Chapter 35
SIOBHAN
Two weeks after burying an empty coffin, I walk into Connor O’Neill’s home with his son by my side.
Liam’s hand rests at the small of my back as we enter, a touch that grounds me but doesn’t diminish me.
We’ve perfected this dance in the days since the fake funeral: him present, protective, but letting me lead.
His father needs to see that I’m not just the girl his son is fucking.
I’m the head of the Kelly family, and I didn’t get here by accident.
Connor sits behind his massive desk in his study. He doesn’t stand when we enter, but his eyes track me with an assessment that feels different from before. Not dismissive. Calculating, maybe. Respectful in the way wolves respect other predators.
“Siobhan,” he says, gesturing to the chairs across from him. “Liam.”
I take the seat directly across from him, crossing my legs and meeting his gaze without flinching. Liam settles in the chair next to mine after pulling it closer. A united front.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet,” I say, keeping my voice level and professional.
Connor’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “I don’t recall it being framed as a request.”
“It wasn’t.” I lean back in the chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make my point. “We have a mutual problem.”
“Thomas Landy.” Connor says the name like it tastes bitter. “Yes. He’s been busy since your father’s funeral. Attempted assassination. Encroaching on southside routes, putting pressure on union contracts, making noise about territorial disputes that haven’t been disputed in fifteen years.”
“He thinks I’m weak,” I say flatly.
His eyes narrow. “You handled the attempt well, Siobhan. No doubt with Liam’s influence.”
It’s a dig. A minor one, but still a dig. I ignore it. He wants me to rise to it, to proclaim I was a badass and I shot them all dead. But we will both know it’s a lie.
“Landy knows they didn’t come back, which means he knows I’m not rolling over.” I pull a folder from my bag and slide it across the desk. “He’s also been probing your northern shipping routes. Customs delays, missing containers, union representatives suddenly getting cold feet about renewals.”
Connor opens the folder, scanning the documents inside. Liam and I spent the last two weeks gathering intelligence, calling in every favor, leveraging every contact my father ever had. The information is solid, and Connor’s expression darkens as he reads.
“How did you get this?” he asks, looking up.
“Does it matter?” I counter. “What matters is that Landy thinks he can play us against each other while he carves out territory from both sides. He’s betting on my anger at you for snubbing my father’s funeral.
But shit happens. Your son is sleeping in my bed.
That makes us family, whether you like it or not. ”
The bluntness makes Liam tense beside me, but Connor actually laughs, a short bark of genuine amusement. “Christ, you’ve got balls. Michael would be proud.”
The mention of my father stings more than I expect, but I keep my face neutral. “Michael’s dead. I’m not interested in making him proud. I’m interested in keeping what’s mine and making sure Landy understands that coming for me was the worst mistake of his miserable life.”
Connor leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “And you want what from me, exactly?”
“This is where our truce becomes a collaboration,” I state.
“Landy’s legitimate businesses are vulnerable.
He’s overextended, using shell companies to hide cash flow, relying on relationships with banks that value reputation over loyalty.
You have connections I don’t. I have information you need.
We coordinate, we hit him where it hurts, and we make sure every other family in this city understands that going after either of us means going after both of us. ”
The study falls silent except for the ticking of an antique clock on the mantle.
Connor studies me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve, and I let him look.
I’m not the girl who arrived back in Dublin with a fantasy of running a legitimate business.
I’m not even the woman who stood in that cathedral and lied to three hundred people.
I’m someone new, forged in blood and violence and the kind of clarity that only comes from surviving when everyone expects you to fail.
“Sean needed to be seen, on his own, without me hovering over him,” Connor says eventually. It takes me a second to catch up with the topic shift.
I shrug one shoulder. “You had your reasons for not attending the funeral. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“What are you positioning him for?” Liam asks.
Connor gives a cold half-smile. “None of your fucking business.”
“Is that it? Business?”
Connor’s eyes gleam with something that might be approval as he shifts them back to me. “Business, not personal.”
