Chapter 8 Siobhan
SIOBHAN
My father’s house in Blackrock hasn’t changed since I was a child.
It has the same heavy drapes, the same ornate furniture, and the same hushed atmosphere that demands reverence like a cathedral dedicated to the religion of family loyalty.
I pass the formal sitting room where no one ever sits and the dining room used only for Christmas and strategy meetings, heading straight for his study at the back of the house.
Christ, I hate this place. Always have. Too many memories of tiptoeing past closed doors, of whispered arguments, of men with hard eyes coming and going at all hours.
Martin, my father’s personal assistant for the past decade, intercepts me in the hallway with a smile, but nothing more.
I smooth down my tailored navy dress, a habit from childhood, before facing paternal judgment. I suddenly ask, “Is Chris here?”
My cousin and my father’s presumptive heir has been increasingly present as of late.
“No, miss. Your father requested a private conversation.”
Shit. The slight emphasis on private sends a ripple of apprehension through me. Private conversations with Michael Kelly rarely end pleasantly for the summoned party.
I knock twice on the heavy oak door before entering without waiting for a response. The study smells of leather, whisky, and the whiff of smoke that he has clearly tried to hide.
Michael Kelly sits behind his desk, papers arranged in precise stacks before him. At sixty-three, he is imposing. His tall frame and broad shoulders are the physical presence that helped establish his authority decades ago. His eyes are sharp, assessing, missing nothing.
“You’re late,” he says by way of greeting.
“Gallery business.” I cross the room and kiss his cheek, the ritual of a daughter despite the business nature of this summons. “The Fitzgerald collection required personal attention.”
And I needed an extra twenty minutes to prepare myself for this conversation, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. Not the comfortable ones by the fireplace where we sometimes sit when he’s feeling sentimental. This is business, then.
“Murphy attended your auction last night,” he begins without preamble. “He reports O’Neill presence. Both brothers.”
Direct confrontation, as expected. I maintain composed eye contact, neither defensive nor challenging. “Liam O’Neill approached me regarding territorial considerations given the gallery’s expansion. I negotiated terms.”
“Terms.” My father’s voice remains even, but his fingers tap once against the desktop, a tell I learned to recognize before I could read. Displeasure contained. “Without consultation.”
“The situation required immediate handling. The auction was underway, with significant clients present.” I present the facts precisely, framing my decision as a business necessity rather than independence.
“I secured a reasonable arrangement that protected our interests while avoiding unnecessary conflict.”
“Ten percent.” The percentage sits between us, an indictment.
So Murphy eavesdropped and reported the exact figure. Nosy bastard. Interesting that my father leads with the outcome rather than the negotiation itself. “Yes. Down from his initial demand of twenty.”
“You could have removed him from the premises. We had sufficient personnel present.”
I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“Creating a scene at my legitimate business venue would have been bloody stupid. It would have drawn exactly the kind of attention we’ve specifically worked to avoid.
” I keep my voice respectful but firm. “The gallery’s value lies in its separation from obvious family connections. ”
My father studies me with the particular intensity that once made hardened criminals confess without prompting. “The O’Neills have never shown interest in art or the gallery circuit before. Why now?”
The question carries hidden barbs. Is he asking about O’Neill strategic movements, or questioning whether something personal drew their attention? With my father, business and personal have always been indistinguishable.
“Territorial expansion,” I answer smoothly. “The gallery’s growing prominence makes it visible. The Celtic Cross transaction likely triggered their attention given its value.”
Maybe the way Liam O’Neill looked at me had nothing to do with territory and everything to do with something far more dangerous. But that’s not something I’m about to share with my father.
“Liam O’Neill doesn’t concern himself with small percentages of individual transactions.” My father’s dismissal carries certainty born of decades studying his adversaries. “Connor is making a move while he thinks I’m weakened.”
The blunt acknowledgment of his condition surprises me.
“If that’s the case,” I reply carefully, “establishing clear boundaries now prevents greater encroachment later.”
Something shifts in his expression. It’s not quite approval, but recognition of calculated thinking aligned with his own. “The gallery will need to process additional volumes in the coming months. The Bryce situation has accelerated certain timelines.”
The Bryce situation is his euphemism for a raid on one of our largest laundering operations three weeks ago. The gallery has always been part of the family’s financial infrastructure, but a subsidiary part, handling select high-value items rather than regular cash flow.
“The current volume is calibrated precisely to maintain legitimacy,” I remind him. “Significant increase risks regulatory attention or compromises the authentic business reputation I’ve established.”
“You’ll adjust accordingly.” Not a request but a statement of fact. “Starting with the Rafferty collection next month. The valuation will need to be three times the acquired cost.”
I control my expression despite the alarm flaring in my chest. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” slips out before I can catch myself.
His eyebrows rise slightly at my language, but he doesn’t comment.
