Chapter 33
LIAM
The church smells like incense and expensive grief.
I stand near the back of St. Mary’s Cathedral, watching mourners file past Michael Kelly’s closed casket like pilgrims approaching a shrine. Three hundred people packed into oak pews, and maybe a dozen of them actually give a fuck that he’s dead.
The rest are here to see if his daughter bleeds when they cut her.
Siobhan sits in the front pew, spine rigid in a black dress. Her hair is pulled back, severe and tight, not a strand out of place. From where I stand, she could be carved from marble.
But I saw her this morning, throwing up in the bathroom while she tried to convince herself this was just another performance. I held her hair back and didn’t say a word, because sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is pretend you didn’t see them break.
Declan catches my eye from his position near the altar. A slight nod. Everything’s in place. Four armed men scattered throughout the congregation, weapons concealed under suit jackets. We’re not taking chances, not after the messages Siobhan received.
Not after the fucking Champagne.
I scan the crowd, cataloging faces. The O’Sullivans occupy their assigned seats near the back. Ryan’s jaw is tight with barely concealed rage at the insult. The Landys are here too, with Thomas Landy looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Politicians. Judges. Business owners who pay protection money and call it consulting fees. The entire ecosystem of Dublin’s underworld, gathered to pay respects to a dead king and measure his heir.
Bishop Murphy drones on about eternal rest and God’s mercy, words that mean nothing in a room full of people who’ve built empires on sin. I tune him out, focusing instead on the exits, the sight lines, the dozen ways this could go wrong.
A woman enters through the side door, late. She moves carefully, finding a seat in the back. Dark hair, expensive coat, face I don’t recognize. I make a mental note to have Declan identify her later.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out discreetly, angling the screen away from prying eyes.
A text from Sean: You look tense. Relax. It’s just a funeral.
I glance around until I spot him, three rows up on the right side. He raises his small silver flask in a mocking salute.
I don’t respond. He clearly didn’t learn his lesson last time. Not that I expected him to. But one can hope.
The eulogies drag on. Councilor Hayes spins bullshit about Michael’s civic contributions. As if funding youth centers washes the blood off your hands. As if anyone in this room believes the lie.
Then Siobhan stands.
The room goes silent. Even Bishop Murphy stops his muttering. Every eye in the cathedral locks onto her as she approaches the podium with measured steps.
She doesn’t look at her notes. Doesn’t falter.
“My father was not a good man.” Her voice carries through the cathedral, clear and unflinching. “He was a great one.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the crowd. This isn’t the script they expected of the grieving daughter praising her father’s kindness and generosity.
“He carried on his father’s legacy,” Siobhan continues. “He took what was his and protected it with everything he had. He understood that in this world, you’re either the one holding the knife or the one bleeding from it.”
She pauses, letting her gaze sweep across the congregation. When it lands on Ryan O’Sullivan, she holds it for three seconds too long.
“My father taught me many things. But the most important lesson,” she grips the edges of the podium, knuckles white, “never mistake kindness for weakness. Never assume grief makes someone vulnerable. And never—” her voice drops, cold as winter, “—never mistake a daughter for an easier target than her father.”
Fucking hell.
This isn’t a eulogy. It’s a declaration of war.
Ryan’s face flushes red. Thomas Landy shifts uncomfortably. John Formichael grimaces. Even Bishop Murphy looks like he’d rather be blessing literally anyone else’s corpse.
Siobhan returns to her seat, head high, and I have to fight the urge to cross the cathedral and kiss her right there in front of God and everyone. Instead, I catch Declan’s eye again. He’s trying not to smile.
The service concludes with a prayer that no one listens to. Declan and five of Michael’s most trusted men carry the empty casket down the aisle. Siobhan follows behind it, alone. Exactly as she insisted.
I fall into step beside her as she exits the cathedral into the weak afternoon sunlight. Photographers snap pictures. News cameras roll. The spectacle of it all, the performance that never ends.
“That was subtle,” I murmur as we walk toward the waiting hearse.
“Subtlety is for people who can afford to be misunderstood.” She doesn’t look at me, keeping her gaze fixed forward. “I can’t.”
