Chapter 29 Liam
LIAM
Because…
The rest of her sentence hangs in the pre-dawn air as I stand at the storage unit the next day, staring at the closed, metal sliding door with a slow smile. She is fucking wild. It’s one of the reasons I knew she would be mine even before she met me.
Connor doesn’t know about this acquisition. It’s a personal payment, made in cash every month to keep it off the books.
Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I unlock it and heave the door upward, the metal screeching in protest. I look over my shoulder, but I’m still alone. The untraceable, bland white sedan idling nearby with Siobhan inside is quiet, but I can feel her gaze on me.
I move quickly after that. Crossing to the back, where a large outside garden container sits, I lift the lid and reach in to unlock the coded padlock.
Pulling out a black backpack, I stuff it carefully with the contents of the bin, making sure not to damage anything.
I zip up the backpack before I lean in to grab some more supplies, and then I close everything up before heading out.
I pull the metal door down and lock it again before crossing the parking lot to the white sedan.
Popping the trunk, I place everything inside and close it quietly.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I close the door and look at Siobhan.
“Got it?”
“All of it.”
She nods.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask, not to talk her out of it, but to double-check this is what she wants to do. There is no going back if we see this through. I need her to remember that.
She turns to face forward, her expression blank. I know what she’s thinking. I know her thought process by now. She doesn’t jump into shit lightly. “I’m sure,” she says after a few tense moments. “Let’s go.”
I put the car into gear and maneuver the car out of the parking lot and into the city.
We don’t speak.
There is nothing left to be said. I support her completely, and if this is her first act as head of the Kelly organization, then I’m here for it.
Ten minutes later, we pull up two blocks from our destination, and she looks down the road at it. It’s quiet. It’s not a throughway or a rat run. It’s a street you come down with purpose. She knows this, but she is still worried.
“We can back out,” I say, giving her one last chance.
“No, we can’t,” she says, getting out of the car.
I follow her and move around to the trunk to retrieve the supplies. She packs the loose items into a black bag and bunches up the top, so it looks like she is carrying a bag of trash. She breathes in deeply and moves out. I close the trunk and follow her, leaving the car open for our getaway.
And fuck, are we going to need it.
As we approach the gallery, she falters momentarily, but then powers through. Nothing will stop her now. Her father handed the baton, and she is going to run with it until she crosses the finish line.
I follow her down the street, my senses on high alert, scanning windows and doorways for threats. The backpack weighs heavily on my shoulder—not from its physical weight, but from what it represents. The end of one legacy. The beginning of another.
Siobhan reaches the gallery door, her hand steady as she unlocks it. No hesitation now. She’s crossed her Rubicon, and there’s no Roman Senate waiting to welcome her back. Only the ashes of what she’s about to create.
I step inside behind her, pulling the door closed.
The gallery is shadowy, the artwork on the walls mere shadows in the dim light filtering through the windows.
She doesn’t pause to look at any of it. The art, the carefully curated pieces she once loved—they’re already relics of a woman who no longer exists.
“The tunnels first,” she says, her voice flat. “Then we work our way up.”
I nod and follow her to the hidden panel in her office. We descend into the tunnels, into the heart of her father’s grand design. The blueprints are still scattered across the tables where we left them. The evidence of Michael Kelly’s ambition, his legacy, his final gift to his daughter.
Siobhan pulls the trash bag open, revealing the contents. Accelerant. Lots of it. She begins methodically dousing the tables, the blueprints, the equipment. Each splash of liquid is deliberate, thorough. She’s destroying everything. She is cremating years’ worth of research, work and dreams.
I get to work with the explosives. There will be absolutely nothing left but a crater in the ground when we are done. Any ideas that Connor has of muscling his way into this heist of the century will be buried.
It’s the ultimate payback. A complete and utter fuck you from the head of one family to another.
The fact that I find it funny rather than concerning is something I’ll unpack later.
Maybe.
Right now, I’m going to give my queen the coronation she so rightly deserves.
I set the last charge, my hands steady despite the magnitude of what we’re doing. The timer blinks red in the darkness—fifteen minutes. Enough time to finish upstairs and get clear. Not enough time for second thoughts.
“Done,” I say, straightening up. “We need to move.”
Siobhan takes one last look around the tunnel, her face illuminated by the harsh glow of my phone’s flashlight.
I wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling as she watches her father’s legacy being prepared for destruction.
But her expression gives nothing away. She’s already mourned this. Already made her choice.
We climb back up to the office, and she continues her work with the accelerant.
The gallery floor is next. She splashes liquid across the polished wood, over the walls, soaking the artwork that once meant everything to her.
An abstract piece that probably cost six figures gets doused without hesitation.
I watch her work, this woman who’s become everything I never knew I needed. She’s methodical, efficient, showing the same cold focus I’ve seen in the best men. The gallery owner is dead. The mafia queen has taken her place.
“How much time?” she asks, not looking up from her task.
“Twelve minutes.”
She nods and moves faster, finishing the main floor before heading toward the storage areas in the back.
I follow, adding my own accelerant to key structural points.
When this goes up, there won’t be enough left for forensics to piece together what happened here, but a well-timed gas-leak rumor will be enough to guide the investigation.
I pull out my phone and check the timer. “Ten minutes.”
“Good.” She finishes with the last of the accelerant and shoves them back in the black trash bag to take with us.
She turns to the PC and wipes the camera footage before we move toward the back exit, but she pauses at the door, turning to look at the gallery one last time.
The space where she built her legitimate life, where she tried to be something other than a Kelly.
I wonder if she’s saying goodbye or good riddance.
“Regrets?” I ask quietly.
“No.” She reaches for the door handle. “This was never really mine. It was always his, just another piece on his board. Now I’m clearing the board entirely.”
We step out into the alley, and I pull the door closed behind us. The street is still quiet, no witnesses to what we’ve just done. Siobhan walks with purpose back toward the car, her stride confident despite what’s about to happen.
I check my phone again. Five minutes.
We reach the car, and I slide behind the wheel while she gets in the passenger seat. I pull away from the curb, driving at a normal speed, nothing that would draw attention. Just another car on a Dublin street.