Chapter 3 #2
Beatrice O'Brien moved with deliberate grace, her appearance meticulously maintained—perfectly styled hair, impeccable makeup, clothing that showcased wealth while concealing what lay beneath. Yet something about her energy seemed barely contained, like electricity arcing beneath her skin.
"Aoife O'Malley," she said, her voice carrying the polished inflection of someone accustomed to being heard in crowded rooms. "You're even more striking than your photographs suggest. Your father hid you well."
I offered a calculated smile. "Mrs. O'Brien. You mentioned information about the Flanagans."
"So formal." She approached, stopping at a respectful distance.
Up close, I noticed the slight tremor in her hands.
Her pupils were dilated despite the dim light—either fear or something chemical.
"We're practically sisters-in-law by proxy, aren't we?
My sister married the man who killed your father. "
"I wasn't aware we were here to discuss family connections," I said coolly.
She laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Aren't we? That's all this business is—family and blood. The ties that bind and strangle."
Behind her composure lurked something volatile—a dangerous instability carefully masked by her designer exterior. Her eyes were too bright, her movements too precisely controlled, like a cobra coiled to strike.
"Call me Beatrice. After all, we share common enemies."
"Do we?" I studied her. Beneath the expensive perfume and cosmetics, I detected something equally fragile and treacherous—crystal shattered into glittering, razor-edged fragments.
"The Flanagans did a number on you. And they gave me to Patrick O'Brien like a peace offering." Something flickered across her face. "We both have reasons to want them to suffer."
"I prefer to think of it as restoring balance," I said. "Justice has its place in our world."
"Justice." She tested the word like a foreign delicacy. "Is that what you tell yourself? That this isn't about the way your heart pounds when you imagine them bleed?"
Her perception was uncomfortably acute.
"You don't know me, Mrs. O'Brien."
"Don't I?" She stepped closer, her perfume—expensive with undertones of vanilla and amber—enveloping us. "I know what it's like to be underestimated. To be seen as decorative rather than a woman of substance. The perfect daughter. The beautiful wife. Roles we play while we wait for our moment."
She wasn't entirely wrong. From childhood, I'd been groomed to appear harmless—sent to the finest schools, taught to move in aristocratic circles, to speak multiple languages, to appear cultured and refined. All while my father had his own plans. At first I’d been nothing but a means to an end. A puppet.
"You said you had information about Alexander Moore," I redirected.
She opened a slim leather portfolio, removing photographs and documents with gloved hands. "Alexander Moore. Ronan Flanagan's right hand. The one who planned the explosion that killed your father and destroyed your home."
I examined the materials, keeping my expression neutral despite my surprise.
The documentation was detailed—surveillance photos of Alexander at the O'Malley estate days before the attack, blueprints with explosive placement marked in precise handwriting, supply requisitions for materials used in the detonation.
"These could be fabricated," I said, testing her reaction.
Her eyes flashed with something dangerous—a glimpse of something revealing a depth of obsession that made me instinctively reach for my knife.
"I don't need to fabricate evidence against Alexander Moore." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "He has enough real sins to answer for."
"Alexander is an arsehole with brains," she continued, her voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "He designed the operation while Ronan signed off on everything. Without Alexander, your father would still be alive."
As she spoke, her sleeve rode up, revealing a pattern of bruises and rope burns encircling her wrist. She noticed my gaze and quickly adjusted her cuff.
"Patrick's work?" I asked bluntly.
Her smile became razor-thin. "My husband believes a wife should know her place. Much like your father's world—men who think power means controlling women's bodies."
"My father never raised a hand to any woman," I defended automatically. Well, I wasn’t sure if that was true, but that’s what he’d often stressed.
"No?" She tilted her head, unnervingly birdlike. "Yet he raised you to take his place in a world built on violence." She gestured to my concealed knife. "Taught you to kill while maintaining your manicure."
"You know nothing about my relationship with my father," I said coldly.
"I know he kept you hidden away, like a secret weapon. He had to have expected you to marry strategically while secretly running his empire." Her gaze was perceptive. "Tell me, Aoife, did he ever ask what you wanted? Or were you just another asset to be deployed in the O’Malley name?"
The questions struck too close to home—the same ones that had haunted me during sleepless nights.
"What do you want in exchange for this information?" I asked, redirecting the conversation to its original purpose.
"Access," she replied simply. "I can provide O'Brien shipping routes, security protocols, and financial details. All I ask is your help in eliminating Alexander Moore."
I calculated rapidly. Beatrice's fixation on Alexander seemed personal, almost obsessive. Yet the access she offered to O'Brien operations was valuable.
