Chapter 7 Nocturne for the Dead
Chapter seven
Nocturne for the Dead
Róisín
The car glides through the city like it owns it.
Tinted windows. Leather seats still warm from the gala lights and too many eyes.
I sit straight, spine aching, blood humming low and restless beneath my skin.
Finn is beside me, broad and solid, cufflinks catching what little light there is.
Our driver doesn’t speak. He never does.
It’s the wee hours now. Belfast half-asleep, half-dead. The streets are scrubbed clean of noise, pubs shuttered, footsteps swallowed by fog and brick. I should feel relief, yet I don’t.
We stop at a light. The engine idles. The silence presses in, thick enough to taste. No other cars, no cross traffic, no late-night taxis cutting through like they always do. The driver’s hands tighten on the wheel—just a fraction too late to hide it.
My pulse slows. That’s the thing people never understand. Fear doesn’t always make you fast. Sometimes it makes you precise.
I glance at Finn without turning my head. He’s already watching the mirrors, jaw set, the easy arrogance gone. His hand drifts closer—not touching, not yet—but I feel it all the same, like gravity shifting.
The light stays red, too long. The quiet stretches, thin as a wire, and every lesson I ever learned crawls up my spine. Something is wrong.
The light flicks green, the driver eases his foot off the brake, but nothing happens. The engine coughs once—sharp, wrong—then dies completely. Silence slams down hard enough to ring in my ears.
“Shit,” the driver mutters under his breath, already reaching for the ignition.
Finn’s hand closes over mine at the same moment. “Don’t,” he says quietly.
The driver freezes and that’s when I hear it. A sound so small most people would miss it. The soft hiss of air escaping. Too controlled to be an accident. My gaze drops to the side mirror just in time to see the car behind us—black, unmarked—rolling to a stop far too neatly.
My stomach settles into something cold and steady. Not panic, recognition.
Finn leans forward slightly, voice low, lethal calm. “Out of the car. Now.”
The driver doesn’t argue. He reaches for the door handle and the rear window explodes inward. Glass sprays across the seat in a glittering arc, sharp and beautiful and deadly. I duck on instinct, body folding, heart kicking once hard and then locking into rhythm.
Finn is already moving, shoving the door open, dragging me with him as the driver stumbles out the front, swearing, blood streaking his cheek. The street is suddenly full of sound—engines revving, boots hitting pavement, shouted commands that aren’t meant to be followed.
We spill onto the road. Cold air hits my face, broken glass crunches under my shoes, streetlight glare washing everything pale and unreal. Finn hauls me behind the open door, body shielding mine without hesitation, his voice in my ear.
The second gunshot cracks the night open and then all hell breaks loose.
The first man comes around the back of the car wrong.
Too loud, too eager. Finn fires once, clean and precise, the crack of the gun sharp enough to split the air.
The man drops before he finishes lifting his weapon.
No drama, no warning. Finn doesn’t look at him again.
I don’t wait for instructions. I slip out from behind the door, heels useless, balance perfect anyway.
I always preferred close quarters. The kind of distance where you can smell a man’s breath, feel his pulse jump under your thumb.
The knife slides into my palm like it’s been waiting there all along.
Another attacker lunges for Finn’s flank and I move. I don’t think, I don’t hesitate, I don’t scream. I catch him by the collar, twist, and drive the blade up under his ribs. He chokes, eyes wide with surprise, hands clawing uselessly at my wrist.
I lean in, close enough to whisper. “Too slow.” Then I rip it free and let him fall.
Gunfire erupts around us—controlled bursts, not panic. O’Callaghan men pouring in from both ends of the street, black SUVs screeching to a halt, doors flying open. Malloy men answer from the opposite side, familiar faces, familiar violence. The sound of my world snapping perfectly into place.
Finn moves like a goddamn force of nature. He doesn’t spray bullets, he places them. Each shot deliberate, each kill earned. He reloads without looking, steps forward over bodies like they’re nothing more than obstacles in his path.
Someone grabs me from behind… big mistake. I slam my heel down hard on his foot, twist out of his grip, and slash across his forearm. He howls and I don’t wait for him to recover. I step in and bury the knife high in his chest, feel the resistance, the give, the heat.
Blood slicks my fingers. Good.
Another man charges me, feral, desperate. I duck under his swing and slice his throat in one smooth motion. Clean and efficient. He drops like a puppet with its strings cut.
