire family if I can't even make it through one simple conversation with Finn Gallagher.

"Go ahead," I say, unstrapping the small handgun I have secured to my left thigh and sliding it across the table to him. "Do it and see what fucking happens."

Torin's hand—still on my right thigh—squeezes, urging me to stand strong.

"What kind of mafia boss gives up her only gun during the middle of a sit down?" laughs Finn, eyeing the many men around the room.

"An underestimated one," I state, abruptly standing from my chair and reaching into Torin's suit jacket to retrieve his—much heavier—gun. I release the safety and point it at Finn's head, making sure to smile sweetly as I do so.

Cillian chuckles. "She's got you there, Gallagher!"

Finn pushes the gun back towards me, prompting me to release my aim.

"How about we stop this stupidity and address serious matters?"

"This is a serious matter," insists Torin, taking back his gun. "There are talks happening amongst the Murphy estate."

"Go on..." encourages Frank.

"People are loyal to the Murphy name. Not necessarily Shane."

"So?"

"So, if we dangle the possibility of Imogen taking over, we can strip Shane of his army. Most of his soldiers are against his business ventures anyway."

"Where are you getting your information from?" asks Finn, agitated.

"I have eyes everywhere, Gallagher."

I don't miss the suble look Torin and Xavier share and—suddenly—I know more about the mysterious stranger I met twenty minutes ago.

"Many won't like it," offers Frank, not entirely opposed to the idea.

"Many will," counters Torin.

Both men shut up, silently speculating. Cillian—however—sits back in his chair, smiling. Torin is fighting hard in my defence, and I can tell this infuriates Finn. But beyond that, he's threatened. An O'Brien and a Murphy side-by-side is bad for business. His business.

"Imogen will be marrying Aidan soon," states Finn. "She'll be an O'Neil."

"I won't be changing my name," I respond, gaining Frank's immediate displeasure.

"Yes, you will," he insists.

I smile. "No—Frank—I won't."

I'm aware of the many eyes on me in this moment, but ignore the pressing need to retreat. I'm Imogen fucking Murphy and I will die on this hill.

"Have you discussed this with my son?" he asks.

"Yes." I lie. "Aidan and I are in agreement. The Murphy name adds power to the O'Neil name."

Frank seems to think this over.

"It's good for business, Frank."

Torin's hold on my thigh loosens all together, no doubt due to the nature of our conversation. He's adamant I'm not marrying Aidan and I know whenever it's brought up, he immediately retreats into his shell.

"I suppose..."

"You can't be seriously contemplating this?" seethes Finn, regarding Frank with great distain. "She's a fucking woman, for Christ's sake!"

"What does that even mean?" I ask. "How does me being a woman affect anything we're discussing today?"

"It's unheard of."

"That doesn't answer my question," I insist.

Finn practically growls. "You're incapable of certain tasks."

"Such as?"

"Fighting."

"I fought recently to protect this very house."

I suddenly wish Bite was here to confirm my statement.

"When?" presses Finn, desperate to catch me out. "When did you—the scared little girl who ran away the night her family was attacked—defend this house?"

I lean back in my chair and smile, unprepared to let his words affect me in any way, shape or form.

"The same day you hit your daughter with the barrel of your gun, Finn."

People gasp as Finn bolts from his chair and aims a gun at my head. Torin instantly steps in front of me, ordering the man to calm down.

"Why are you so keen to defend her?" asks Finn, beyond angry. "You're engaged to my daughter, remember?"

"I do remember," replies Torin. "But Imogen is the mother of my child and I'll blow your fucking head off if you even so much as scratch her."

Oh fuck!

Finn murders Torin with his gaze, weighing up his options. In all my life, I've never seen a mafia boss react so strongly with his emotions. Finn Gallagher is fucking losing it and if he's not careful, he'll lose his following too.

"This is fucking stupid!" he announces, turning his back on the room. "Call me when you're ready to discuss actual business."

Finn exits the room, his Under Boss and bodyguard following shortly afterwards. It's like watching a toddler throw a tantrum. I remember a time when Maeve acted like this; a mixture of both frustration and fear. Put simply, Finn Gallagher is scared.

Better yet, he's scared of me.

***

The sit down lasts a further two hours without Finn Gallagher. His son, Michael—however—arrives shortly after, excusing his tardiness with a charm only he can possess. Eva and Michael are twins and it's in moments like these when I really notice it. They have very similar mannerisms and a sense of humour only a select few get to witness.

"Care to explain why daddy dearest wasn't present?" asks Michael, whispering in my ear.

The meeting has ended but the room has yet to empty.

"I might've pissed him off."

He laughs. "How?"

"I called him out for hitting Eva last week."

He purses his lips, trying his hardest not to smile. "Good for you."

His navy-blue suit would've been impeccable had it not been for the creases.

