Page 106 of Ravaged By a Devil

It’s almost midnight by the time I tear down the empty highway and pull up to Eden. I bypass the club floor, heading straight up the back stairs to the private executive office.

"What?" I burst inside, pushing the doors wide open. "It's midnight, Zeke."

All four of my brothers—Ezekiel, Elijah, Levi, and Malachi—are already inside, standing in a grim, silent circle around the central table. The atmosphere in the room is suffocating with cold tension.

Elijah reaches into his coat, pulls out two surveillance photographs, and tosses them onto the polished wood. My eyes lock onto the glossy paper.

Brendan and Lachlan Devlin, captured in a high-resolution terminal, surrounded by heavily armed men.

Before I can even process the image, Elijah unsheathes his blade, raises it high, and sinks the steel knife straight through the center of both photographs, embedding it deep into the table with a deafening thud.

The hilt vibrates in the dead silence.

We all glance around the table at one another, the truth hanging between us like iron. Nolan Devlin might be rotting in the dirt, but his brothers are already rallying their forces.

The line has been redrawn, and even with Nolan gone, the Devlin threat has morphed into something larger.

The war isn't over—it's only just begun.

EPILOGUE

ELIJAH

TWO MONTHS LATER

The glow of my laptop screen is the only source of light cutting through the dim, quiet stillness of my office. The rest of the floor is empty, but my mind never rests. For eight straight weeks, I’ve been tracking every ghost, every supply line, and every whisper left behind in the wake of Nolan Devlin’s death.

A sharp buzz shatters the silence.

I look over at my phone as it vibrates against the polished wood. The screen flashes with an encrypted, twenty-digit string—a direct line from one of my key intelligence operatives stationed across the country.

I pick it up and tap the screen. "Speak."

"Boss. It’s Isaac," the raspy, distorted voice comes through the receiver.

I lean back in my leather chair, letting out a short grunt. "Go on."

"Brendan is back in New Orleans," Isaac says, dropping his voice an octave. "He slipped into the port three nights ago under a commercial registry. He’s moving in the dark, quietly rebuilding his network and stitching together the scraps Nolan left behind."

I narrow my eyes, my fingers tapping a steady, rhythmic cadence on the desk.

"That's not all," Isaac continues, the static humming over the line. "He’s in active negotiations with the O'Connors. The old guard.”

I narrow my eyes. The O’Connors have always held a deep distrust for the Kavanagh family.

As if to confirm my thoughts, Isaac says, “As you know, they view you and your brothers as volatile, unstable, and incapable of building a lasting dynasty. Word is, the O'Connors are preparing to back whichever side proves itself more legitimate, structure-driven, and stable."

"Okay," I say coldly. "Keep eyes on the docks."

I cut the encryption feed, toss the phone back onto the desk, and stand up. Walking over to the corner bar, I pick up a crystal carafe and pour myself two fingers of neat scotch. I swirl the amber liquid, staring out the floor-to-ceiling glass at the quiet city below, taking a slow sip as the burn hits my throat.

The O’Connors are a powerful Irish family—vast, old money with deep roots in every legitimate and illegitimate sector across the territory. If they put their full financial backing and political leverage behind Brendan, it could elevate the Devlins into a far more dangerous threat than they ever were under Nolan.

I need to handle this, and fast.

The door to my office clicks open. I turn around slowly, the glass of scotch still resting between my fingers, as Ezekiel walks in.

"I need the shipping manifests for the southern docks," Ezekiel says, stopping mid-stride. His sharp eyes lock onto the amber liquid in my glass, then drop to the bottle on the counter. He raises an eyebrow.