Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
DARAGH
D aragh O’Neill stepped into the dimly lit back room of O’Malley’s, a quiet pub on the outskirts of Dublin, where much of the city’s real business happened, hidden from the law. The scent of whiskey and old leather lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of rain carried in by the wind. He barely noticed. His focus was on the two people waiting for him at the worn oak table in the corner.
Con O’Neill leaned back in his chair. The patriarch of the O’Neill crime family exuded power with no need to say a word. The man didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. Next to him sat Callum Kavanagh, a man Daragh respected—if only because Callum didn’t play games. He was the kind of bastard who saw a problem and solved it, no questions asked. Which made it interesting that he was here now, looking far more serious than usual.
Daragh slid into the empty seat across from them, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “You rarely call unless you need to get rid of someone,” he said, tipping his chin at Callum. “So, what’s the job?”
Callum’s green eyes were unreadable as he pulled a phone from his pocket and set it on the table. He tapped the screen, revealing a grainy image—an article from The Dublin Society Gazette . Daragh recognized the gala, the polished veneer of Dublin’s elite. But his attention went straight to the woman in the photo's background.
Emerald-green silk. Auburn hair swept into an elegant twist. A curve of bare shoulder. Even in the blurry reflection of a mirror, he could tell she was trouble.
His interest sharpened, but he kept his voice neutral. “Who is she?”
Callum’s lips pressed together before he answered. “Siobhan Harrington.”
Daragh blinked once, then slowly sat up straighter. That was a name he hadn’t heard in years. Hell, like everyone else, he’d thought she was dead. “I thought she was dead.”
Con O’Neill exhaled through his nose, his expression dark. “Apparently not. Have you ever noticed that happens a lot with MI5, MI6 and Interpol people? And they always seem so surprised when they show back up alive and well.”
Callum and Daragh exchanged glances. Several years ago, Con’s beloved fated mate had returned from the dead as well. Neither said a word to the man most called The Devil of Galway.
Daragh dragged his gaze back to the image. Siobhan Harrington. The diplomat’s daughter. The woman who had vanished without a trace years ago, leaving nothing behind but a few whispers and a trail of burned bridges.
“She’s alive,” Callum said. “And if I saw this, my guess is so did the wrong people.”
Daragh didn’t ask who those people were. He already had a damn good idea.
Sebastian Wolfe. MI5. MI6. Maybe worse.
“And you want me to find her?” Daragh asked, already knowing the answer.
Callum’s fingers drummed against the table. “No offense, but I don’t give a damn about whatever happened between your family and hers back then. Isolde...” he paused, clearing his throat before continuing, “…wants her safe. She’s known Siobhan for years and thought she was safe… until that photograph showed up.”
Daragh’s lips twisted. Isolde Kavanagh was many things, but sentimental wasn’t one of them. If she wanted Siobhan found, there was a reason beyond friendship.
Con leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “This isn’t just about Callum’s mate. Siobhan’s been running for a long time. I want to know why.”
Daragh understood the unspoken message. Con didn’t believe in coincidences. If Siobhan had reappeared now, after all these years, then it wasn’t by choice. Someone had found her.
Daragh nodded once. “I’ll handle it.”
Con’s gaze locked onto his, the weight of expectation settling between them. “This isn’t a simple missing person case, Daragh.”
It never was.
He took the phone, studying the image one last time. Siobhan Harrington might have been hiding for years, but she had made a mistake. She had allowed herself to be seen. Now they would hunt her.
And if there was one thing Daragh O’Neill excelled at, it was hunting.
Daragh didn’t like being given orders. He took them—because he knew better than to cross Con O’Neill without a damn good reason—but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
And right now, he wasn’t sure what irritated him more. That he was being sent after a ghost or the fact that the ghost in question unsettled him, and called to that dark place deep inside him.
He stared at the grainy photograph Callum Kavanagh had provided, his fingers tapping against the edge of the phone screen. Although the mirror’s reflection was blurry, the woman in the green dress caught his eye.
Siobhan Harrington.
A name buried in whispers. A woman long presumed dead. And yet, here she was, caught in the background of a society gala like she had never disappeared at all.
He exhaled sharply, setting the phone down and glancing up at Callum. "You said Isolde’s known all along?"
Callum’s green eyes were steady. “Yes, but until now, I didn’t know. Like everyone else, I believed she was dead. Or as close to it as a person can be. But someone spotted her... photographed her. And that means others have seen her too.”
Daragh leaned back in his chair, absorbing that information. Siobhan had been careful. If she had stayed hidden for this long, it meant she knew what she was doing. So why had she slipped up?
More importantly, who else had noticed?
By the time he left O’Malley’s, he already had a handful of calls out to his contacts. If Siobhan had resurfaced, there would be ripples. And ripples in his world usually led to blood.
It didn’t take long for the first bit of intel to come through.
At The Clover, a high-end club owned by the O’Neill family, Daragh nursed a whiskey while his informant—a nervous little bastard named Keenan—sat across from him, shifting in his seat like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
“You’re asking about that gallery owner, Harrington,” Keenan said, licking his lips. “Word is, she’s got a price on her head.”
Daragh’s fingers tightened around his glass. “From who?”
Keenan hesitated. “MI5’s got renewed interest. They want her brought in, but they’re keeping it quiet.” He swallowed hard. “The bigger problem is the bounty.”