“Fine. I don’t particularly give a shit.” I hold his gaze. “So, let’s do business.”
He opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out his phone, setting it on the surface between us. “What are we hitting first?”
Relief floods through me, but I don’t let it show.
I lean forward, pull out my phone, and open the notes I’ve compiled.
“Landy’s primary cash flow comes from the dockside warehouses.
He’s got a contract with Casey Shipping that’s up for renewal next month.
Casey’s CEO, Marcus Holt, has gambling debts he’s been trying to hide from his board. ”
“I know Holt,” Connor says dryly, picking up his phone. “His son married a cousin of mine. Family connection.”
“Can you leverage it?”
“I can have Holt’s contract pulled by the end of business today.” Connor’s already typing something, his thumbs moving efficiently across the screen. “What else?”
“Landy’s using First National Bank for his shell company accounts. The branch manager is James Corrigan. He’s been skimming off the top, small amounts he thinks no one will notice.”
“You have documentation?”
“Photographs, transaction records, everything you’d need to bury him.
” I pull another folder from my bag, this one thicker.
“Corrigan gets exposed, the bank audits Landy’s accounts, finds irregularities.
At minimum, it freezes his access to liquid cash for weeks.
At best, it triggers federal investigations. ”
Connor takes the folder, flipping through it with the efficiency of someone who’s read a thousand intelligence reports. “This is solid work.”
“I had good teachers,” I say, thinking of my mother’s paranoia and my father’s meticulous record-keeping.
“We’ll need someone inside the bank to push this to the right people,” Connor says, already thinking three steps ahead. “Someone with connections to the fraud division.”
“I have someone,” I offer. “One of my father’s old contacts, a retired detective who consults for financial crimes now. He owes me a favor.”
Connor nods, making another note on his phone. “What about the unions?”
“Landy’s been pressuring the longshoremen’s union to shift their allegiance. The union president, Donald Reilly, has a daughter in college. Expensive private school, tuition paid in cash every semester.”
“You think Landy’s paying him off?”
“I know he is. I have the receipts.” I slide yet another folder across the desk. “We expose Reilly, the union membership votes him out, and whoever replaces him will remember who helped make it happen.”
Connor studies the documents, and I can see the gears turning in his mind, calculating angles and consequences. “If we move on all of this simultaneously, Landy won’t have time to react. His cash flow chokes, his shipping gets disrupted, his union protection evaporates.”
“And he comes to the table weak,” I finish. “Ready to negotiate from a position of desperation instead of strength.”
“You’re not just cutting off his resources,” Connor observes. “You’re destroying his reputation. Making sure every other family sees him as incompetent.”
“He tried to kill me in my own bed,” I say coldly. “I want him broken, not dead. Death would be a mercy.”
Connor doesn’t comment; his attention shifts to his phone as he starts making calls.
The first call is brief, clipped instructions to someone named Robert about pulling contracts.
The second is longer, Connor’s voice smooth and persuasive as he talks to someone about banking irregularities that require immediate attention.
By the third call, he’s coordinating with union contacts, his network activating like a machine designed for exactly this kind of warfare.
I make my own calls, reaching out to my father’s old detective friend, then to a journalist I know who specializes in corporate corruption. Each conversation is carefully calibrated, giving just enough information to spark action without revealing the full scope of what we’re doing.
Forty-five minutes later, Connor ends his last call and sets his phone down.
“It’s done. Holt’s contract is being terminated, citing performance issues.
The bank is launching an internal investigation into Corrigan as of this afternoon.
And I have three union representatives ready to call for Reilly’s resignation at tomorrow’s meeting. ”
“My journalist contact is running a story on Landy’s shell companies in tomorrow’s business section,” I add. “Nothing actionable, but enough to make his legitimate partners nervous.”
Connor leans back in his chair, something like satisfaction crossing his face. “Landy will be scrambling by nightfall. By the end of the week, he’ll be begging for a meeting.”
“And when he does?” I ask.
“You take it,” Connor says simply. “This was your play. You finish it.”