The procession to Glasnevin Cemetery takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of driving through Dublin streets lined with onlookers who’ve never met Michael Kelly but know his name like a prayer or a curse, depending on which side of his empire they fell.
At the cemetery, we gather around a hole in the ground that will receive a casket containing nothing but weighted sandbags. The irony isn’t lost on me, as we bury an empty box while the man himself dies slowly on the west coast, going out the way the good Lord intended for him.
Bishop Murphy says more words. Dirt gets tossed onto polished wood. Siobhan stands motionless through it all, a statue of grief that feels nothing and everything at once.
I watch the crowd instead of the casket. Ryan O’Sullivan whispers something to the man beside him, his cousin, I think. The Landys keep their distance, which is smart. A few people cry actual tears, though I can’t tell if they’re genuine or performance.
Declan throws the first handful of dirt. It hits the casket with a hollow sound that makes Siobhan’s shoulders tense for half a second before she forces them down again. Others follow—the ritual of burial, the finality of earth on wood.
Siobhan throws the last handful and steps back to stare blankly at nothing.
When it’s done, people linger. They always do at gravesides, like they’re waiting for something profound to happen. A sign from God or the dead man himself. They’ll be waiting a long time.
The crowd disperses slowly, breaking into clusters. Some head directly to their cars. Others stop to offer Siobhan final condolences, their hands on her arm, their voices low and sympathetic. She accepts each one with the same gracious nod, the same murmured thank you.
I count the minutes until we can leave. Until we can get back to the estate and trade this public performance for the private war we’re actually fighting.
Fifteen minutes pass before Declan gives the signal. The grave is filling. The show is over.
The drive back to the Kelly estate in my Aston Martin is quieter than the drive out. The procession has broken apart, and people are taking their own routes, their own time. Siobhan sits beside me, staring out the window at Dublin passing by.
“You did well,” I say.
“I declared war at my father’s fake funeral.” She doesn’t look away from the window. “I’m not sure that qualifies as well.”
“It does when you mean it.”
That gets a small smile. “I meant every word.”
The estate comes into view. Cars already fill the circular drive. The wake will be worse than the funeral because it’s less structured, more intimate. More opportunity for knives to come out.
We pull up to the entrance. Siobhan takes a breath, squaring her shoulders. The mask slides back into place. She is poised, controlled, untouchable.
“Ready?” I ask.
“You should know by now the answer is always no.” She opens the car door. “But that won’t stop me.”
The house fills with mourners who are really just vultures, circling and waiting.
Catering staff move through rooms with trays of food that no one eats and drinks that everyone takes.
Siobhan works the crowd like she was born to it, by accepting condolences, deflecting questions, and reading the room with the same exactness her father used to command it.
I stay close but not too close. Near enough to intervene if needed, far enough that she maintains the appearance of independence. This is her show. I’m just the insurance policy.
“Liam.”
I turn to find Sean beside me, a whiskey in his hand. Up close, I can see the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers.
“You look like shit,” I say.
“Thanks. You look annoyingly content.” He takes a long drink. “Domesticity agrees with you.”
“This isn’t domesticity. This is—”
“Love?” Sean’s laugh is bitter. “Yeah. I can see that. You’re standing in a room full of people who want her dead, and you look like you’d burn the house down to keep her safe.”
He’s not wrong. I would.
“Not just the house. What do you want, Sean?”
“To understand what it’s like.” He stares into his glass like it holds answers instead of just alcohol. “To choose something for yourself instead of having it chosen for you.”
Before I can respond, I spot Ryan O’Sullivan making his way toward Siobhan. She’s alone by the fireplace, momentarily isolated from the crowd.
“Excuse me,” I say to Sean, already moving.
I reach them just as Ryan opens his mouth to speak.
“Mr. O’Sullivan.” I position myself slightly between him and Siobhan, not obviously protective but unmistakably present. “Offering your condolences?”
“Among other things.” Ryan’s eyes are hard. “Ms. Kelly and I have business to discuss.”
“Not today,” Siobhan says, her voice carrying the same ice it held in the cathedral. “Today is for mourning.”
“Your father wouldn’t have wasted time mourning.” Ryan leans closer, and I tense. “He would’ve seen an opportunity and taken it.”
