Chapter 32
SIOBHAN
My father’s house… my house… smells like lilies and lies.
I stand in the formal dining room where staff arrange flowers in massive vases, their white petals a mockery of purity. The funeral is in three days, and every detail has to be perfect. Every lie has to land with the weight of truth.
“Ms. Kelly?” Declan appears in the doorway, a tablet in his hands. “The seating chart for the church. You’ll want to review it?”
I cross to him, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The sound echoes in the cavernous space, bouncing off walls that have absorbed decades of Kelly secrets. This house raised my father. Now it’s burying him, except it’s not.
The tablet screen shows a digital layout of St. Mary’s Cathedral. Every pew mapped, every name a calculation of power and perception.
“Put the O’Sullivans in the back,” I say, tapping the screen. “Third row from the last, left side.”
Declan’s eyebrow lifts a fraction. “That’s an insult. Ryan O’Sullivan will know it.”
“Good. Let him know exactly where he stands.” I hand the tablet back. “He’s been sniffing around our southside operations since the explosion. Testing boundaries. Time to remind him those boundaries have teeth.”
“Your father would’ve done the same.” Declan’s voice carries approval, but something else lurks beneath it. A question he won’t ask, but I can feel pressing against the space between us.
Does he suspect? Has he put together the pieces—the too-convenient timing, the closed casket, the sudden rush to probate? Declan’s been my father’s right hand for twenty years. He’s not stupid.
But he’s also not asking, which means he’s chosen his side.
“The eulogies,” I say, moving to the next item on my mental checklist. “Who’s speaking?”
“Councilor Hayes and Bishop Murphy.”
All men on my payroll, in one way or another. Perfect.
“Fine. Keep them to five minutes each. I’ll speak last.” I pause, considering. “And Declan? I want you armed. You and four others, positioned throughout the church.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his posture shifts slightly. Alert. “You’re expecting trouble.”
“I’m expecting someone to see a funeral as an opportunity.” I meet his gaze directly. “My father’s death leaves a vacuum. Someone will try to fill it, thinking I can’t. We are going to give them no choice.”
“You already have filled it.” Declan’s statement carries the weight of an oath. “The men know. They’ve chosen.”
“Have they?” I turn back to the flowers, hiding the doubt that crawls up my spine. “Or are they waiting to see if I survive the week?”
“Both can be true, Ms. Kelly.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. He’s right, of course. Loyalty in this world is a transaction, not a virtue. They’ll follow me as long as I’m stronger than the alternatives. The moment I show weakness, they’ll scatter like rats from a sinking ship.
The door opens again, and Liam enters. He’s in a dark suit, his hair still damp from a shower. His eyes find mine immediately, reading the tension in my shoulders.
“Problem?” he asks.
“Ryan O’Sullivan has been circling our southside warehouses,” Declan says before I can answer. “Three incidents in the past week. Trucks delayed. Shipments questioned by customs. All pointing back to him.”
Liam moves to stand beside me, close enough that I feel the heat of him through my black dress. “How do you want to handle it?”
The question is directed at me, not Declan. A public acknowledgment of who makes the decisions now.
“I don’t. Yet,” I say. “Let him circle. Let him think grief has made me weak. Then we respond.”
“After the funeral,” Liam agrees. “When everyone’s watching.”
Declan nods once and leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that feels like a seal on a tomb.
I exhale, some of the tension bleeding from my shoulders. “He suspects.”
“About your father?” Liam moves to the window, looking out over the manicured grounds. “Probably. But he’s made his choice. He’s with you.”
“Until I give him a reason not to be.” I join him at the window, watching as workers prepare the estate for the wake. Tents are being erected on the lawn. Catering trucks are pulling up the drive. An entire production built on a corpse that doesn’t exist.
“You won’t.” Liam’s certainty should comfort me. Instead, it terrifies me. He believes in me more than I believe in myself, and that kind of faith is a weapon someone will eventually use against us.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I glance at it, expecting another vendor question or seating arrangement dispute.
It’s a text from an unknown number.
Lovely flowers. White lilies for death. But whose death, I wonder?
Ice floods my veins. I show Liam the screen without a word.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
I scan the room instinctively, as if the sender might be hiding behind the curtains. “Someone knows.”
“Or suspects and is fishing.” Liam takes my phone and studies the message. “Could be the O’Sullivans, or the Landys. Could be someone internal trying to leverage doubt.”
“Either way, it’s a problem.” I snatch the phone back, deleting the message with more force than necessary. “Three days until the funeral. Three days to figure out who sent this and silence them.”
“We could postpone—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. “Postponing looks weak. Looks like we’re hiding something, which we are, but they can’t know that.” I pace to the fireplace, gripping the mantle. “We move forward. The funeral happens as planned. And whoever sent this learns what happens when they threaten a Kelly.”
Liam crosses to me, his hand settling on the small of my back. The touch grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of panic. “We’ll find them.”
“And if we don’t? If this blows up during the funeral?” I turn to face him, searching his expression for doubt. “If someone stands up in the middle of the eulogy and calls this what it is?”
“Then we bury them next to the empty casket.” No hesitation. No moral wrestling. Just cold, brutal certainty.
