Sleighed By the Dublin Devil (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Red on Arrival

Siobhán

The airplane shudders as it descends through the clouds, and I tighten my grip on the armrest—not from fear, but from restraint.

Beneath the seat in front of me is a custom garment bag holding a crimson satin dress worth more than my last six months of rent.

It’s for the gala. The performance. The illusion.

Across the aisle, a couple whispers and laughs as they sip mini bottles of Baileys and lean into each other like the world isn’t sharp and cruel. I hate them a little. Not for their happiness, but for the softness of it. The safety. I haven't known soft in a long time.

I left Dublin five years ago with nothing but a bruised heart and a broken promise.

I return now with sharper edges. Cleaner lies.

Heavier secrets. New York was supposed to be the escape.

The beginning. Instead, it chewed me up, handed me betrayal in the shape of a man with cold hands and a stolen future, and spit me back out just in time for Christmas.

Now I’m flying back to the city I swore I’d never see again. Because they asked me to play. Because he will be there. Because I have a plan.

I sigh as I look out the window, my entire life in New York gone in the blink of an eye. I didn’t even know he was married.

That’s the part that still makes my stomach twist – not the heartbreak, not the public humiliation, not even the career fallout when the New York Philharmonic abruptly dropped me from their winter feature lineup.

No, it was walking into his apartment with Thai takeout and a bottle of red, only to find a woman in his bed wearing his shirt and calling him husband.

He told me he loved me. He told her he was out of town for a conference.

He told both of us lies. So when the email came—from the patriarch of the O’Dwyer family himself, inviting me to return to Dublin for “a prestigious private charity gala hosted by the esteemed O’Dwyer family”—I didn’t hesitate.

They offered a fat check. A return flight in first class.

A seat on the same stage my mother once played before she died.

And I knew exactly what it meant. The gala isn’t just about money.

It never was. It’s about reputation. Power.

Control. The O’Dwyers don’t host events—they orchestrate them.

And they don’t invite people—they summon.

And if Cillian had anything to do with the invitation… then he knows I’m coming. And if he didn’t? Well. Surprise, Devil. It’s been five years since I’ve seen him. Five years since I ran from his touch like it burned—and it did.

Cillian O’Dwyer was never meant to be mine.

Heir to the Red Hand. Mafia prince in a black suit and cufflinks stained with secrets.

Even as kids, I knew there was something sharp under his skin.

Something wicked. Something hungry. But he played me like I was a thing made of glass. And for a while, I let him.

Until my mother was gone. Until the truth started to bleed through the cracks. Until the danger no longer felt distant—it felt deliberate. So I left. No goodbyes. No letters. Just silence.

And now, after all this time, the prodigal pianist returns in red satin, ready to pretend like none of it happened. Except it did. And Cillian O’Dwyer is going to feel every note of what I’ve been holding inside.

The pilot says something cheerful in a Dublin drawl as the wheels hit the tarmac. I stare out the window and watch the rain streak sideways across the glass like the sky is crying for someone who doesn’t deserve it. I don’t feel home. I feel haunted.

Baggage claim is a blur of blinking fluorescent lights and cheap holiday music piping through old speakers. I collect my suitcase—black quilted with a simple monogram, nothing flashy—and walk with purpose through the crowd of travelers hugging loved ones and rushing toward taxis.

I can’t help but roll my eyes in a very undignified way, when I see him. He’s waiting for me with a grin that’s too wide for this grey, miserable morning. Ronan ‘Rouge’ Keane. Cillian’s right hand. His pit bull in Prada. His grinning, charming, casually violent shadow.

"Jesus, look at ya," Rogue drawls the second I clear customs, arms spread like we’re old drinking buddies instead of fractured remnants of a dead past. “If I knew yous were flying in today, I’d have brought roses. Or whiskey. Or, hell, a damn parade.”

I don’t respond. I just keep walking. My heels click against the marble floor with precision, the echo louder than anything he’s saying. He falls in step beside me anyway, unbothered.

“Still got that bitchy strut, I see. Good to know fame hasn’t softened you.”

I slow just enough to glance at him, expression frozen somewhere between do not engage and I could kill you with a tuning fork. “Are you here to talk, Keane, or to drive?”

His grin widens. “Bit of both. But mostly to annoy ya. Come on, superstar.”

The car is black, sleek, and imported—just like the man who owns it. Rogue loads my luggage into the trunk with dramatic flair, then opens the door for me with a mock bow. I don’t thank him.

I stare out the window for the entire ride, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single glance. He fills the silence anyway, tossing out comments about city traffic, the gala lineup, how the “little devils” in the O’Dwyer family have been behaving this year.

I offer nothing in return. Not when he jokes about my New York ex. Not when he casually mentions Cillian’s name. Not even when he says, “The old man’s expecting fireworks, ya know. Yous back on Irish soil? With that pretty vengeance face? Shit’s about to get biblical.”

I remain silent. Let him chatter. Let him wonder. Let them all. The hotel we pull up to is obscene. All gold trim and marble floors, the kind of place politicians book under false names and criminals pretend to afford. Rogue escorts me in like I’m something precious or dangerous—possibly both.

The concierge recognizes me immediately. Of course he does. My name’s been on the gala program for a month now. Internationally Renowned Pianist Returns Home for the Holidays. They say it like I’m a Christmas miracle, not a ticking bomb in red lipstick.

“Miss Kelleher,” the concierge says with a bow. “Your suite is ready. Penthouse level. Courtesy of the O’Dwyer family.”

Of course it is. Rogue carries my bag to the elevator without asking.

He’s smart enough not to comment on the room itself—how it has a private piano in the corner, how the fire’s already lit, how the balcony overlooks the city like a throne.

I say nothing until he lingers in the doorway after dropping my things.

“I’m not here to catch up,” I say quietly.

He nods. “I know.”

“I’m not here for Cillian, either.”

He smirks. “You keep telling yourself that, dove.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in a palace paid for by devils.

The suite is silent after the door shuts behind him. Lavish, over decorated silence. The kind that echoes. I don’t move for a while. Just stand there, coat still on, fingers curling into my palms, breath shallow. I’m here for a reason—and it’s not the gala.

The truth is, I almost said no when the invitation came. Almost deleted the email. Almost blocked the number that followed. But then I saw the signature. Not from some assistant. Not from a publicist or booking agent. From Darragh O’Dwyer himself.

And the moment I read it, I knew something was wrong. Darragh never did anything without reason. And he never liked me. So why invite the girl his son once burned for? Why now? Why Christmas?

The only answer that made sense was the one I wasn’t ready to say aloud: He wants something. But I want something, too… a piece of my past this family owes me. Answers for their precious dove, the prodigal pianist, Dublin’s Darling Daughter.

I turn, looking around the room. The piano waits in the corner like a dare. Black lacquer. Untouched. Gleaming in the firelight like something sacred—or cursed. I move toward it slowly, tugging off my coat and letting it fall across the velvet chaise like I belong here.

I don’t. But I sit. And then I play. The first few notes are soft, cautious—like breath held in the dark. Then it opens. Blooms. Unspools into something slow and bleeding, a melody stitched together from every bruise I’ve never let heal. It’s the kind of piece that would make an audience cry.

But no one is here. Only me. And the ghosts.

Until I see it. Tucked just under the bench, barely sticking out—like it was meant to be found, but not right away. A black envelope, heavy paper, sealed with wax.

No markings. No name. No signature on the front. I stare at it for a long moment before I pick it up. My hands don’t shake. I break the seal. Inside, one line. Handwritten. The loops sharp, deliberate, undeniably familiar.

Play for me. One last time. —C