Chapter 13 #3
He steps closer, setting it gently on the vanity before me. “Your mother’s locket.”
My hands go still. The words don’t land right away—don’t make sense until I touch the pouch myself and feel the weight inside. I open it, slow, careful. The gold catches the light like a heartbeat, familiar and aching.
“I thought it was lost,” I whisper.
“It was,” he says quietly. “She sold it to pay for your first piano. My mother bought it back the same day. She gave it to me.”
I turn in my chair to look at him fully. “Why?”
Cillian’s eyes soften, that dangerous blue fading into something almost gentle. “Said I’d know when to give it to you.”
Rouge exhales a low whistle. “Bloody hell, that’s sentimental even for you.”
“Shut up,” Cillian mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
He takes the locket from my hands, thumb brushing over the engraving before he fastens the chain around my neck himself. His touch is steady, reverent—like he’s anchoring both of us in the past and the present at once.
When the clasp clicks, it’s louder than it should be. Final. Binding.
I stare at our reflection. “You kept this all these years?”
“I keep what’s mine.” His voice is quiet. Not possessive—just certain.
Rouge groans dramatically. “Alright, before I start crying or vomiting, can we move this love story along? Curtain’s in ten.”
Cillian ignores him. His eyes stay locked on mine. “Ready, dove?”
I nod, fingers closing around the locket. “Now I am.”
The smaller ballroom hums with low conversation and expensive laughter. It’s not the grand hall tonight—no velvet curtains or orchestral staging. Just a gilded room with too much perfume in the air and too many secrets pretending to be sophistication.
Darragh’s personal circle fills the space—politicians, financiers, criminals dressed like royalty. Their wives glitter in jewels that could fund small wars; their mistresses wear smiles sharp enough to cut. Every head turns the moment the doors open.
Cillian takes my hand as we step inside. Rouge follows just behind, posture loose but eyes alert—like a man counting exits. The three of us move as one, a deliberate procession through the whispers.
I can feel the weight of it all—their curiosity, their judgment, the quiet hunger that clings to these people. They don’t see a musician; they see spectacle. Proof that Darragh O’Dwyer still owns everything that glitters.
Rouge leans close enough for only me to hear. “Smile, duchess. They smell fear faster than blood.”
I do. A small, perfect smile. The kind I learned in conservatories and boardrooms and funerals.
Cillian’s hand presses lightly against the small of my back, grounding me as we approach the piano. I can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself back from violence just to get me through this moment clean.
Darragh rises from his seat near the front—his grin wide, his applause lazy and theatrical. “Ah, our little prodigy has arrived,” he drawls. “My friends, tonight you’ll hear a sound you thought Dublin lost long ago.”
Polite laughter ripples through the crowd. My stomach turns, but I keep my smile fixed.
Rouge mutters, “He loves his own voice, doesn’t he?”
“Almost as much as he loves pretending he’s not terrified of her,” Cillian murmurs back.
They escort me the final few steps to the bench.
The air feels thick, almost electric. Rouge takes position by the door.
Cillian stays close—too close—his shadow stretching over the piano.
I lower myself into the seat, smoothing my dress.
My fingers hover above the keys but don’t touch them yet. The room holds its breath.
Then I begin. Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in G Minor. Thunder dressed in velvet.
The first chords crash through the room, deep and resonant, filling the small ballroom until the walls themselves seem to tremble.
The sound vibrates through my bones, up my arms, into the hollow of my throat.
My foot presses the pedal — the vibration thrums under my heel like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else.
Every note demands control, strength, devotion. And I give it everything.
The polished ivory is cool beneath my fingers, but my hands are burning.
The repetition, the force — it’s physical, almost violent.
Each arpeggio feels like a blade slicing through silk.
I can feel the sweat gather at the base of my spine, the slight tremor of exhaustion pushing against perfection. But I don’t falter.
Because this is mine.
The melody climbs, relentless, sweeping through minor keys like a confession whispered to God and ignored. Every rise and fall is deliberate, beautiful, unhinged. Rachmaninoff understood the ache of wanting to be free — and tonight, so do I.
In the reflection of the polished lid, I catch glimpses: Cillian’s stillness, Rouge’s grin fading to awe, Darragh’s smug smile tightening.
Malachi watching me like a man who’s seen a ghost. They think I don’t know.
That I can’t hear the whispers, the plots, the knife poised behind the applause.
But this is my requiem, and I’m playing it before they can bury me.
