Chapter 1
Chapter one
The Devil’s Aria
Róisín
The warehouse is baltic, the sort of cold that settles in your joints and reminds you exactly where you are. North Belfast doesn’t pretend to be welcoming. It never has.
I sit at the table with my ankles crossed, spine straight, hands folded neatly atop my folio. Italian calfskin. Custom embossing. I take my time removing my gloves—soft kid leather, dove grey—and place them carefully beside it. Details matter. Men notice when you don’t rush.
Declan O’Shea watches me like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Well I’ll be fucked,” he says, grinning wide. “Lady Malloy herself.”
I lift my eyes, calm, pleasant. “Disappointed?”
“Nah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Just thought you’d send a lad. Or at least someone with a bit more… bite.”
I smile faintly. “Careful. You’ve just met me.”
His men snicker behind him. One of them mutters something about posh birds. I ignore it. Declan pushes his chair back and jerks his chin toward the crate. “So. Let’s have a look at it then.”
“Of course,” I say. “You’ll find everything dead on.”
He motions, and two of his lads move in.
Crowbars. The scrape of metal on wood echoes through the space.
I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. The lid comes off.
Declan steps forward, all interest now. He lifts one of the pistols, checks the weight, racks the slide.
Clean. Modified. Quiet. He gives a low whistle.
“Feck me,” he says. “These are tidy.”
“I don’t do sloppy,” I reply. “Bad for the reputation.”
He grins at that. “Aye? Heard plenty about your reputation.”
“Oh?” I ask lightly. “Do enlighten me.”
He glances at me, eyes lingering. “They say you’re all silk till you’re not. Say you’ve a temper when pushed.”
I tilt my head. “They say a lot of shite about a lot of people.”
He laughs. Loud. “Fair enough.”
One of his men pulls back the false base. The rifles are revealed beneath. Declan’s brows lift, impressed despite himself. “These weren’t mentioned.”
“They’re a courtesy,” I say. “You were havin’ trouble sourcing. I solved it.”
He snorts. “You don’t do favours for free, Lady Malloy.”
“No,” I agree. “I do them for loyalty.”
He straightens, turning back to me. “Price is still mad.”
I shrug, graceful. “So am I.”
That gets another laugh. He thinks we’re flirting. We are—just not how he thinks.
He steps closer now, wiping his hands on his coat. “You always sit so calm while men poke about your stock?”
“I trust my inventory,” I say. “And I trust myself.”
He smirks. “Must be nice, growin’ up with lads to do your dirty work.”
There it is. The push.
I smile still, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “You’d be surprised how much I handle myself.”
“Aye?” he says, grin turning crude. “Bet you would.”
The room stills. His men shift, sensing it. I stand—not sharp, not dramatic. Just controlled. I step closer to him, heels clicking softly on concrete. Close enough now that the air changes.
“Declan,” I say quietly, “you’re doin’ well so far. Don’t ruin it by bein’ an eejit.”
His grin falters. “Touchy, aren’t we?”
“No,” I reply. “Just particular.”
My hand slips into my coat. I don’t draw the dagger. I don’t need to. I let my fingers rest around the hilt, grounding myself.
“I don’t like guns,” I say conversationally. “Too much distance. I prefer to know exactly who I’m dealin’ with.”
His eyes flick down. Back up. “You threatenin’ me now?” he asks, voice rougher.
I meet his gaze. Dead calm. “I’m remindin’ you where you are.”
Silence stretches. The heater hums uselessly.
Then he exhales, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Christ. Fine. No offence meant.”
“Good,” I say, withdrawing my hand, smoothing my sleeve. Lady again. “Because I’d hate for the craic to sour.”
He nods once. “Price stands then?”
“Aye,” I say. “Take it or leave it.”
He glances back at the crate. At his men. Then back to me.
“…Deal.”
I incline my head. “Dead on.”
The tension eases, but not fully. It never does. And somewhere deep in my chest, something tight and familiar hums— a warning note, low and waiting. Like a string pulled too far, too fast.
The crate is sealed again. Money’s been counted twice.
Hands have been shaken—not warmly, but firmly enough to mean something.
The tension hasn’t gone, but it’s settled into something workable.
That’s usually how it ends. Declan lights a cigarette without asking.
Typical. I don’t comment. He’s already won his small victory.
“Fair play, Lady Malloy,” he says around the smoke. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy the craic, but here we are.”
I arch a brow. “Don’t get sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”
He laughs, rough and loud. “Aye, well. You’re not half bad company—for a woman sellin’ guns.”
I smile again. Easy. Controlled. The sort that invites another drink, another word, another mistake.
“Careful,” I say lightly. “You’re nearly soundin’ fond.”
He grins. “Wouldn’t go that far.”
The lads start moving—closing crates, shouldering bags, drifting toward the vans outside. The meeting is winding down the way it should. Clean. Efficient. Forgettable.
