When Kings Rise : A Dark Irish Mafia Romance intensified by the presence of a cult. (The O'Sullivan

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE AIR IS brisk and carries with it the scent of city life—coffee, the faint hint of exhaust, and the promise of rain. Grafton Street buzzes around us, alive and vibrant. I”m walking alongside Niamh, her presence a comforting constant in the pulsating heart of the city. The shops gleam with the allure of luxury, their windows filled with colors and lights, but it”s the simple joy of exploration with Niamh that I find myself cherishing the most.

We come to a halt before a statue, its bronze form a tribute to a woman whose story is woven into the fabric of Dublin’s history. The statue depicts her with corsets that daringly reveal the top part of her breasts, a silent yet bold testament to her existence—or the lack thereof, depending on who you ask.

“People say she never really existed,” I muse aloud, tracing the lines of the statue with my eyes.

Niamh looks at me, her brows furrowing slightly. “That”s ridiculous. How can they say Mary Malone was just...made up?”

I lean closer, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There was a mix-up with the record-keeping. Turns out, Mary Malone wasn’t exactly who everyone thought she was.”

Niamh’s gaze drifts to the statue, to the baskets in the wheelbarrow, empty.

“That’s probably why she had to sell herself,” I say softly with humor.

Niamh laughs softly and links her arm with mine as we resume walking.

“I think she was real.” Niamh declares as we walk along the repaved street.

The murmur of conversations envelops us. “What are you craving to eat?” I ask.

Niamh’s response is hesitant, tinged with vulnerability. “I’m still getting used to not counting calories or carbohydrates in my food. Being an athlete...it did a number on how I see food.”

I squeeze her arm gently, a silent vow forming between us. “We”ll fix that. First, we go for Chinese. Then, when we”re ready for round two, we”ll hit the chocolate store.”

Niamh looks at me, surprise etched on her face.

“An entire store dedicated to chocolate. It will be glorious,” I grip her hand for a moment with excitement.

As we continue our stroll, a thought bubbles to the surface. “I once dreamed of opening a store here,” I confess, the words slipping out before I can weigh their impact.

Niamh”s interest is piqued, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. “Oh? What kind of store? A bookstore?”

The guess brings a smile to my face. “You would think, but no. I wanted to open an amezaiku store.

“Amezaiku?” She echoes, her expression a blend of confusion and intrigue.

“It”s a very artistic style of Japanese candy making,” I explain, the memories of my fascination unfurling like the pages of a well-loved book. “I was obsessed with it for about two years. It was one of those dreams that shine brightly for a moment before fading into the backdrop of reality.”

Niamh”s interest seems to deepen. “You had other dreams?”

“Too many,” I admit with a laugh, a sound that feels both free and a little sad. “My parents let me explore anything that caught my fancy.”

“That sounds nice,” she muses, a note of wistfulness in her voice.

“It was, in its own way. But in the end, we both ended up in the same place, didn”t we?” I say, a subtle acknowledgment of our shared journey, of paths that diverged and converged in the most unexpected of ways.

Our conversation shifts to lighter topics as we secure some Chinese takeout, the warmth of the containers promising comfort and satiation. However, our search for a bench to enjoy our meal proves fruitless; every potential spot is already claimed, a testament to the city”s bustle and life.

Undeterred, I lead us to a quiet piece of wall on the side of a building, an improvised spot that offers respite and a view of the street”s vibrant dance. Sitting down, I lean my back against the cool brick, feeling its solid presence grounding me. Niamh joins me, her own back finding the wall, and we sit side by side in companionable silence, the city”s hum a backdrop to our shared meal.

The rice is divine, with just the right amount of honey sauce poured on, and I find small cuttings of filet beef mixed like prizes amongst the rice and peppers.

“So, what happened at the theater?” I ask. I had tried to ask earlier, but Niamh had avoided my question. She was so obvious; now I need to know what took place.

Niamh’s cheeks color with a sudden blush, her eyes darting away, and I can’t help but smile at her bashfulness. “Why are you blushing?” I tease, trying to ease her discomfort. “You’re a grown woman, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of. And, if you”re worried about someone overhearing, there’s no one close enough to care. Even if they did, no one knows us, anyway.”

