Chapter 2 Siobhan
SIOBHAN
The Celtic Cross catches the light from three different angles, throwing gold-tinged shadows across the pristine white pedestal.
I adjust the track lighting a fraction of an inch, watching how the ancient etched patterns transform.
To most of tonight’s guests, it’s merely a beautiful artifact worth six figures.
To my father, it’s a convenient vessel for moving twice that amount through my gallery’s accounts.
To me, it’s the centerpiece of my compromise with the devil I know.
“Perfect,” I murmur, stepping back to assess the effect.
The cross’s gold inlay glows with amber life against the darker bronze body.
Ninth century, according to the provenance papers—papers I paid an expert to authenticate without asking too many questions about their origin.
The artifact stands four hands high, its circular center and elongated arms adorned with intricate Celtic knots that seem to writhe in the carefully orchestrated light.
Kelly Fine Arts Gallery hums with pre-event energy around me.
Staff in black attire glide between pedestals, polishing surfaces that already gleam, straightening name cards beside auction items that need no introduction to those who can afford them.
The Georgian townhouse’s conversion preserved its architectural integrity—crown moldings and ceiling medallions—while the exposed brick walls and strategic lighting create the perfect canvas for displaying art that costs more than most Dublin homes.
I smooth down the front of my emerald dress, the silk cool against my palms. The color matches my eyes—a genetic inheritance from the Kelly side, along with the copper hair that catches fire even in this curated light.
My appearance is another carefully cultivated asset.
My dad taught me to leverage every advantage in a competitive market.
What my mother taught me was to run from my father’s world and never look back.
Yet here I stand, three years in, with a gallery that serves as a money laundering front.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Neither is the weight of the Celtic Cross that will sell tonight for an amount that has already been determined, to a buyer whose name I already know, with funds that have already changed hands through channels I pretend not to see.
“Siobhan?” Fiona approaches with clipboard in hand, her sensible heels clicking against the hardwood floors. “The Champagne table is set up in the west alcove, and security has confirmed their positions at all entrances.”
“Thank you. Any word from the caterers about the timing for the canapés?”
“First round at seven-thirty, second at eight-fifteen, just before the bidding begins.” She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, her eyes bright with the excitement of working a high-profile event.
At twenty-three, Fiona is everything I was before I understood the true nature of my family’s business—ambitious, naive, believing that talent and hard work are enough in this life.
I nod my approval and watch her hurry off to oversee the final preparations.
The gallery’s main hall has transformed since this morning—the everyday displays moved to create an open space where Dublin’s elite will mingle, pretending their fortunes came from legitimate enterprise.
The temporary pedestals housing tonight’s auction items form a deliberate path through the room, leading eyes and feet toward the Celtic Cross at the center.
My gaze drifts to the security personnel positioned discreetly at each exit. They wear the uniforms of a legitimate security company, but I recognize two of them as men who occasionally drive my father. The lines between worlds blur more each day.
I circle the cross once more, recalling my mother’s face the night she packed our bags and fled Dublin for Boston.
I was seven, old enough to understand we were running from something but too young to grasp what.
“Never trust a Kelly smile,” she’d say, though she’d married one.
“They’ll charm you while reaching for your throat. ”
The memory fades as I focus on the task at hand.
Tonight’s auction benefits children’s literacy programs across Dublin—a cause I chose deliberately, one that might actually do some good in a city whose poorest corners I never saw until I returned as an adult.
Half the proceeds will go there. The other half will disappear into my father’s network, laundered clean through the gallery’s books.
Another adjustment to the lighting, another millimeter of perfection.
My fingertips trace the air above the cross without touching it.
Three million euros will move through my accounts tomorrow.
The gallery will take its cut—enough to keep the honest side of the business not just afloat but thriving.
Everyone wins, except perhaps my conscience.
“The candles for the center tables, classic white or the silver-embedded ones?” asks one of the event staff, interrupting my thoughts.
“Silver-embedded,” I decide, my public voice sliding into place—confident, cultured, with just a hint of the Boston accent I’ve never fully shed. “They’ll catch the light beautifully when dimmed for the bidding.”
As he hurries off, I check my watch—a vintage Cartier, my one indulgence when the gallery turned its first legal profit. A couple of minutes until doors open to the ticket holders.
The gallery fills with final-moment precision of flowers arranged just so, auction paddles laid out in perfect alignment, the whisper of climate control ensuring the artifacts remain at optimal temperature and humidity.
I’ve created this world down to the last detail, this temple to art and culture that stands as a respectable facade over darker foundations.
Movement at the service entrance catches my eye.
It’s a delivery I wasn’t expecting. My pulse quickens until I see it’s only additional Champagne flutes.
The hypervigilance never quite leaves me, that animal instinct honed in childhood that recognizes when something doesn’t fit the pattern.