“My father,” Siobhan says slowly, “knew when to strike and when to wait. Perhaps that’s a lesson you should learn, Ryan. Before you make a mistake, you can’t take back.”
The threat hangs in the air between them. Ryan’s hand twitches toward his pocket, where he probably has a weapon, but thinks better of it. Not here. Not now. Not with this many witnesses.
“Two days,” he says quietly. “Then we talk. On my terms.”
“No.” I let the word drop like a stone. “On hers. Or not at all.”
Ryan’s gaze shifts to me, measuring. Calculating whether I’m worth the trouble. “You have no say over this.”
I smile, cold and sharp. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“We’ll see how long these choices last when reality sets in.” Ryan steps back, straightening his jacket. “Enjoy the wake, Ms. Kelly. We’ll speak soon.”
He disappears into the crowd, and Siobhan exhales slowly.
“That went well,” she says.
“He’s testing you. Seeing if you’ll break.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.” I want to touch her, to ground her the way she grounds me, but not here. Not with everyone watching. “But he doesn’t know that yet. Which makes him dangerous.”
Fiona appears at Siobhan’s elbow, carrying a Champagne flute. “Here. You look like you need this.”
Siobhan takes the glass automatically, then freezes. Her eyes meet mine, and I see the question there. Is this paranoia, or is the threat real?
I take the glass from her hand, bringing it to my lips. “Let me.”
“Liam—”
I drink. The Champagne is expensive and probably not poisoned because Fiona’s watching us with confused concern, not malicious intent. But the point is made. I’d take the risk before I’d let Siobhan face it.
“It’s fine,” I say, handing the glass back. “Just Champagne.”
Fiona frowns, but Siobhan says quickly, “Thank you, Fiona.”
As Fiona walks away, Siobhan grips the glass tight enough that I worry it might shatter. “Someone’s playing games.”
“Then we play back.” I scan the room, looking for anyone watching us too closely. “After this is over. After everyone leaves and we’re alone, we figure out who sent those messages, and we end it.”
“And Ryan?”
“We handle him at the same time.” I lean closer, dropping my voice so only she can hear. “You give the word, and I’ll make sure he never threatens you again.”
She looks up at me, searching my face for doubt or hesitation. She won’t find any. I’ve killed for less with threats against people I didn’t like.
“No,” she says finally. “It’s too big, too soon.”
This woman. This fierce, calculating, beautiful woman who stands in her father’s house accepting condolences for a man who isn’t dead, while planning the destruction of her enemies where it hurts the most. I’m either the luckiest man alive or the most damned.
Probably both.
Then we move out again to more condolences. More veiled threats disguised as concern. More sharks circling, waiting for blood in the water.
Siobhan holds her ground. She doesn’t break. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her weak.
By the time the last guest leaves, it’s past midnight. The house feels cavernous and empty, littered with the debris of performative grief—empty glasses, picked-over food, flowers wilting in their vases.
Siobhan collapses onto the sofa in the formal living room, kicking off her heels with a groan. “I hate funerals.”
“Especially fake ones?”
“Especially ones where I have to pretend I’m not planning future murders.” She drops her head back against the cushions, eyes closed.
I sit beside her, close enough that our thighs touch. She leans into my touch, and some of the hardness melts from her expression. “I think you’re as ruined as I am.”
“Completely.” I kiss her, soft and slow, tasting Champagne and grief and the violence we both carry. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
When I pull back, she’s smiling, a real smile, not the performance she’s worn all day. “We should sleep.”
“Sleep is for the weak. Now sex? That is something we should do.”
“No arguments from me.” I carry her upstairs to the bedroom that used to be her father’s and is now hers. Another transfer of power, another lie made truth.
I undress her slowly, multitasking.
Somewhere out there, Ryan O’Sullivan is planning his next move. The other families are subtler, but no less dangerous, my father included. His absence from the funeral was a snub which Siobhan has ignored. For now. Sending Sean in his place was a tactical decision that is pure Connor.
But all of that is just fucking noise. Here, in this moment, Siobhan is safe. She’s mine.
The funeral is over.
The war is just beginning.