That’s when the air changes. I feel it before I hear it. A pressure. Like the moment before a storm breaks. There’s a sharp crack—too loud to be a door, too wrong to be anything else. Gunfire. Not close. Not inside. Outside. By the vans.
Someone shouts. “What the feck—”
Another crack. A scream this time.
Declan swears, loud and ugly. “Get down!”
I’m already moving. The world narrows to sound and motion. I drop behind the table as splinters tear from the crate beside me. Wood explodes. Metal screams. The smell of gunpowder fills the air, sharp and choking.
This isn’t a warning. This is a hit. Men are shouting now—panicked, furious.
Boots pounding concrete. Someone fires back, wild and useless.
I reach into my coat—Pain blooms hot and sudden in my side.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no warning. Just a brutal impact that knocks the breath clean out of me.
I hit the floor hard, teeth rattling, vision flashing white.
For a moment, I don’t understand. Then the burn sets in.
“Fuck—” I gasp, fingers slick as they press instinctively to my ribs. Blood. Too much of it. Seeping fast, warm against my palm.
Gunfire continues. Deafening. Chaos. I drag myself behind a stack of pallets, breath coming short now.
Each inhale hurts like hell. I clamp my jaw shut, force myself to stay quiet.
Stay upright. Stay alive. My dagger’s in my hand—I don’t remember drawing it.
Muscle memory. Training. The blade feels steady even as everything else starts to tilt.
Someone crashes past my hiding place. Not one of mine.
I catch a flash of unfamiliar jacket, hear a southern accent bark an order.
Not Declan’s rivals. Not the usual. This was planned. For me.
My vision swims. The warehouse lights blur. The cold creeps back in, sharp and mean. I press my forehead to the concrete for a second, just to steady myself. Not like this, I think. Not on my knees. Not caught out.
Another shout. Closer now. I push myself upright, dagger ready, blood soaking my coat, heartbeat thundering loud enough I’m sure they can hear it. The world holds its breath—and then everything goes quiet.
Too quiet.
I don’t know yet who’s coming through that door. Only that the string inside me has snapped,
and whatever follows will not be gentle. The silence doesn’t last. It never does.
Boots hit concrete—measured, unhurried. Not panicked like the others.
Not sloppy. Whoever it is isn’t hunting.
He’s arrived. I force myself upright, dagger slick in my hand, blood soaking through my coat now.
My vision tunnels. The world narrows to the doorway as a shadow cuts across the bare light.
Then he steps into it. Finnian O’Callaghan looks like sin remembered.
Black coat. No insignia. No rush. There’s blood on his knuckles that isn’t his, and his eyes—cold, bright, furious—lock on to me like I’m the only thing left in the room worth saving.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then his mouth curves.
Not kind. Not soft. Amused in that way that used to make boys cross the street and men piss themselves.
“Christ,” he says mildly, eyes flicking to the blood on my hand. “You really do make a mess of things, don’t ye?”
My grip tightens on the dagger. “Get the fuck away from me.”
He ignores that entirely. He steps closer, over bodies, over broken crates, over the wreckage like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t an ambush gone sideways. Like this isn’t Belfast burning quietly behind him.
“Did ye really think,” he says, voice low, lilting, deadly familiar, “that I’d let you die, a rós?”
The name hits harder than the bullet. I lunge. It’s stupid. Pain flares white-hot, steals my breath, but I don’t care. I swipe for him anyway, dagger aimed true—He catches my wrist easily. Too easily.
“Tsk,” he murmurs, twisting just enough to make me hiss. “Still all teeth.”
“Let go of me,” I snarl. “I’d rather bleed out than—”
“Save it,” he says, already hauling me in. His arm bands across my back, iron-strong, unapologetic. “You’re leavin’.”
“I am not—”
He lifts me off the ground like I weigh nothing.
I slam my fist into his chest. “Put me down, you bastard!”
He laughs. Actually laughs. Low and delighted. “Still got fire. That’s good.”
The night air hits us as he kicks the door open. Sirens wail somewhere distant. Too late. Always too late. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t ask. He throws me into the back of a black SUV like I’m a sack of stolen goods, climbs in after me, and slams the door shut.
I scramble, fury roaring through the pain. “You arrogant, smug—who the fuck do you think you are?”
He leans back, one arm draped casually over the seat, eyes dragging over me—blood, rage, all of it—with blatant satisfaction. “Still mouthy,” he says. “I missed that.”
“I didn’t miss you.”
He grins. Sharp. Possessive. Infuriating. “Liar.”
The engine roars to life. The SUV peels away from the warehouse as gunfire echoes uselessly behind us, Belfast swallowing the noise whole.
Finn glances at me again, eyes gleaming, entirely too pleased with himself. “Relax, a rós,” he says lightly. “You’re safe now.”
I bare my teeth at him. “I swear to God, Finnian O’Callaghan, when I’m back on my feet—”
He chuckles, slow and dangerous. “That’s the spirit.”
And just like that, the devil has me exactly where he wants me.