The final section hits — that sweeping, thunderous resolution. My whole body moves with it now. Shoulders. Wrists. Breath. My heel lifts off the pedal just enough to let the echo breathe, then drops again to catch the last note before it dies.
It’s not just sound. It’s survival.
When the last chord rings out, it fills the silence like smoke — thick, holy, defiant. I keep my hands on the keys, holding the vibration, forcing them to listen to the end of me. And then, slowly, I lift my head.
The applause breaks like a gunshot. Loud. Reluctant. Reverent. Every man in this room — every monster — is clapping for me. Cillian’s gaze meets mine across the room, blue fire and quiet promise. Rouge raises his glass with a sharp whistle.
But Darragh… he doesn’t move. He just watches, smiling like he’s already buried me in his mind. I smile back. He’ll learn soon enough.
The applause still hangs in the air when Cillian moves.
He’s across the room before I can stand, the crowd parting for him like they know better.
His tie’s still loose, his jaw sharp, eyes molten under the chandelier light.
He stops beside the piano, leans down, and murmurs something in Irish against my ear — words I don’t fully catch, but my body does.
“Mo ghrá, rinne tú iad uile adhradh duit agus níl siad fiú ag tuiscint cén fáth.”3
It’s low. Sinful. Worship wrapped in threat. A flush crawls up my throat, and I don’t even try to hide it.
He straightens, offering his hand. “Come on, Duchess.”
The title rolls through me like heat. Duchess.
Dublin’s Darling Daughter reborn under the Devil’s hand.
I rise, placing my hand in his. He pulls me close, and the crowd watches—too quiet, too curious—as we step down from the stage together.
Rouge falls in behind us, ever the shadow with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Cillian leans close enough that his breath touches my neck. “You’ve no idea what you look like right now.”
“I think I do,” I murmur.
He huffs a laugh that sounds almost dangerous. “You’re mine, Siobhán Kelleher.”
Before I can answer, a new voice cuts through the noise—cold, sharp, and soaked in authority.
“You can’t trust a siren, son.”
Cillian’s hand tightens on my waist. We both turn. His father stands near the entryway, silver hair immaculate, disdain carved into every line of his face. The old devil himself.
“Not now,” Cillian warns.
His father’s eyes sweep over me—slow, judging, like he’s assessing a threat he’d rather drown. “She’ll destroy you. Just like her mother.”
The words hit like shrapnel. My nails dig into my palm, but I don’t flinch. Before Cillian can respond, the air splits open.
BOOM.
The chandeliers shudder. Glass rains down. Screams erupt as the blast throws light and sound through the room.
Rouge is already moving, gun drawn, shouting over the chaos. “Down! Everyone down!”
Cillian drags me behind him, eyes scanning the smoke, the bodies, the blur of motion. The sharp crack of gunfire follows, echoing against the marble.
A man lunges from the haze—gun in one hand, knife in the other. He grabs my arm, yanking me backward. Instinct takes over. I grab my heel, twist to face him, and drive it straight into his throat. He gurgles once, blood bubbling, then collapses at my feet.
“Jesus Christ,” Rouge shouts. “She’s lethal!”
Cillian grabs me, voice like gravel. “That’s my girl.”
Another shot. Another scream. Rouge fires twice, clean and fast, dropping two men by the bar. The smell of gunpowder burns the air, mixing with perfume and the metallic tang of blood.
Cillian turns, catches my chin in his hand. “Stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t smile this time. He just pulls me close, wraps an arm around my waist, and pushes through the chaos—Rouge covering us, gun still hot, as they carve a path toward the exit. He doesn’t smile this time. He just pulls me close, one arm locking around my waist as the other draws his gun.
Rouge covers us, his voice sharp through the chaos. “Go! I’ve got you—move!”
We push through the screaming, through the chaos of shattered crystal and overturned tables. The floor is slick beneath my heels, the air full of shouting and gunfire. My pulse thrums against the locket at my throat, that small, golden heartbeat keeping time with my own.
Cillian kicks open the side door. The hallway beyond is dim, narrow, echoing with the sound of running feet and distant alarms. “Stay low,” he orders, voice rough, breathless.
Rouge turns, firing once more into the ballroom before following. The door slams shut behind us, sealing off the light, the music, the blood.
We don’t stop moving. And for one suspended heartbeat, as we disappear down the corridor, I can still hear the last note of the Prelude ringing somewhere behind us— soft, ghostly, defiant.
1. You’re still crying for me.
2. His heart, his fate.
3. My love, you made them all worship you, and they don’t even understand why.