I hear Finn shout my name—sharp, furious. I look up just in time to see him take down two men in rapid succession, pivoting toward me, eyes wild, protective rage written into every line of his body.
“Behind you!”
I spin, throw the knife without thinking.
It sinks hilt-deep into a man’s neck, he collapses.
Silence crashes down in jagged pieces. Sirens wail somewhere far off, engines idle, men groan, others don’t move at all.
I stand there breathing hard, knife gone, hands shaking now that the danger’s passed.
Blood coats my fingers, my wrists, the hem of my dress.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Finn’s in front of me instantly. Both hands on my face. Firm. Grounding. His thumbs smear blood along my jaw, but his touch is gentle in a way that almost undoes me.
“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, cutting through the noise. “Yer safe. I’ve got you.”
I hate how fast my breathing evens out. I hate how the world steadies when he holds me like this.
My hands curl into his jacket, traitorous. I swallow hard, jaw tight, eyes burning. “I don’t need you,” I snap, even as my knees threaten to give out.
Finn leans his forehead against mine, breath warm, dangerous smile ghosting across his mouth. “Aye,” he says softly. “That’s the problem.”
“Finn! Get her the fuck outta here!”
My Da’s voice tears through the street, raw and unravelling, and I finally turn toward it.
He’s standing half behind a car door, suit ruined, face slick with sweat and someone else’s blood. His eyes are on me like he’s seeing a ghost. Like he’s just remembered what he raised. Too late. I lift my chin, knife still warm in my hand.
“Bit late for concern, isn’t it?” I call back, loud enough for everyone to hear. “This how peace talks usually go for ye, Da, or am I just special?”
Another man rushes me from the side. I don’t even look.
I step back, catch his wrist, twist until something pops, and shove the blade into his stomach. He wheezes, folding over, hands shaking as he slides off me.
I lean close, mouth at his ear. “Should’ve stayed home.” I let him drop.
“Jesus Christ,” my da shouts, horror and fury tangling together. “Róisín! Enough! Finn—get her out of here now!”
Finn doesn’t answer him. He steps forward instead, gun low but ready, eyes flicking over me fast—checking for blood that isn’t mine, injuries I might not feel yet. His jaw is tight, expression carved from something dangerous and final.
Another shot rings out behind us. One of Finn’s men goes down hard, and just like that the street surges again—orders barked, boots moving, engines roaring as more cars skid in to seal the perimeter. I wipe my blade on my dress without looking.
Finn moves before I can finish my next kill. He grabs the back of my dress and hauls me bodily toward the car just as I’m lining up another poor bastard who looks like he’s made the mistake of thinking I’m distracted.
“Get off me,” I snarl, twisting, knife flashing. “I’m not done—”
“I know,” Finn snaps, shoving me hard into the back seat. “That’s the problem.”
The door slams shut, locking me in just as another gunshot cracks the air. I lunge for the handle, furious, breath still coming too fast, but the engine roars to life and the car jerks forward. Finn’s in the driver’s seat now. Not waiting, not arguing. He floors it.
Streetlights blur past. Sirens wail somewhere behind us. My pulse is still pounding in my throat, my fingers slick with drying blood as I press my forehead briefly to the glass and laugh—sharp, breathless, half-mad.
“Well,” I say, wiping my hands on my ruined dress, “what a night to celebrate our wedding tomorrow.”
Finn glances at me once, jaw clenched, eyes dark and burning. “You enjoyed yourself.”
“Immensely,” I reply sweetly. “Nothing says romance like arterial spray.”
He exhales through his nose, something between a growl and a laugh, and pushes the car harder.
The city blurs past the windows—streetlights streaking gold and white, rain-slick pavement reflecting too much light, too much movement.
My pulse is still loud in my ears, the aftermath of violence clinging to me like a second skin.
Blood drying. Hands steady now, finally, though they weren’t a moment ago.
Neither of us speaks, we don’t need to. The car slips into an underground garage without ceremony. No gates. No delays. The door seals behind us with a heavy, final clang that sounds a lot like a verdict.
Safe. The word settles wrong in my chest.
Finn’s men are already moving when the engine cuts—doors opening, hands guiding us out, voices low and sharp with efficiency.
The building hums around us, controlled and quiet in a way that feels almost obscene after the street.
He owns all of it. Every floor. Every exit. Every shadow accounted for.