40. Aoife
Aoife
The car ride is silent, the air thick with the weight of everything that’s happened tonight.
Eamon’s hands grip the wheel too tightly, his jaw locked, eyes fixed on the road ahead, but he hasn’t said a word.
I had every intention of telling him about the meeting and giving him exactly what he needed to strike Ruairi.
But then he freaked out and dragged me out of the penthouse.
And now we’re in the car, going God only knows where.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Ruairi’s text messages made it even worse. I scroll up, rereading his hateful words.
First, you whore yourself out to O’Sullivan and now to Cian? You think that earns you a seat at the table?
The message stares back at me. Ruairi’s always been controlling, but this is a low he’s never stooped to. His words cut deeper than I care to admit.
And then there’s Cian.
I glance at the pictures again, the ones he sent right to Ruairi. I knew he couldn’t be trusted. This only cements it. He played his part perfectly today, acting like I was something special, all while feeding Ruairi exactly what he wanted him to see.
Bastard.
I shove my phone into my pocket and cross my arms, staring out the window. The city lights have long since faded, replaced by winding roads and endless stretches of dark countryside.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Eamon doesn’t look at me. His hands stay steady on the wheel, his expression unreadable. “You’ll see.”
The vague answer grates on my nerves. “Eamon.”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give me any indication that he even heard my voice. We continue on the main road until he makes a turn onto a narrow dirt path. Up ahead, looming against the night sky, stands an old castle.
I frown. “What the hell is this?”
Eamon shifts the car into park and finally turns to me. “One of my holding sites.”
I glance up at the castle, a cold sense of unease curling around my spine. Holding site. I don’t need a translation for that. “Why are we here?” I ask.
“You said you wanted to be in this world,” Eamon says and watches me for a long moment. “If you’re having second thoughts, just say the word, and we’ll go back to the penthouse.”
I square my shoulders, my tone firm. “I already told you I’m all in.”
He nods slowly like he’s measuring my conviction. “Tonight will prove to me, and everyone else, that you mean it.”
My chest tightens, but I keep my face neutral.
Eamon steps out of the car, and I follow, my boots crunching against the gravel. The castle is even more imposing up close. It rises tall and unyielding, its jagged stone walls looming against the night sky. The narrow windows are dark and empty, like hollow eyes carved into a cold, watchful face.
A few of Eamon’s men linger near the entrance, their heads snapping up in surprise when they see him.
“Didn’t expect you here, boss,” one of them says, his brows lifting.
Eamon’s voice is firm, unwavering. “I’m handling things in person tonight.”
The men exchange glances, but no one questions him.
I swallow hard, my nerves creeping in, but I push them down. This is what I wanted.
Eamon doesn’t slow. “Follow me.”
He leads me deeper into the castle, past spiral staircases, and arched stone doorways, the air growing colder with each step. We stop at a stretch of unmarked wall, indistinguishable from the rest of the corridor.
Eamon presses his hand to a carved stone near the base. With a faint click, a section of the wall shifts, grinding open just enough to reveal a narrow passage beyond. A hidden doorway. Without a word, he steps through.
I hesitate. Eamon notices.
He smirks, stepping onto the first stone step. “Having second thoughts?”
I lift my chin. “No.”
He watches me, reading me like he always does. “You can still turn back. It’s not too late.”
Brushing past him, I descend the stairs first, ignoring the way my heart hammers in my chest.
The underground level is worse. The air is damp and heavy with the scent of moisture, old stone, and something faintly metallic—like the ghost of blood long since washed away.
The only light comes from a few exposed bulbs swaying slightly.
Their glow flickers erratically, casting distorted shadows that seem to shift and stretch out like reaching hands.
The hum of electricity buzzes faintly, almost drowned out by the slow, rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the distance. The uneven floor is slick in places, the moisture seeping through the cracks, making each step feel like I’m sinking deeper into something I can’t escape.
We turn into a room, and I see him. A man sits in a chair in the middle of the space, his wrists bound behind him, his face bloodied and swollen from the beating he appears to have already taken. I swallow hard, keeping my expression blank as Eamon steps beside me.
“This,” Eamon says, his voice calm, almost casual, like we’re discussing the weather, “is one of your brother’s men.”
My stomach twists.
“He was caught skulking around my docks,” he continues, his gaze never leaving the man slumped before us. “We found the explosives in his bag. Tucked beneath crates, rigged to go off the moment my shipment arrived.”
A cold chill works its way down my spine.
“Not just spying,” he adds, almost as if he's explaining it for my benefit. “He wasn’t here to gather intel. He was here to make a statement. To send a message from Ruairi.”
He turns his head, finally looking at me. “So now we’ll send one back.” He steps closer, boots scraping against the cold stone floor. “Do you know how we’ll do that, Aoife?” he asks, still staring at the bruised and bloodied figure.
My throat tightens, but I manage the words. “He needs to die.”
Eamon’s gaze darkens with approval. “Good girl.”
I don’t flinch when he reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is light, almost tender, but there’s nothing soft about the moment.
Then, he steps back and unholsters his gun. I watch, frozen, as he holds it out to me.
“You’re going to pull the trigger.”
The weight of his words crash over me.
I stare at the gun. At the man in the chair. At Eamon.
This is it.
This is the moment where I take control of my future.
If I back down now, neither Eamon nor Ruairi will ever take me seriously. I’ll never have a place in the Syndicate. I’ll never be more than Ruairi’s twin or Eamon’s girlfriend.
This is my pit. My pendulum swings above me. And I will not be the one left waiting beneath its blade.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Eamon leans in, his whispered words meant for only me to hear. “It’s not too late to decide this isn’t for you.”
I know what he’s doing. He’s pushing me, giving me an out.
But I don’t take it.
Instead, I wrap my fingers around the gun, raise it, click the safety off?—