The Blood Toll

Malia Kilsyth

The smell of beeswax and burning incense usually brings people peace. To me, it just smells like cold marble and dead promises.

I stood in the far transept of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, hidden in the shadows of the massive bluestone pillars, watching the candlelight flicker across the portrait of my older brother, Callan. Four years. Four years since they pulled his body out of the Yarra River, full of Calaby lead, and not a single day had passed where the taste of ash in my mouth felt any less bitter.

Outside, Melbourne was drowning in a miserable autumn downpour, the rain beating hard against the stained-glass windows. Inside, I was drowning in my own silence.

I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I touched the edge of the brass votive stand. The metal was icy. My sun-bronzed skin looked almost ghostly beneath the dim nave lights, but my grip on the small lighter was steady. I lit a single candle, watching the yellow flame spring to life, reflecting in the dark amber of my eyes.

"I haven't forgotten, Callan," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the distant rumble of thunder. "I'm still breathing. And so are they. But not for long."

"You shouldn't be here alone, Malia."

The voice came from the dark aisle behind me, soft, fragile, and laced with familiar dread. I didn't flinch. I just slowly lowered the lighter and turned to face my sister.

Elena looked like a porcelain doll against the dark wood of the pews. Her wide hazel eyes were rimmed with red, her pale skin stark against the soft, cream-colored trench coat she wore. Where I was built of sharp edges and stubborn muscle, Elena was all soft curves and quiet grace. She moved toward me, her heels clicking softly against the floor, looking nervously over her shoulder toward the cathedral's grand arched entrance.

"Father's men are outside," Elena said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper as she reached for my hand. Her fingers were freezing. "Alastair knows you slipped away from the estate. He’s furious, Mal. He says today isn't the day for private grief."

"Today is the only day that matters," I snapped softly, though I squeezed her cold fingers back. "Callan died four years ago today, Elena. Father might have moved on to his supply lines and port contracts, but I haven't. I won't."

Elena’s eyes filled with sudden, terrified tears. She looked toward the altar, then dragged me deeper into the shadow of the pillar, her gaze searching my face with desperate urgency.

"You need to stop digging into the docks, Malia," she breathed, her grip tightening until her nails dug into my palm. "Father isn't just angry about you missing meetings. Something shifted last night. The Calaby syndicate... They hijacked another shipment at Victoria Docklands. Two of our enforcers didn't make it back. The city is burning, and Father is done negotiating with bullet holes."

A cold thrill shot down my spine, overriding the dull ache in my heart. "Let it burn. If Jarrah Calaby wants a war, I’ll personally hand him the matches."

"You don't understand!" Elena’s voice cracked, a rare spike of panic breaking through her usual timid reserve. "Father called an emergency council meeting at the estate for tonight. He isn't planning a counter-strike, Malia. He’s planning a surrender. Or... a sacrifice. I overheard him on the phone in his study. He mentioned your name."

My blood went instantly cold. The warmth of the single candle behind me suddenly felt miles away.

"My name?" I asked, my voice flat, hardening into armor. "Why would he bring me up to the syndicate board?"

Before Elena could answer, the heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral creaked open. The ambient sound of the rain outside flooded the quiet sanctuary, accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots on polished stone.

Two men in dark, tailored suits walked down the center aisle. They didn't remove their coats, nor did they show any respect for the sacred space. They were Alastair Kilsyth’s personal hounds who wore legitimate corporate badges over concealed shoulder holsters.

"Miss Kilsyth," the taller enforcer said, stopping a few paces away. His eyes were completely dead, void of empathy. "Your father requires your presence at the Toorak estate immediately. The car is waiting."

Elena shrank back slightly, her breath hitching in her throat, but I stepped smoothly in front of her, setting my shoulders back and pulling myself up to my full five-foot-seven height. I threw a final glance back at Callan’s candle. The flame flickered violently in the draft from the open doors, fighting against the dark, before steadying once more.

Hold on a little longer, I thought to the flame. Just a little longer.

"Tell my father I’ll be in the car when I'm finished," I said coldly, my dark amber eyes locking onto the enforcer with pure disdain.

"Now, Miss Malia," the man repeated, his hand shifting just an inch inside his jacket a subtle, menacing reminder of who really owned the streets of Melbourne. "Mr. Kilsyth said it cannot wait another minute."