It’s kept me alive in Boston’s rougher neighborhoods when my mother’s waitressing jobs couldn’t afford better.
It’s kept me aware in the same city’s elite circles where danger wore designer labels.
And it serves me well in Dublin, where my father’s name opens doors but carries expectations I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding.
I make a final circuit of the room, checking sight lines and flow, ensuring nothing appears out of place or suspicious.
This event must be flawless, both as a legitimate charity auction and as whatever else it serves as in my father’s world.
My reputation in Dublin’s art community depends on the former; my continued independence, and perhaps my safety, depends on the latter.
The Celtic Cross gleams under its perfect lighting, secrets woven into its ancient patterns. I wonder if it was ever truly holy or if it has always been a vessel for human ambition and greed. Perhaps it’s fitting that it continues that tradition tonight.
“Siobhan,” Fiona calls softly from across the room, “the first guests are arriving.”
I straighten my spine, lifting my chin slightly.
The mask slides into place of the poised gallery owner, the sophisticated hostess, the Kelly daughter playing her part in Dublin’s complex hierarchy of power and wealth.
For the next few hours, I’ll be whoever they need me to be, while keeping my true self locked safely away.
My phone vibrates in my hand. I know who it is before I even flip it over to check. There’s a particular timing to my father’s messages. Always when I’m most vulnerable, most visible, most unable to react honestly.
The text preview shows just enough to make my stomach clench: “About tonight’s special item...” The rest hides behind the notification, a poisoned gift I’m meant to unwrap.
I step behind a tall sculpture—an abstract piece of twisted metal that creates the perfect visual barrier between me and the bustling staff.
My finger hovers over the message. Opening it means acknowledging it.
Reading it means I can’t claim ignorance if whatever advice he’s offering crosses the lines I’ve drawn in our arrangement.
Last month, it was a suggestion about which security company to hire—one I knew was staffed by his men.
Three months ago, there was a recommendation about which city official to invite to the spring showcase—a judge whose lenient sentences for Kelly associates couldn’t be coincidental.
Each time, the message arrives just before an event, when I have no time to argue, when the path of least resistance is to comply.
My thumb slides left, then presses delete. The message disappears without being read.
The small act of rebellion sends a flutter of anxiety through my chest. My father doesn’t take dismissal well. A lesson I learned a long time ago.
I press my fingertips against the cool gallery wall, focusing on the sensation to ground myself.
The phone feels suddenly heavier in my hand, as if the deleted message has left some residue of obligation.
My father’s money built this gallery. His investors funded the renovation of this Georgian townhouse, transforming crumbling historic walls into this gleaming temple of art.
The initial inventory came through his channels, beautiful pieces with histories I never questioned.
But the day-to-day operation is mine. The reputation I’ve built in Dublin’s art community is mine.
The relationships with legitimate artists and collectors are mine.
These are the boundaries I maintain—taking his money but keeping control of how it’s used, allowing certain pieces to move through my gallery but insisting on lawful charity events like tonight’s.
Fiona’s voice pulls me back to the present. “The flowers for the entrance have arrived, but they’re white lilies instead of the roses we ordered.”
“Use them in the side rooms,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “The lighting is warmer there, and they’ll complement the Clancy watercolors.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel, the gallery-owner mask slipping back into place with practiced ease. Lillies. Flowers of death.
When she leaves, I check my reflection on the polished surface of a nearby sculpture.
My copper hair remains perfectly styled, swept up to reveal the long line of my neck.
My makeup is flawless—neither too subtle for Dublin’s flashier elite nor too dramatic for the old-money circles that still control the city’s true power.
Only I can see the tension around my eyes, the slight tightness in my jaw that betrays the storm beneath.
My hands aren’t quite steady as I adjust my bracelet. It’s my mother’s, a simple silver that serves as both accessory and talisman. “Never let them see you sweat, Siobhan. Half of survival is convincing everyone you’re doing better than you are.”
The irony doesn’t escape me that I now use her lessons about surviving poverty to navigate wealth and privilege. The skills transfer surprisingly well—the constant vigilance, the careful management of appearances, the strategic assessment of which battles can be won and which must be surrendered.
Deleting my father’s text falls somewhere between victory and foolishness.
He’ll know I’ve ignored him—he always knows.
There will be consequences, subtle ones designed to remind me of my place in his world.
Perhaps a visit from one of his associates in the coming days, or a convenient audit of the gallery’s books by an accountant who reports to him more than to the tax authorities.
The moment you think you’re free of him is the moment he’ll remind you that you’re not. Mom told me this when I announced my plan to return to Dublin, to accept his offer to fund the gallery.
“You can’t dance with the devil and choose when the music stops, Siobhan.” The muttered words serve as a reminder that this is my life now.
I straighten my shoulders and walk toward the sound of the first arriving guests, my father’s deleted message a hollow victory I carry like a stone in my pocket.