"Why were you late?" I ask, scrutinising him.

"I had an appointment."

"With whom?"

"Your fiancé."

My gaze immediately goes to his creased suit again. "Was this appointment business or pleasure?"

His smirk answers for him.

"Jesus Christ! Is anyone actually sleeping with who they're supposed to be?"

He shrugs his shoulder. "Who says I'm sleeping with him?"

"Well, your creased suit certainly fucking suggests it."

He laughs, lightly tugging on my arm. "Relax, it's business, darling."

"What is?"

"Aidan will take over as boss one day," he explains. "So will I..."

"So what?" I ask. "You're planting the seeds now?"

"Exactly."

I have half the mind to be impressed. "I'm surprised you haven't tried to seduce Torin."

"Believe me, I have."

The man in question comes striding over, nothing but smiles for Michael. "Glad you could make it."

"Likewise," he offers, smiling. "I'm told my father spat his dummy out."

Torin's eyes suddenly cut across to mine. "Blame this one."

"Oh, I will," teases Michael, suddenly gesturing around the room. "Where's your under boss?"

Reaper is likely hiding away, fighting off yet another self-inflicted illness.

"Under the weather, I'm afraid."

We all know that's utter bullshit.

"Is he with Eva?"

"No, she went home."

Michael stalls, eyebrows furrowed. "Well, that's my cue to leave."

"Why?" I ask.

"My father is known to get pretty hands-on when he's in a mood."

I have no way to reply to that.

"It was nice to see you both with your clothes on this time," he offers, retreating towards the door.

I playfully shove on his chest, enjoying his sense of humour despite what he just shared about his father. I like Michael and—without sounding too inhumane—I can't wait for the day he becomes boss of the Gallagher family. Perhaps then, things will be a little nicer around here.

"How are you feeling, Imogen Murphy?" asks Torin, adding emphasis to my surname.

I narrow my gaze "A heads up would've been nice, dickhead."

He grins.

"That could've gone seriously wrong..."

"But it didn't."

"It could've," I stress, desperate to touch him but withholding for obvious reasons.

Torin's hands rest by his side, clenching and unclenching.

"Nevertheless, Thank you," I whisper.

I gaze into his storm-grey eyes a little longer than what is considered appropriate and when I do finally mange to pull myself away, I catch Cillian staring at us. His expression is not threatening in any way. Rather, curious.

"I should work the room," I suggest, keen to put some distance between Torin and I. "Get to know the people I'll no doubt be rubbing shoulders with soon."

He nods, awkwardly coughing as I sidestep around him, careful not to accidently touch his body with my own. It feels wrong to pull away from him. Especially at a time like this. More than anyone, he is who I want to go to for advice. It's his words I'm interested in. No one else's. Unfortunately, I don't always trust myself around him. Not when there's a room full of people potentially watching me, my future father-in-law included. I hate to say it, but my success depends on how well I'm perceived by the other families. If I'm caught romantically involved with an engaged man while I myself and engaged, it doesn't exactly translate well. I'm already up against sexist men who think a woman's rightful place is at home away from danger. I do not need to give them more reason to doubt me.

"Well, well... haven't you had a busy afternoon?" comments Cillian, cornering me moments away from chatting to a man whose face I vaguely recognise.

"Torin certainly knows how to put on a show," I offer.

His rich laughter momentarily fills the room.

"Care to join me for that cigar now?"

His tone is by no means aggressive, yet I get the feeling saying no would somehow lead to my downfall. Not that I want to say no. I don't trust Cillian as far as I can throw him, but I do enjoy his company at least.

"Sounds wonderful," I say, allowing him the pleasure of leaving first.

We're moments away from slipping out into the gardens when Eva bursts through the front door, face frantic. Her usual grace is long abandoned as she drags herself across the foyer, yelling for Torin. He emerges shortly after, somewhat worried. It's not like Eva to speak so loudly, so for her to be yelling his name is certainly cause for concern.

"What is it?" he asks, taking hold of her shaking hands.

To the outside world, he looks like a concerned groom. To me, I see a man clearly worried for his friend.

"It's—it's—"

"Eva, breathe," he compels, quickly grabbing her shoulders when she sways a little.

Her eyes fill with unshed tears, her grip on reality slipping the more she attempts to push past the obvious lump forming in her throat.

"It's my father..."

"What about him?" asks Torin.

I move closer, sensing Eva's need for familiarity right now. Her blue gaze lands on mine and—for a moment—she looks relieved.

"He's—he's—"

"He's what, Eva?" I ask, ignoring the gathering crowd behind us.

Most of the men from the sit down are watching but remain quiet for the most part. Eva—seeing this—makes a conscious effort to calm her breathing and straighten her posture. Then, with two simple words, she completely throws life as we know it on its arse.

"He's dead."