Chapter 22
SIOBHAN
When we pull up to the docks, Liam curses under his breath.
“What?” I whisper, looking around.
“No cash,” he mutters.
I smirk and grab my phone out of my bag. I tap it to the machine the cabbie holds over his shoulder, not even looking at us.
Liam rolls his eyes, and we get out. “Cheers, mate,” he mutters.
“When was the last time you took a cab?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“Before I learned how to drive,” he counters with a look just daring me to say anything else.
I don’t.
I know what a Liam O’Neill punishment looks like, and we don’t have time for that right now.
The taxi pulls away, leaving us in the industrial wasteland of Dublin’s dockside.
The smell hits me first—salt water mixed with diesel fuel and something rotting that I don’t want to identify.
Sodium lights cast everything in sickly orange, creating shadows deep enough to hide an army.
“This way,” Liam says, his hand finding the small of my back again. That possessive touch that should annoy me, but instead grounds me in this nightmare we’re navigating.
We move between shipping containers stacked like metal mountains. I’m acutely aware of how exposed we are, how many angles a shooter could use.
“How far?” I ask, my voice low.
“Two more rows.” He’s scanning constantly, that predator awareness I’m starting to recognize.
Moments later, he stops at a side entrance, pressing his palm to what looks like a rusted electrical box. A soft beep, then the sound of heavy locks disengaging.
The door swings open, revealing an empty container except for another, smaller container inside.
Liam crosses over and uses another biometric scanner to open it.
The interior is nothing like the exterior suggests.
LED lights flicker on automatically, illuminating a space that’s part garage, part armory, part tactical command center.
Vehicles line one wall. SUVs, sedans, even a fucking armored truck.
The other wall is weapons. Rows and rows of them, organized with military precision.
“Christ,” I breathe. “You just leave this out in the open?”
“Hardly out in the open, but who has time to fuck about in situations like this?”
“Fair point,” I mutter and then glance at my phone as Liam moves to arm up.
I purse my lips and let out a slow breath.
“What is it?” Liam asks.
“Chris,” I say, flashing him the screen briefly. “He has messaged three times and called twice. About Dad.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much, just to get to St. Vincent’s asap.”
“Fucker. When was the first contact?”
“After dark, which means after the shooter.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t Chris,” Liam points out when doubt floods me. “It could just be that he was busy with the paramedics and doctors.”
“You’d think I’d be his first port of call, though,” I argue.
“You’d think. But that guy… you can’t trust him, Siobhan. He is out to get you eliminated. You stand between him and everything.”
“I should call him.”
“And say what? Sorry I took so long to respond, I was too busy being shot at?”
“Actually, yeah,” I say, moving closer. “I think that’s exactly what I should say, on a video call where I can see his face.”
Liam thinks it over. “Are you sure you want to put yourself in that position?”
“I’m sure.” I hold his gaze, letting him see the steel in mine. “Because if it was Chris, I want to watch him squirm. And if it wasn’t, I need to know who else is playing this game.”
Liam studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Do it. But I’m right here, and we’re recording everything.”
I pull up Chris’s contact, switching to video call. It rings once. Twice. On the third ring, his face fills my screen. He looks… smug. The hospital corridor behind him is sterile and bright.
“Siobhan, thank fuck. Where the hell have you been? Michael collapsed hours ago, and you’ve been—”
“Busy dodging bullets,” I say flatly, watching his expression.
His face goes carefully blank. Too carefully. “What?”
“Someone put a sniper on me earlier. Three shots through my apartment window.” I tilt my phone slightly so he can see Liam in the background. “Luckily, I had company.”
Chris’s eyes flick to Liam, and something dark crosses his features. He doesn’t even try to hide it. “O’Neill. Of course. Siobhan, what the fuck are you thinking? Your dad is in a coma, and you’re—”
“Standing here alive, no thanks to whoever ordered that hit.” I keep my voice cool.
“Any ideas who?” he asks the question he knows he has to, but I’m convinced he is guilty as sin.
“None. Do you? Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing,” he states, then after a beat, “I’ll make some inquiries.”
“You do that,” I grit out. “How—how is he?”
Chris’s jaw tightens, and for a moment I see frustration flicker across his face, or maybe calculation. “Stable. For now. The doctors say the next forty-eight hours are critical. You need to get here, Siobhan. People are asking questions about where you are.”
I keep my tone even, but my heart is hammering. “I’ll be there when I’m ready.”
“When you’re ready?” His voice rises, that Kelly temper bleeding through. “Your father is dying, and you’re playing house with an O’Neill? Do you have any idea how this looks to the family?”
“I don’t give a fuck how it looks.” The words come out sharp. “Someone just tried to kill me, Chris. Forgive me if I’m not rushing to put myself in another exposed position.”
“Fine, but if he dies before you grace us with your presence, that’s on you.” He hangs up, and I waver.
I’m being selfish, but what other choice do I have?
“It was him,” Liam states, cutting through the silence as he turns back to the array of guns.
“I know.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“By looking him in the eye when I end him,” I growl. “He has put me in an impossible situation, and he knows it!”
“He does.”
“I can’t think about that right now. We need to get to the gallery and see what all the fucking fuss is about.”
He gives me a long, hard stare. “You sure?”
I meet his gaze, refusing to let him see the tremor of doubt working its way through my chest. “I’m sure. My father made his choices. He threatened me hours before someone put a bullet through my window. Chris is making his move, and I need to know what’s worth killing me over.”
Liam nods once, then turns back to the weapons wall. The reality of what we’re walking into settles over me like a shroud. This is a turf war that will make the old days look like a fun time. I just hope it ends with me not dead.
He selects weapons with an experienced eye. Two handguns for himself, checking the magazines before holstering them. A compact submachine gun that he slings across his back. Then he moves to a locked case, pressing his thumb to another scanner.
Inside are grenades.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“You don’t have to do this. We can wait. Regroup.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Waiting gives Chris time to consolidate. Time to spin whatever narrative he wants about me being too cowardly to show up for my dying father while shacking up with an O’Neill.”
“You care what they think?” Liam asks, pausing his selection process to look at me.
“I care that they’re using my father’s condition to paint me as the enemy while Chris plays the dutiful heir.” I move closer to the weapons. “What do I need?”
He studies me for a moment, then reaches for a sleek 9mm.
“Glock 19. Similar to what you had before. Fifteen rounds, reliable, not too heavy.” He hands it to me, then adds a spare magazine.
“Keep this on you at all times. And this.” He passes me a knife in a sheath. “Blade up close is quieter than a gun.”
I take both, the weight of them grounding me in this new reality. I’m not the gallery owner anymore. I’m not Michael Kelly’s wayward daughter. I’m something else entirely now—something forged in the space between survival and vengeance.
“You ready?”
I nod once. Ready as I’ll ever be to become the woman my mother never wanted me to be. “Sorry, Mom,” I mutter as we head back out of the containers to a black SUV parked up along the side. “I won’t screw this up. I promise.”
And with that vow, I slide into the passenger seat and pray that this isn’t the biggest mistake I’ll ever make.