17. Ruairi
Ruairi
Aoife’s words echo in my ears as I stare at the crumpled note she slammed down in front of me. The audacity of her dragging out some childhood promise we made when we were seven, as if that holds any weight now.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and lean back in my chair, exhaling sharply. I can’t wrap my head around why she’s so insistent on this. She has no idea what she’s asking for.
The door creaks open, and Bridget steps inside, her expression soft but curious. “I bumped into Aoife in the hallway.”
I snort as I sit up, patting my knee to invite my wife closer. “Come here, then. Might as well sit while you tell me what an amadán I am.”
Bridget chuckles softly as she crosses the room, her smile teasing. “You said it, not me.”
“Don’t hold back on my account,” I mutter as she settles into my lap.
Bridget rolls her eyes as she sinks into my lap. Her arms loop around my shoulders, calming some of the storm inside. “She told me she asked you to let her work in the Syndicate.”
“She brought this,” I say, holding the note up for her to see.
“What is it?” she asks.
“It’s a promise we made when we were kids barely old enough to tie our shoes. We wrote it in a shite little treehouse and signed it in blood, for Christ’s sake. And here she’s kept it like it’s some sacred contract.”
Bridget takes the note from my hand. Her lips twitch into a smile as she reads it. “You two were adorable,” she says, handing it back.
I groan, running a hand through my hair. “It was a game, Brie. Kids’ stuff. But my sister is acting like it’s the bloody Proclamation of the Irish Republic.”
“She’s serious about this,” Bridget says gently.
“I know she’s serious,” I snap, though the anger in my tone is more frustration than anything else. “That’s what worries me. Aoife doesn’t understand what she’s asking for. This life is dangerous. It’s brutal. It’s not a place for a girl.”
“Aoife’s not a child anymore. She’s a grown woman, and she’s determined.” My wife’s gaze softens as she rests a hand on my arm. “You can’t protect her from everything.”
I shake my head. “I can try.”
“Be patient with her,” Bridget says. “She’s trying to figure out where she belongs now that your parents are gone. She’s still grieving.”
I exhale heavily. “I get that she’s grieving. I am, too. But this obsession with the Syndicate? It’s not about finding where she belongs. It’s about proving something, and I won’t let her do that.”
“She mentioned Cian O’Leary,” Bridget says, changing the subject. “Maybe now isn’t the best time to introduce them.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “It’s too late for that. He’s coming to dinner tonight.”
Her brows lift in surprise. “Does Aoife know?”
“No,” I admit. “I didn’t think it was necessary to mention it.”
My wife sighs, shaking her head. “You’re playing with fire, Ruairi.”
“She’ll get over it,” I say, though I’m not entirely convinced. Aoife’s temper is as fiery as her hair, and I know this will only stoke the flames. Whether she likes it or not, she needs to understand that I’m doing this for her.
Bridget stands, smoothing her hands over her dress. “Don’t push her too hard. She’s not as fragile as you think, but she’s not unbreakable either.”
I nod, though my resolve remains firm. Aoife doesn’t see the danger she’s walking into, but I do. And as long as I’m in charge, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her out of it. Even if she hates me for it.