She hesitates, then, looking at me with a mix of admiration and incredulity, she changes the subject. “How can you think about shopping, food, and... other things when there’s so much bad happening in the world?”

Her question strikes a chord deep within me, a reminder of a truth I seldom visit. I recall the moment my parents revealed the nature of my existence to them—not as a daughter cherished and loved for who she is but as a commodity, a pawn in their social maneuverings. I had idolized them, believing in their affection and support, only to discover their warmth was as hollow as the echoes in a deserted hall. The realization had come crashing down on me during a stay at my grandparents’ where the absence of genuine love in my upbringing became painfully clear.

Yet, this revelation, this understanding of my place in my family’s world, is not something I wish to lay upon Niamh”s shoulders. So, I choose simplicity over the weight of my history. “If you worry about something that’s going to happen, you suffer twice,” I say, hoping to offer a sliver of wisdom amidst the uncertainty.

Niamh pauses, considering my words. “Buddhism?” she ventures, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Close!” I laugh, shaking my head at Niamh”s guess. “Seneca, a Roman philosopher.”

Niamh rolls her eyes playfully, and for a moment, the tension between us eases. We”re just two friends sharing lunch, not competitors in a bizarre contest for love. But even as we banter, my mind drifts to Diarmuid—charismatic, enigmatic Diarmuid. It”s easy to get lost in discussions about his many fine qualities; his charm is undeniable, his smile infectious. But beneath the surface, there”s a darkness that nags at me, a shadow I can”t ignore.

“He”s got this... aura, doesn”t he?” Niamh muses, her voice tinged with a mix of admiration and curiosity.

I nod, trying to focus on the conversation, but my thoughts betray me, wandering to that haunting image. Diarmuid, a man capable of killing without hesitation. The rumor of him killing a child whispers in my mind, a sinister lullaby that won”t let me rest. I glance at Niamh, wondering if I should share my fears. But what if knowing puts her in danger? What if ignorance is her shield?

We drift to lighter topics, like Diarmuid”s peculiar habit of always keeping his shirt on. “Maybe he”s hiding a tattoo,” Niamh suggests, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Or maybe scars from some secret past,” I add, trying to match her levity. We weave theories as fantastical as the tales of old, each more absurd than the last. But the laughter doesn”t reach my eyes, and I wonder if Niamh notices.

Lunch ends, and we dispose of our garbage, the mundane act grounding me for a moment. As we link arms, heading towards the chocolate store, I can”t help but marvel at the strangeness of our situation. Here we are, acting like lifelong friends, yet we”re rivals, each hoping to win Diarmuid”s heart. I think of Amira and the last time we saw her.

“Have you heard from Amira lately?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Niamh”s expression sours slightly. “I try not to talk to her even when we”re in the same room,” she admits, and there”s a bitterness in her voice that surprises me.

As I lean over the counter, watching the chocolatier package our order with an artisanal touch, Niamh”s phone shatters the cozy atmosphere of the shop. She steps aside, her expression shifting from casual curiosity to intense focus. I try to distract myself with the array of chocolates, but the undercurrent of our situation tugs at me, pulling me back to a reality I”d rather forget.

When Niamh ends the call, her eyes meet mine, holding a storm within them. “It was Rian,” she says, her voice a mix of hope and dread. “He thinks he has the identity of the woman.”

A chill runs down my spine, and the delicious aromas around me suddenly don’t register. The weight of our investigation crashes into me with renewed force. We”re not just playing a game of affection and intrigue; we”re knee-deep in a conspiracy, a murder. The realization makes my earlier worries seem naive, a fool”s errand of trying to compartmentalize my life into manageable, unthreatening pieces.

I watch as the last of the chocolates are tucked into the box, the ribbon tied with a flourish that now feels grotesquely out of place. Turning to Niamh, I muster a faint smile; the question about the chocolate feels hollow. “Do you... want your chocolate?” My voice is barely above a whisper, laced with a sudden lack of appetite that mirrors my inner turmoil.