This is what I’ve become. What he always was. Two people who solve problems with violence and lies, who stand in a room full of funeral flowers, planning murder like it’s a seating arrangement.
My mother would be horrified.
My father would be proud.
I don’t know which thought disturbs me more.
“I need air,” I say, pulling away from Liam’s touch. “I need to think.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” I soften the rejection with a hand on his chest. “I need to be alone for a minute. Just a minute.”
He studies my face, then nods. “Don’t go far. Keep your phone on you.”
I slip out through the side door, into the gardens where I used to play as a child, before Boston. Before my mother fled with me in the middle of the night, running from the same world I’ve now embraced.
The air is cold, carrying the promise of rain. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I’d grabbed a coat. The faint scabs on my back pull slightly with the movement, Liam’s name carved into my skin. A permanent reminder of the choice I made.
The choice I keep making.
My phone buzzes again.
Another unknown number. Different from the first.
The O’Sullivans send their condolences. And their terms.
I stare at the screen, my blood running cold for an entirely different reason.
I need to stop worrying about my father’s death being fake and start worrying more about the power vacuum being real.
Ryan O’Sullivan isn’t circling our territory because he suspects the truth. He’s circling because he sees an opportunity. A young woman playing at being a mafia queen, grieving, distracted, and vulnerable.
He’s wrong about the grieving part. But the rest?
I pull up my contacts, pilfered from my dad’s phone, finding the number I need to go straight to the source. It rings twice before a gruff voice answers.
“Ms. Kelly.”
“Ryan.” I keep my voice level, betraying none of the rage burning through my chest. “I received your lackey’s message.”
He snorts at my word usage. “Good. Then you know we need to talk. Before the funeral would be best.”
“No.” The word is ice. “After. When my father is in the ground, and I’ve had time to mourn.”
“Siobhan—”
“Ms. Kelly,” I correct him, using the same tone Liam used on Chris in my office a lifetime ago. “And I’ll see you at the funeral, Ryan. We can discuss your... condolences... at the wake.”
I hang up before he can respond, my hand shaking with suppressed fury.
He’s making his move. Right now, while I’m supposed to be weak and distracted. He thinks he can intimidate me into concessions, use my father’s death to carve off pieces of Kelly territory.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
I head back inside, my mind already calculating. The funeral isn’t just a performance anymore. It’s a battlefield on which Ryan O’Sullivan just declared war.
Liam is waiting in the hallway, staring at a severe portrait of Michael with an expression I can’t quite read. He takes one look at my face and crosses over. “What happened?”
“Ryan O’Sullivan just made a mistake. He thinks my father’s death makes me vulnerable. He’s wrong.”
Liam reads the message I show him, his expression darkening. “Terms.”
“I called him. He wants to meet. Discuss territory redistribution, probably. Maybe try to racket me during my time of grief.” I spit the words like venom. “He’s circling because he thinks I’m prey.”
“Siobhan,” Liam says in that tone that makes me stop and listen. Only he has that capability. “This panicking is showing weakness. These declarations aren’t proving anything.”
“Maybe. Probably, but it’s starting to piss me off!” I shove my hands into my loose hair and huff out a sharp breath.
“Then we show him you are your father’s daughter. At the funeral. In front of everyone.”
“Yes.” The plan forms in my mind, pieces clicking into place. “He’ll be there, paying his respects. Playing the concerned neighbor. When he tries to corner me at the wake, when he thinks he has me isolated and emotional...”
“We make an example.” Liam’s smile is cold and sharp. “Public enough to send a message. Private enough to maintain deniability.”
“Can you handle it?” The question isn’t about his capability. We both know he can kill a man without blinking. It’s about whether he’s willing to do it for me, at my command, with my father’s empty casket barely in the ground.
“Siobhan.” He cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I’ll burn this entire city down if that’s what you need. Just say the word.”
I believe him. That’s the terrifying part. He would.
“Not the whole city,” I say, leaning into his touch. “Just the parts who forget who my father was.”
“Stop thinking like that. It will only get you so far. You need to prove yourself with actions.”
“I know. I know. It’s not easy.”
“I can’t say that I know what that’s like,” he says, brushing his lips over my forehead. “But I can tell you, this is how it has to be.”
I nod. Three days. Three days to prepare a funeral, catch whoever knows about my father, and put down Ryan O’Sullivan’s challenge before it spreads.
My phone buzzes one more time. I almost ignore it, but something makes me look.
Another unknown number. The third one today.
Your father taught you well. But he forgot to teach you the most important lesson: trust no one. Not even the ones who smile while handing you Champagne.
I frown and show Liam the message, watching his expression turn to confusion.
“Siobhan!”
I turn to see Fiona rushing towards me with a box in her hand.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “Here. I found this at the gate. There’s no card.”
I take the wooden box from my former gallery assistant, who has kind of taken on the role of my PA. She doesn’t know everything, but she knows enough.
I pop the lid off the box and freeze. Nestled inside on a bed of black velvet is a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Brut.
Liam’s gaze snaps to Fiona, smiling as she peers into the box. “Nice!” she says. “I wonder who it’s from?”
I blink and stare at her. Is this a mind game or a threat to be taken seriously?
The funeral is in three days, and I have no idea who my enemies are anymore.
Only that they’re circling, and the performance of my life is about to begin.