The acknowledgment settles over me like a mantle. This is what power feels like—not the performance I gave at the funeral, but the real thing. Strategic, calculated, devastating.
“There will be fallout,” Connor warns. “Other families will take note. Some will see this as an opportunity to test you further.”
“They can,” I say, and I mean it.
Connor’s smile is razor thin. “That little assistant of yours, Fiona?”
“What about her?” I ask, keeping my expression neutral.
“She checks out.”
“You investigated her?”
“She is within spitting distance of my son, and still my heir, despite this…” He waves his hand between us. “Every single one of your employees has been checked and re-checked.”
“So why mention Fiona specifically?”
“I received a message to say she can’t be trusted.”
“From who?” I ask, keeping my gaze on him and not turning to Liam.
Connor shrugs. “Anonymous text. I put it down to someone trying to throw the cat amongst your pigeons. The cat being me, and the pigeon in question, your assistant with a bullet in her head.”
“Touch her, and you die.”
“You trust her?”
“You said she checks out.”
He smiles. “You take my word for it?”
“No,” Liam interrupts. “I checked her out. She’s clean.”
I feel a pang of guilt for dragging Fiona into this. Maybe it’s time to dismiss her to keep her safe. She is leverage that can be used against me. Has been used against me.
Connor sits back, signaling the meeting’s end. “I’ll keep you informed of any developments. You do the same.”
I stand, extending my hand across the desk. Connor takes it, his grip firm and brief. A handshake between equals this time.
Liam rises beside me, and we turn to leave. At the door, Connor’s voice stops us.
“Siobhan.”
I look back.
“Your father would be proud,” he says again, but this time it sounds different. Not patronizing or dismissive. Just honest. “But more importantly, you should be.”
The words lodge somewhere in my chest, unexpected and unwelcome in their kindness. I nod once and walk out, Liam’s presence solid beside me as we leave the house.
The afternoon sun hits us as we step outside, and I breathe in the bitterly cold air, feeling the adrenaline starting to ebb. We walk to Liam’s Aston Martin in silence, the click of my heels on the driveway the only sound.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in. Liam rounds the car and gets behind the wheel, but doesn’t start the engine immediately. Instead, he turns to me, his eyes searching mine.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Better than okay,” I say honestly. “That felt right. Strategic, not reactive. This is how I’m supposed to fight. Calmly, rationally, unemotionally.”
He reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You were fucking magnificent in there. My father respects maybe three people in this world. You just became the fourth. About Fiona—”
“I know. I will tell her later. I want to make sure she has a severance package that will set her up for the rest of her life.”
“You’re a good woman, sweetheart,” he murmurs, cupping my face.
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my bag. I pull it out, expecting an update from one of my contacts.
The message is from an unknown number. Two words.
He’s gone.
The world tilts sideways. I stare at the screen, reading the words again and again, as if repetition will change their meaning. But they don’t change. They just sit there, stark and final.
“Siobhan?” Liam’s voice sounds distant, like he’s speaking from underwater. “What is it?”
I can’t answer. My throat has closed up, my chest constricting like someone’s wrapped steel bands around my ribs. The phone trembles in my hand.
Liam takes it gently, reading the message. His face goes carefully blank, the way it does when he’s processing something that requires tactical thinking rather than emotional response.
“Michael,” he says quietly. It’s not a question.
I nod, not trusting my voice. My father is actually dead now. Not fake-dead for political theater. Not hidden away on the west coast. Gone.
Liam starts the engine without a word, his hand finding mine and squeezing hard enough to anchor me to the present.
He pulls out of the estate, and I watch the trees blur past the windows, my mind unable to process the contradiction of mourning someone I never really had. But at least I can stop pretending now.
Everything is falling into place, and while it isn’t at all how I pictured my life would be, I have accepted that things change. I have changed.
For the better or the worse? Who knows. But I know I will have someone by my side to help me figure that out. I squeeze Liam’s hand back and look at him. His face is carved from granite as he focuses on the road.
“I love you,” I say and watch that half-smile curve up the left side of his mouth as it takes my breath away.