"Why Alexander specifically?" I pressed. "Ronan Flanagan gave the orders."
Something flashed in her eyes—a momentary intensity that bordered on mania before being carefully suppressed.
"Ronan is in London, surrounded by security.
Alexander is here, vulnerable, overconfident.
And he does all the work." She leaned forward, her control slipping just enough to reveal a hint of madness.
"He's the architect of your family's destruction and the keeper of Flanagan operations in England.
Without him, that family would crumble."
Her logic was sound, even if her energy wasn't. I noticed her nails digging into her palms as she spoke of Alexander, leaving crescent-shaped marks. Whatever connection existed between them went beyond professional rivalry.
"Let me be clear, Mrs. O'Brien," I said firmly. "I don't trust you. I suspect your motives regarding Alexander Moore are way too personal. But that doesn't mean we can't be useful to each other."
She laughed, genuine amusement lighting her features. "Finally, some honesty. I don't trust you either, Miss O'Malley. But I respect your caution."
Her laughter transformed her face, making her appear younger, almost innocent—a disturbing glimpse into who she might have been without whatever trauma had fractured her.
"I'll need verification," I said, gathering the documents. "And specifics about what assistance you're seeking."
Beatrice extracted a USB drive from her coat pocket. "Security codes to Ashford Estate. Camera blind spots. Patrol schedules. Everything you need to access Flanagan territory undetected."
As she handed it to me, our fingers brushed, and I felt an almost electric current of desperation from her. This woman was dangerous—not in the calculated way of career criminals, but in the unpredictable manner of someone with nothing left to lose. A sick person indeed…
"And if I decide to work with you?" I asked, pocketing the drive. I’d be crazy… I know that already.
"Then you acquire a bigger slice of the pie. Surely that’s a good enough reason. As for me, Alexander Moore would get exactly what he deserves." Her smile turned predatory, her veneer slipping to reveal teeth.
“But that’s not all, is it?” I said.
She nodded. "By taking Ronan Flanagan’s right hand, I’d come as close to destroying him as I possibly can.
And after what—” She stopped, swallowing hard, “I feel it’s the least payback I could get, apart from maiming or death…
his or his precious Cressida’s, of course.
My darling sister. Another problem for another day. " She offered a forced grin.
"Have you ever considered therapy instead of murder, Mrs. O'Brien?" I asked dryly.
Her laugh was a twisted, broken sound. "Oh, I've had plenty of therapy.
Pills, too. Bipolar disorder, they said—lithium to level the peaks and valleys.
Did you know lithium dulls everything? It's like looking at the world through frosted glass.
" She sighed. "I prefer the clarity of the manic phases now.
Even with the noise and chaos it brings.
Patrick makes sure I stay medicated, but I've learned to. .. manage my doses."
The admission confirmed my suspicion—Beatrice was self-medicating, controlling whatever disorder inhabited her brain to harness the manic phases while suppressing the inevitable crashes.
Bipolar, most likely, but I was no therapist. She was playing a dangerous game that made her both unpredictable and potentially brilliant.
"I'll be in touch," I said, preparing to leave. "After I've verified your information."
She caught my arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
"They have underestimated us both, Aoife.
Including you, despite your position now.
The quiet daughter. The one we make do with.
The trophy wife. We're supposed to be ornamental, not operational.
" Her eyes burned with feverish intensity. "Let's show them what we’re made of."
I deliberately looked down at her hand until she released me. "Don't mistake mutual interest for trust, Beatrice. I'll verify everything. And I'll have contingencies ready for when you inevitably get the urge to betray me."
Rather than taking offense, she smiled—the most genuine expression I'd seen from her. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't. That's why I chose you instead of one of your father's old lieutenants. You understand the game."
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door. "One more thing. When you verify Alexander's role in your father's death, remember this: men like him don't see women like us as real threats. That's their downfall."
The heavy door closed behind her, leaving me alone with the evidence and my father’s knife against my ribs. Whatever Beatrice's true motives, she was offering me a foothold into Flanagan operations. That alone made the risk worthwhile.
I texted Barrett to bring the car around. The game had begun, with Alexander Moore as the first piece to be captured. Whether he was ultimately responsible for my father's death or merely a convenient target for Beatrice's obsession remained to be seen.
Either way, I would use this opportunity to cement my role in what was rightfully mine. The destiny that had been interrupted by Flanagan fire and explosives.
The O'Malleys endured through calculated risks and strategic alliances. Even if they occasionally had to make deals with the devil. And partners as unstable as Beatrice O'Brien.
When the time came, I would show Alexander Moore exactly who he had underestimated.