Chapter 35 The Council's Summons
Two days after Cormac’s death, the summons arrived.
Not a call. Not a message.
A hand-delivered envelope, delivered by Council guards who lingered in the penthouse lobby while Liam and Alessia read its contents.
The Council requires your presence. Today. 3 PM. The Cathedral. Come prepared.
“Come prepared,” Alessia repeated, voice low, almost shaking. She looked at Liam. “What does that even mean?”
“It means they want answers,” he said, his jaw tight. “Explanations. Justification for why we killed a high-ranking O'Sullivan.” He set the letter down, expression grim, but his hand lingered near hers, steadying her. “We knew this was coming.”
“Are we in danger?”
“Always.” He moved to the safe, pulling out a leather portfolio. “But the Council doesn’t kill without reason. They want to understand. Why it happened, and whether we’re assets… or liabilities.”
Alessia touched her shoulder, still throbbing, wrapped under her clothing. The scab on her neck burned slightly—another reminder of how close she had come to dying.
“What do we tell them?” she asked quietly.
“The truth. Mostly.” Liam pulled out documents, photos, evidence compiled about Cormac’s conspiracy. “We show them he was planning a coup. Destabilizing both families. We eliminated a threat to the alliance.”
“And if they don’t believe us?”
“Then we make them believe us.” His eyes were hard. “Together.”
The Cathedral wasn’t a cathedral. Not really.
It was an old Lower Manhattan courthouse, converted decades ago into a neutral meeting space for the Council. Gothic arches, stained glass, the kind of place where power felt ancient and absolute.
They arrived exactly on time, flanked by two guards each—a statement of unity. They were escorted down echoing marble halls until massive wooden doors loomed before them.
The guards opened them.
Inside, a circular chamber. Seven high-backed chairs in a semicircle. Six were occupied.
In the center chair sat a woman impossibly old. White hair drawn tight, skin like parchment stretched over bone, eyes sharp and icy—eyes that seemed to see through everything. Madame Volkov.
“Mr. O'Sullivan. Mrs. O'Sullivan.” Her voice carried, strong, measured. “Please. Sit.”
Two chairs had been placed in the middle, facing the Council. A defendant’s position.
They sat. Shoulders straight, faces neutral masks.
“Let us begin,” Madame Volkov said. “Cormac O'Sullivan is dead. Killed two nights ago during what you claim was an attempted robbery of family assets. Is this correct?”
“Yes,” Liam said.
“Tell us what happened. Leave nothing out.”
Liam told them everything. Cormac’s conspiracy, the surveillance, the attempts to undermine the marriage alliance, the soldiers loyal to him rather than the family. Documents, communications, photographs—evidence of betrayal laid bare.
“So you set a trap,” Madame Volkov said. “Using false information to lure him into an ambush.”
“Yes.”
“Efficient.” A man with silver hair leaned forward. “But dangerous. You involved the Scarpettis in internal O'Sullivan business.”
“The threat was to both families,” Liam countered. “Cormac was destabilizing the alliance. Don Salvatore had as much interest in eliminating him as I did.”
Madame Volkov’s eyes shifted to Alessia. “And yet, it was not you, Mr. O'Sullivan, who killed him. It was your wife.”
The room fell silent. Every eye turned to her.
“Is this true?” Madame Volkov asked.
“Yes,” Alessia said, voice steady. “Cormac held me hostage. Used me as leverage. I defended myself.”
“By dislocating your own shoulder to escape, then driving a knife into his heart with professional precision.” Her tone was cold, assessing. “That is not self-defense, Mrs. O'Sullivan. That is training.”
Her pulse spiked, but she kept her face neutral. “My father ensured I could protect myself.”
“Did he?” The old woman’s eyes cut into her. “Interesting. Don Salvatore Scarpetti, who never allowed his daughter access to family business, somehow arranged for her to receive combat training sophisticated enough to kill a seasoned soldier.”
“I learned what I needed to survive.”
“Clearly,” Madame Volkov said. “But it raises questions. About who you are. What you’re capable of. Whose interests you truly serve.”
“I serve my husband’s interests,” Alessia said firmly. “And my family’s. And the alliance you created.”
“Do you?” a woman with sharp, calculating eyes asked. “Or some other master? Some other agenda?”
Liam’s hand found hers beneath the table, a silent warning. Stay calm. Don’t react.
“I serve justice,” Alessia said quietly. “My mother was killed by my father. I’ve spent my life preparing to make him answer for it. When the Council arranged this marriage, it gave me resources I didn’t have before. A partner. An ally. Someone who understands what it means to want vengeance.”
She looked at Liam. Then back at the Council.
“Yes, I’m trained. Yes, I’m capable. But I’m using that to strengthen the alliance, not destroy it. Cormac’s death proves that.”
A long, assessing silence followed.
Then Madame Volkov smiled. Not warmly. Not kindly. But with the faintest glint of approval.
“Efficiency,” she said. “Remarkable efficiency. Cormac is dead. The internal threat eliminated. The Scarpettis and O'Sullivans… aligned. The marriage appears functional.”
“More than functional,” Liam said. “It’s working.”
“Yes,” Madame Volkov said. “Unity is strength. You’ve shown it beautifully. Two families at war… now aligned against common enemies.”
“Exactly what the Council wanted,” Alessia said.
“Yes.” Her smile widened. But it carried a weight. “A union this strong becomes a threat. Be careful what empire you build, children. The Council tolerates no rivals.”
They were being praised and threatened in one breath.
“We’re not building an empire,” Liam said carefully. “We’re building stability. Peace. Exactly what you mandated.”
“For now.” Madame Volkov stood. The others rose immediately as well. “You are dismissed. But remember: we are always watching. The moment your strength becomes a threat to the balance, we will act.”
Liam and Alessia nodded, rising. They turned to leave.
“Mrs. O'Sullivan.”
Alessia stopped, turning back. Madame Volkov descended with surprising grace. She handed Alessia a sealed envelope.
“From your mother’s side of the family,” she said quietly, pressing it into her hands.
Alessia froze. “What—”
“Your grandmother sends her regards,” the old woman said, eyes glinting. “She wanted you to have this.”
Before Alessia could respond, Madame Volkov vanished through a side door.
The Council chamber emptied. Liam’s hand found hers, tight, steady.
“What just happened?” he asked.
Alessia’s eyes stayed on the envelope. Her hands trembled. Your grandmother sends her regards.
But her grandmother was supposed to be dead—or at least hidden. In witness protection. Safe. Invisible.
Unless…
“Alessia?” Liam’s voice was soft, concerned. “What is it?”
With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope. Inside, a black-and-white photograph. Old. Maybe thirty years.
Two women, smiling. One clearly her grandmother, young, pregnant. The other… Madame Volkov. Younger too, unmistakable, her arm draped around Alessia’s grandmother like they were close. Friends. Sisters. Family.
On the back, in faded ink:
Sofia and Katarina. New York. 1995.
Alessia’s hands shook so violently she nearly dropped the photograph.
“Alessia, what is it?” Liam whispered, taking it from her. His eyes widened.
“My grandmother,” she whispered. “And Madame Volkov… they knew each other.”
“How…?”
Her mind raced. Pieces clicking together with terrifying clarity.
The Council had orchestrated the marriage. They had known exactly who she was. They had contact with her grandmother—her grandmother, supposed to be hidden, protected.
Which meant… the FBI didn’t.
The Council did. Always had.
Liam’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “Alessia?”
Her voice was hollow, broken. “I think… I’ve been played. By everyone.”