I take a breath and try again. “The Rafferty collection—fifteen pieces I’ve spent six months negotiating to acquire legitimately from a Belfast estate—is the cornerstone of my spring exhibition strategy.
Authentic provenance, documented history, genuine artistic merit.
Precisely the kind of acquisition that cements the gallery’s legitimate reputation. ”
“The gallery exists to serve family interests, Siobhan,” he says, the gentle tone more threatening than anger. “That hasn’t changed because you’ve developed a fondness for actual art.”
The dismissal stings with its precision. Three years of eighteen-hour days, of cultivating relationships with legitimate collectors and artists, of building something that could stand independent of Kelly money, reduced to a convenient financial channel.
My mother’s voice echoes suddenly in memory: “Kelly men see the world as pieces on a chessboard, Siobhan. Women, children, businesses—all just positions to be sacrificed for advantage. Remember that if you ever go back.”
Words spoken during one of her rare, unguarded moments when I was twelve. I’d dismissed them as the bitterness of a failed marriage rather than insight. Perhaps that was a mistake.
“I understand family priorities,” I say, not bothering to keep the edge from my voice. “But the gallery’s value as a laundering mechanism depends entirely on its perceived legitimacy. Tripling valuation on documented pieces invites scrutiny we can’t afford.”
For a moment, I think he’ll dismiss my concerns outright. Then something subtle shifts in his posture—a slight accommodation I wouldn’t have recognized if I hadn’t been studying him my entire life.
“Double, then,” he concedes. “With the additional volume spread across the next three exhibitions rather than concentrated on Rafferty.”
A compromise. Unexpected from Michael Kelly, who typically issues directives rather than negotiating. Perhaps his illness has softened certain edges, or perhaps he recognizes the practical value of my argument. Either way, I accept the adjustment gratefully.
“That’s manageable,” I acknowledge. “Though we’ll need to acquire additional pieces to distribute the volume effectively.”
“Already arranged.” He slides a folder across the desk. “These will arrive next week from our associates in Edinburgh. The provenance documentation is being finalized.”
I open the folder to find photographs of several medieval artifacts. Genuine pieces based on my assessment, though likely acquired through less-than-legitimate channels. The sort of acquisition that inhabits the gray area I’ve reluctantly learned to navigate.
“The documentation will require careful review,” I say, professional assessment overriding family politics momentarily.
“Of course.” He watches me with unexpected intensity. “Your expertise in that area is precisely why the gallery remains valuable beyond simple cash movement.”
The closest thing to professional acknowledgment he’s offered since I returned to Dublin. I accept it with a nod, closing the folder and placing it in my bag.
“There’s another matter,” he continues. “The O’Neill interest in your operation.”
I maintain a neutral expression despite my pulse quickening slightly. “I’ve established clear parameters for their percentage. The arrangement is straightforward business.”
“Nothing involving the O’Neills is straightforward.” He leans forward slightly, the movement causing a wince he doesn’t quite suppress. “Connor’s getting on, as we all are. He’s looking to secure his legacy, consolidate power before transition.”
“You think approaching the gallery is part of a larger strategy?”
“I think Liam O’Neill doesn’t make personal appearances for small percentage negotiations.” My father’s gaze sharpens. “His interest is either strategic or personal. Neither benefits us.”
I meet his scrutiny with composure, refusing to reveal the electric awareness that coursed through me in Liam O’Neill’s presence. Refusing to acknowledge even to myself how his voice had sent a shiver down my spine or how I’d found myself memorizing the exact shape of his mouth.
“I can handle Liam O’Neill,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
“Can you?” My father’s question carries genuine inquiry rather than challenge. “He’s not like the society men you manage at gallery events, Siobhan. He’s dismantled entire organizations without leaving evidence sufficient for prosecution. Charming when necessary, brutal when expedient.”
“I’m aware of his reputation.” And becoming increasingly aware of his presence, like a gravitational force altering my carefully plotted orbit.
My father sighs, a rare display of fatigue he would show to no one outside the family. “Be careful, Siobhan. Whatever game Connor’s playing through his son, it won’t end well for anyone bearing the Kelly name.”
The concern in his voice catches me off guard. Michael has always treated me as an asset rather than a daughter. Competent or disappointing, useful or burdensome, but rarely the recipient of paternal concern.
“I’ll maintain appropriate distance,” I assure him, rising to indicate the discussion’s conclusion. “And proceed with the adjusted arrangements for the Rafferty collection.”
If a small voice in my head whispers that the appropriate distance from Liam O’Neill might be harder to maintain than anticipated, I silence it ruthlessly.
He nods, the slight movement seeming to drain what energy remained. “Martin will provide updated financial parameters before you leave.”
The dismissal is clear. I cross to kiss his cheek again, a gesture that feels both perfunctory and suddenly precious given the shadows beneath his eyes. Whatever our complicated relationship, time with him grows increasingly finite.
I exit, collecting the financial documents from Martin before leaving the house that never quite felt like home.