Niamh shakes her head, her gaze distant. “Not hungry,” she murmurs, and I can see the gears turning behind her eyes, processing the call with Rian, the implications of what he”s discovered.

We leave the shop, the box of chocolates in my hand feeling like a leaden weight. Neither of us has the heart to indulge in them, not with the shadow of the murder looming over us. As we walk, the streets seem less vibrant, the laughter and chatter around us a discordant soundtrack to the grim reality we”re entangled in. The sweet anticipation of enjoying our treats evaporates, replaced by a cold determination to face whatever comes next.

Rian”s apartment feels like a storm”s epicenter as we step inside. He dashes back to his cluttered table in a whirlwind of papers without a word of greeting. His excitement is palpable, infectious even, but I”m rooted to the spot, a sense of dread building within me.

“It wasn”t easy,” Rian starts, his words tumbling out as fast as he moves, shuffling through the documents with frenzied precision. “I”ve been at this non-stop since you described the composite sketch. And you won”t believe where I finally found her identity—a paparazzi blog, of all places.”

Niamh and I exchange a look. The absurdity of the situation is not lost on us, yet the gravity of what Rian says anchors us to the moment. He slides a photograph across the table toward us, his fingers trembling slightly with the weight of his discovery.

The woman in the photo turns, her gaze caught by the camera as if she knew this moment was coming. She”s beautiful, undeniably so, with an elegance that seems at odds with her fate. Her hair, styled perfectly, frames her face, and the black dress under her peacoat speaks of a night out, perhaps one filled with laughter and life—so starkly different from how her story ended.

Looking at her, alive and vibrant, sends a chill through me, a visceral reaction as the memory of the bruising around her neck flashes in my mind. It”s a stark reminder of the brutality she faced, a contrast so jarring against the glamorous image before us. My stomach turns, the injustice of her death a heavy, suffocating blanket.

“She looks...” Niamh starts, her voice trailing off, lost in the same morass of emotions that I”m drowning in.

“Like she didn”t deserve what happened to her,” I finish for her, my voice barely a whisper. The room feels smaller somehow, the walls closing in as the reality of what we”re dealing with settles heavily on my shoulders. We”re not just hunting shadows; we”re seeking justice for a woman who had her life cruelly snatched away.

“Her name is Sofia Hughes,” Rian announces, the solemnity in his tone contrasting sharply with his earlier excitement. My gaze shifts back to the photo, to Sofia”s image, and I don”t doubt him for a second. The resemblance to the body we saw, to the sketch the coroner had, is undeniable. The article he”s referring to paints a picture of a woman caught in a dangerous liaison—a freelance journalist rumored to be entangled with someone high up in the government.

“A cover-up for an affair,” I murmur, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “But murder... It seems so drastic.”

Niamh is quiet for a moment; her thoughts are obviously elsewhere. Then, hesitantly, she asks, “Is Sofia”s family looking for her?” Her voice is tinged with a personal anguish that doesn”t escape me. I know she”s thinking of her own sister, the fear of something happening to her lurking in the back of her mind.

Rian doesn”t miss a beat, pulling up a social media post on his laptop. It”s a plea from Sofia”s sister, Nessa, asking about Sofia”s whereabouts. The post is accompanied by a photo of Sofia and Nessa together, laughing as they share ice cream. Their joy is palpable, their smiles bright, yet now, knowing Sofia”s fate, those smiles haunt me.

“Sofia has a family,” I state, the realization hitting me with full force. These are not just names and faces in a case file. These are real people torn apart by tragedy, their lives irrevocably altered. Niamh and I lock eyes, a silent agreement passing between us. We have to find them.

Seeing Sofia”s smile and thinking of Nessa”s unanswered questions solidifies my resolve. This is more than just solving a crime; it”s about bringing peace to a family shattered by loss.

“We”ll find them,” Niamh says, her determination mirroring my own. “For Sofia.”

For a moment, the room is filled with an unspoken vow, a commitment to this cause that goes beyond curiosity or the thrill of the hunt. We”re bound by a sense of justice, a need to right a wrong that”s all too common in a world that often turns a blind eye to the pain of others. Sofia”s story is a tragic reminder of that, but in her memory, we find our mission.