69. Aoife
Aoife
I should feel guilty.
The blade rests in my palm, its cold weight a reminder of what I’ve chosen to do.
What I’ve become. The room smells of damp stone and fear, the air so thick I can almost taste the tension.
Ruairi sits bound in the chair before me, his head slumped forward, his breathing ragged.
My twin. My blood. The other half of me, whose shadow I’ve spent my entire life living in.
And here I am, about to prove once and for all that I’m just as worthy.
The pendulum swings in the shadows above us.
Its steady rhythm echoes the pounding in my chest, a reminder of how little time I have.
I trace the edge of the blade with my thumb, watching the light flicker across its surface.
One slice. One mark to show him I’m not the same girl he’s always underestimated.
“Do it,” Eamon’s voice murmurs from the corner. Smooth, steady, unrelenting. He’s the devil on my shoulder, the man who saw in me what Ruairi never could.
Strength. Ambition. Fire.
Ruairi lifts his head slowly, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. He doesn’t plead. He doesn’t flinch. He just stares at me with that infuriating mix of defiance and pity, like he still thinks I’m a child playing at a dangerous game.
“You don’t have to do this, Aoife,” he says, his voice hoarse but steady. “You’re not like him.”
I laugh, though it tastes bitter on my tongue. “And what am I like, Ruairi? A good little girl? The obedient twin? The one you keep locked away while you play king?”
His jaw tightens, and I see it—the crack in his armor. My words hurt more than the blade ever could.
“You’re better than this,” he whispers, his voice softer now. Almost pleading.
But I’m not.
I press the blade against his skin, and he winces, though he doesn’t try to pull away. My hand trembles. Not because I can’t do it, but because I know this moment will change everything.
“Better?” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Better doesn’t survive in our world, Ruairi. You taught me that.”
The pendulum swings lower, its hiss slicing through the silence. Eamon shifts in the shadows, waiting, watching.
But tonight, I’m not here to be his equal. I’m here to take the throne.
I tighten my grip, my voice steadier. “You’re right, Ruairi.”
He blinks, his expression caught between shock and confusion.
“I’m not like him. And I’m not like you either.”
Before anyone can react, I spin, the dagger flashing in the light, a streak of silver cutting through the air.
Eamon’s sharp intake of breath is the only sound before I lunge, pinning him against the wall with the tip of my knife at his throat. His eyes, dark and unreadable, widen in something I’ve never seen before.
“What the—” Eamon hisses, his voice cutting off as I press the blade harder against his skin.
“No more games,” I say, my voice cold and commanding.
Ruairi struggles against his restraints, his voice ragged with frustration. “Aoife, what the hell are you doing?”
I don’t look at him. My gaze stays locked on Eamon, who tilts his head slightly, his lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile. The blade hums with quiet menace, its edge a whisper of promises unspoken. And this time, I’m the one holding it.
Eamon looks between me and Ruairi, a slow, humorless smirk spreading across his lips. "Well played, Aoife." His voice is controlled, but there’s venom beneath it.
He thinks I betrayed him.
He looks to Seamus. "End this."
Seamus draws his gun.
For a heartbeat, the pit is silent, only the sound of Ruairi’s ragged breathing filling the space. Then Seamus shifts and aims the gun at Eamon.
Eamon tenses, his jaw clenching as he takes in the weapon now pointed at him. "What the fuck is going on?"
I lean in, putting a little more pressure on the blade, but keep my voice steady. "Seamus, untie my brother."
Eamon’s head snaps toward me. "He doesn’t take orders from you."
Seamus doesn’t hesitate. He moves to Ruairi, working at the restraints. Eamon’s fury is palpable, but he doesn’t move to stop me. Ruairi shakes out his hands as the last of the ropes falls away, his eyes locked on me, suspicion warring with curiosity.
Neither of them understands. Not yet.
I take a slow breath, letting the silence stretch before I finally say, "While the two of you have been busy destroying each other, I’ve been trying to protect you and the Syndicates."
Ruairi scoffs. "Protecting me? By throwing me in a pit and leaving me to die?” Ruairi chokes on a cough. "You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel particularly saved."
I ignore the sarcasm, my tone cutting through the room like steel. "Cian has been plotting for months to take you out, Ruairi. He wants our Syndicate for himself."
A shadow of recognition crosses Ruairi’s face, but Eamon remains unmoved.
"Not exactly shocking," Eamon drawls.
“That’s only the beginning.” I level him with a look. "When Cian found out I was working for you, he saw an even bigger opportunity.”
Now I have both of their attention.
Lowering the blade and stepping back, I explain, “He decided the Quigley Syndicate wasn’t enough. He’s been planning to take you out and take your Syndicate, too.”
Eamon’s entire body stills. His expression remains unreadable, but I know him well enough to realize I just hit a nerve.
Ruairi shifts in his chair. "And how exactly did he think that was going to happen?"
I exhale slowly. "By taking both of you out. And running the Syndicate’s with me."
Ruairi lets out a ragged, broken laugh that quickly dissolves into a cough. "Cian wanted you to rule with him? Now that’s rich."
I cut my gaze to Ruairi. "It’s the truth. And despite having confidence in my ability, I could never let that happen.”
Eamon watches me carefully now, his earlier anger shifting into something else. "So you set him up." His voice is quieter this time.
"Cian’s at the watchtower. He believes I’m going to end this tonight—kill you both and leave the Syndicates wide open for us."
I let the weight of my words settle, watching as realization dawns on them both. They wanted to believe I was playing their game.
But this was always mine.
Stepping between them, my voice is calm and controlled. "This is how everything is going to go."