I held his stare for three agonizing seconds, letting the silence stretch between us until the tension in the cathedral felt like a drawn bowstring. Then, without a word, I tucked my hands into the pockets of my long black coat, feeling the small, cold weight of the folded steel pocketknife hidden in my seam.

"Let's go, Elena," I said softly.

The drive from St. Patrick’s to the elite, gated enclaves of Toorak was spent in suffocating silence. Rain lashed at the tinted windows of the armored SUV, blurring the bright neon lights of Melbourne’s CBD into smears of red and gold. Beside me, Elena stared out the window, her hands wrapped tightly around her purse, her knuckles white. I kept my hand buried in my pocket, my thumb running rhythmically over the textured handle of my blade.

When the heavy iron gates of the Kilsyth estate swept open, my stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. The house was a massive, modern fortress of concrete and dark glass, overlooking manicured gardens that masked the blood money used to buy them.

We didn't go to the family living quarters. The enforcer led us straight toward Alastair’s private wing, the wing where decisions were made, where men were condemned, and where my family's criminal empire was quietly steered from behind mahogany doors.

The heavy double doors of Alastair’s study were already standing open.

Inside, the room smelled of expensive scotch, Cuban tobacco, and old leather. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looked out over the rain-drenched courtyard was my father.

Alastair Kilsyth was fifty-eight, but he moved with the brutal efficiency of a man half his age. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back flawlessly, highlighting the hard, weathered lines of his face and the cold, obsidian black of his eyes. He didn't turn around immediately when we walked in. He just stood there, swirling an amber liquid in a crystal glass.

"Leave us, Elena," Alastair said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that commanded total obedience.

Elena hesitated, looking at me with wide, fearful eyes. "Father, please"

"I said leave, Elena," he repeated, not raising his voice, which only made it more terrifying.

Elena swallowed hard, squeezed my wrist once in a quick, panicked gesture, and backed out of the room. The heavy doors clicked shut behind her, sealing the two of us inside.

I stood in the center of the plush Persian rug, refusing to take a step closer to him. "You sent your lapdogs to pull me away from Callan's memorial. You better have a damn good reason, Alastair."

He didn't flinch at my disrespect. He slowly turned around, setting his glass down on the heavy mahogany desk. His obsidian eyes swept over me, evaluating me not as a daughter, but as a piece of property, measuring my posture, my dark hair, the sharp angle of my jaw.

"Callan is dead, Malia," he said bluntly, walking around the desk until he was standing just a few feet away. "He has been dead for four years. But this family is alive, and right now, the Calabys are choking off our supply lines through Port Phillip. We lost thirty million dollars in freight last night alone."

"Then hit them back!" I snarled, stepping forward, the anger that had been simmering in my chest for years finally boiling over. "Jarrah Calaby took Callan from us! He took your heir! And you're standing here talking about freight lines? Send the enforcers into the Docklands and burn his warehouses to the ground!"

Alastair watched my outburst with terrifying calmness. A faint, cruel smile touched his thin lips.

"A full-scale war with the Calaby syndicate will destroy us both, Malia. Jarrah is not his father. He is unpredictable. Lethal. They call him 'The Warden' for a reason. Once he locks down a territory, nobody gets out alive. Victoria’s police commissioner is already threatening federal intervention if another body drops in the bay."

"So what are you saying?" My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a dark, heavy foreboding settling into my lungs. "You're just going to make peace with Callan's murderer?"

"Not peace," Alastair said smoothly, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "A truce. A binding one."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a heavy, cream-colored document stamped with a dark red wax seal. He tossed it onto the desk between us.

I looked down at the bold, elegant lettering at the top of the parchment. My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet, the air rushing out of my lungs as if I had been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer.

MARRIAGE ALLIANCE & UNDERWORLD PACIFICATION CONTRACT

"What is this?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of the rain hitting the window.

"Jarrah Calaby has agreed to cease all hostilities and open the port network," Alastair said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute, unyielding authority. "In exchange, he demands a blood tie to guarantee our compliance."

He stepped closer, leaning down until his dark eyes were level with mine.

"You are going to marry Jarrah Calaby, Malia. The wedding is in two weeks.”