Daragh arched an eyebrow. “Bounty?”
Keenan nodded, lowering his voice. “Sebastian Wolfe.”
A slow burn spread through Daragh’s gut. Of course. Sebastian had been powerful before. Now? He had the kind of reach that made most men untouchable.
“How much?” Daragh asked.
Keenan’s throat bobbed. “Enough to make dangerous men take notice. And it’s not a dead-or-alive situation, either. He wants her alive.”
Daragh already knew why—men like Sebastian didn’t let go of things they considered theirs.
Daragh finished his drink and set the glass down with deliberate care. Keenan took the hint and stood quickly, looking grateful to escape. Daragh stayed seated, rolling his shoulders as he processed the information. Siobhan Harrington wasn’t just running from MI5… she was running from Wolfe.
Daragh moved through the streets of Dublin like a shadow, silent and unnoticed. He’d spent years learning how to follow a ghost without leaving footprints, and tonight, that skill was proving useful.
Siobhan Harrington wasn’t just any woman on the run—she was a professional escape artist. But even the best left behind breadcrumbs. He had learned a long time ago that the more careful a person was, the more predictable they became.
And Siobhan was very careful.
His intel had led him to the quiet neighborhood just off Grafton Street, where her flat sat tucked between a small bistro and a boutique. It was the kind of place that blended in, a location picked by someone who knew how to disappear into the city’s landscape.
Daragh didn’t make a move right away. He spent the next two days tracking her movements, watching, studying.
She was good. He had to give her that. She didn’t take the same route home twice, switched grocery stores frequently, and lingered nowhere too long. She had surveillance habits drilled into her, the kind of instinctive awareness that suggested she hadn’t just been hiding from Sebastian and MI5—she had been expecting them.
But she hadn’t left. Not yet, and that told him something far more important than any whisper on the street. Siobhan had a life here.
She should have run the moment she saw that photograph in the paper. Should have left immediately, but instead she’d taken valuable time to take care of business and, he supposed, ready herself to leave this life behind. Leaving would mean giving up everything she had built. The gallery, her work, the safety she had carved out for herself in the cracks of the city.
Daragh understood that kind of reluctance. A woman on the run was a woman who never put down roots. And yet, Siobhan had—which meant part of her wasn’t ready to leave, even knowing the danger closing in on her.
That gave him an opening, and Daragh never wasted an opening. He had spent enough time watching. Now it was time to set his trap.
The gallery was closed for the night, but a sliver of silver light still bled through the windows, casting a glow on the cobblestone street.
Daragh leaned against the wall across from the entrance, hidden just enough in the shadows to go unnoticed by passersby. He had positioned himself carefully—not too close, not too far. Just enough to see the silhouette moving inside.
Siobhan. She was alone, pacing the length of the space, stopping now and then to check something on her phone. Waiting. Deciding. She was planning her exit.
Daragh didn’t need to see her face to know that. He could feel the energy rolling off her in waves, the subtle hesitation that came with someone about to cut and run. Good. He wanted her to make a move, because the second she did, she wouldn’t be alone.
Hours later, Siobhan finally left. She paused for a moment at the door—touching it as if she was saying goodbye.
Daragh stayed in step with her from a distance, his presence nothing more than a ghost in the night. She walked with purpose, but not urgency. Not yet. He followed her through the winding backstreets, watched as she made unnecessary detours, looping in ways meant to shake a tail.
She was smart, but not smarter than him. When she finally reached her destination—a small storage unit on the edge of the industrial district—Daragh knew he had her.
She disappeared inside, and Daragh made his move. The door clicked shut behind her, and he crossed the lot in silence, slipping into the narrow space between units. He didn’t go in right away. He waited. Let her breathe. Let her think she was alone.
Let her feel safe.
Then, just as she was about to leave, he entered and spoke. “You took too long.”
The words were quiet, controlled, but they hit like a gunshot. Siobhan froze.
Daragh watched the way her spine stiffened, the way she turned—slow, deliberate. Her gaze locked onto his, green eyes flashing with something that wasn’t fear. It was fury.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, voice steady, but he could hear the pulse of adrenaline beneath it.
Daragh took a step forward, closing the space between them just enough.
“You already know,” he said simply.
He saw the moment she put it together. The flicker of realization. The way her lips parted just slightly.
“O’Neill.”
Daragh inclined his head. “Daragh.”
Siobhan’s fingers flexed at her sides, her body coiled tight like a spring. “If you’re here to take me to MI5, you’re wasting your time.”
Daragh’s lips curved slightly. “Not MI5.”
She didn’t relax. Not an inch.
“Then why?”
He let a beat of silence stretch between them, watching her, measuring.
“Because I’m the only thing standing between you and the men hunting you,” he said finally. “And if you don’t come with me now, I won’t be the only one who finds you next time.”
Her breath hitched, just barely. For the first time, he saw something flicker in her expression. Not fear—but something just as dangerous.
Doubt.
Daragh took another step closer, watching as her gaze flicked to the exit behind him. Calculating. Assessing.
Good. He wanted her to understand exactly what was at stake.
“Your choice, kitten,” he said softly. Dangerously. “Come with me now…” His gaze dropped briefly, deliberately, to where her pulse hammered in her throat. “…or roll the dice on who gets to you first.”