The fog clung to the harbor like a living thing.
It rolled in heavy off the water, swallowing sound and distance, muting the world down to shapes and shadows. Iron chains groaned somewhere in the haze. A ship's horn bellowed low and mournful, as if announcing a death rather than an arrival. When the gangplank slammed down against the dock, the sound echoed like a verdict.
Eamon Fitzpatrick stepped forward.
His boot hit the wood with a dull thud, solid and final, and in that moment the last tie to Ireland snapped. No ceremony. No audience. Just a young man crossing a line he could never walk back across.
Twenty-one years old.
Too young, some would say, to understand power. Too young to know what it cost. Eamon disagreed. Power had introduced itself to him early—through clenched fists, whispered threats, and the quiet understanding that the world belonged to those willing to take it.
The ship loomed behind him, black and massive, already beginning to feel like a ghost. Ahead lay Blackharbor, USA, rising from the fog in jagged layers of brick, steel, and smoke. The city didn't glitter. It didn't pretend to be anything it wasn't. There were no shining towers, no welcoming lights. Just warehouses hunched like old men, cranes frozen in skeletal poses, and streets that seemed to coil inward, tight and watchful.
It reminded him of home.
Not the green fields tourists dreamed about—but the alleys, the pubs, the back rooms where deals were made and blood was quietly paid for. Ireland had taught him how memory could weigh heavier than stone. Blackharbor felt like a place that remembered everything.
Eamon paused at the edge of the dock, letting the stream of passengers flow around him. Immigrants, sailors, laborers—faces tight with hope or resignation. Some clutched papers like lifelines. Others carried nothing at all.
He carried both too much and not enough.
His gray eyes scanned the pier slowly, deliberately. Not darting. Not rushed. He took in details the way his father had taught him—hands first, then posture, then eyes. Who was armed. Who was afraid. Who was pretending not to watch.
Looking lost got you eaten.
Looking nervous got you tested.
Eamon did neither.
His duffel bag hung from one shoulder, light by design. Everything important was either on him or inside his head. The hurley—Mo Chara Beag—was wrapped in cloth beneath his coat, the ash wood pressed comfortably against his thigh. He could feel every nick and groove in it without looking. His thumb brushed the fabric unconsciously, like checking a pulse.
It had belonged to his father once.
Before that, his uncle.
Men in the Fitzpatrick family didn't leave behind heirlooms in glass cases or stories written down. They passed things hand to hand. Tools. Lessons. Warnings.
Mind your temper.
Watch the quiet ones.
Never threaten unless you're ready to finish it.
Eamon had learned those lessons young. He'd learned others too—the kind you didn't repeat out loud. Like how quickly friends turned when money got thin. How loyalty bent under pressure. How violence, when used carefully, could feel almost surgical.
The pistol was new. American. A .45 semi-automatic, heavy and reassuring beneath his jacket. He'd bought it through a chain of men who never asked questions and never used real names. That wasn't heritage. That was adaptation.
Ireland had taught him who he was.
America would teach him what he could become.
A crane swung overhead, chains rattling as a cargo crate was lowered onto the dock. Dockworkers moved with practiced efficiency—backs bent, muscles hard, faces carved by weather and years of being ignored. These were men who broke themselves so others could grow rich. Eamon watched them closely. Cities like Blackharbor were built on the backs of men like these, and ruled by men who never touched the weight.
He intended to be one of the rulers.
His eyes caught movement near the far end of the pier—a man leaning casually against a lamppost, posture loose, eyes deliberately unfocused. Too deliberate. The man's coat was worn thin, his flat cap pulled low, but his boots were clean. That detail mattered.
The man glanced up once.
Gray met brown.
Then the gaze slid away.
Eamon exhaled slowly and started walking.
Each step was unhurried, measured. He adjusted his pace to match the rhythm of the dock, blending in, becoming just another shape in the fog. When he stopped in front of the man, neither acknowledged the other at first.
"You took your time," the man said finally, voice low.
"Didn't want to look eager," Eamon replied.
The man snorted softly and turned. Up close, he looked older than Eamon remembered—lines around the eyes, a scar cutting through one eyebrow.
"Jesus Christ," the man muttered. "You look just like him."
Eamon tilted his head. "That's what I was afraid of."
Sean O'Leary laughed under his breath, the sound carrying more nerves than humor. "I was hoping you'd come out taller. Or uglier."
"You never were an optimist."
Sean extended his hand. Eamon took it. The grip was firm, testing. Eamon matched it without effort.
"You don't remember me," Sean said.
"I do," Eamon replied. "You used to cheat at cards and blame the drink."
"And you used to break fingers for less than an apology."
"Still do."
Sean studied him more carefully now, eyes sharper. "You're younger than I expected."
"Everyone says that."
They fell into step together, moving away from the pier and into the narrow streets beyond. The fog thinned but didn't disappear. Buildings leaned close on either side, brick dark with age and soot. Somewhere nearby, a radio played tinny music through an open window.
Sean kept his voice low. "You sure about this place, Eamon? Blackharbor isn't kind to newcomers. Especially ones with accents."
Eamon glanced around, committing street names and landmarks to memory. "Accents fade."
"Enemies don't."
"I'm counting on that."
Sean shook his head. "You've got men here already making money. Families that've been running things since before either of us were born."
Eamon stopped walking.
Sean took another step before realizing, then turned back. Eamon's gray eyes locked onto his, steady and unblinking.
"I didn't come here to make money," Eamon said quietly. "I came here to matter."
Sean swallowed. "Those families won't like that."
"They don't have to."
For a moment, Sean looked like he might laugh again. He didn't. Instead, he nodded once—sharp and final.
"Then you'd better understand something," he said. "Blackharbor doesn't give power. It takes it back."
Eamon adjusted the strap of his bag and resumed walking. "Then it'll have to try."
They turned down a side street, the harbor disappearing behind them. Somewhere, a door slammed. Somewhere else, a man shouted. Life in Blackharbor went on, unaware or uncaring that a line had just been crossed.
Eamon didn't look back at the ship as it pulled away into the fog. He didn't need to. Everything that mattered was ahead of him now.
The city waited—old, brutal, and hungry.
And Eamon Fitzpatrick was hungry too.
For the first time since stepping onto American soil, he allowed himself a small, private smile.
The Family of Power had just gained a new member.