Chapter 12
Zora
For the first time since arriving at the estate, neither of us seems interested in arguing. The tension is still there, lingering beneath the surface, but it feels quieter now.
I move toward the window overlooking the lake while Domenico drops his travel bag beside one of the chairs. The evening light has almost disappeared, leaving only the reflection of the manor's lights and the sunset dancing across the water below.
Behind me, I hear the faint rustle of fabric. I tell myself not to pay attention. But unfortunately, my curiosity has never been one of my strengths.
When I glance over my shoulder, Domenico is unbuttoning his shirt with the same calm focus he seems to apply to everything else in life. His movements are unhurried, completely unconcerned by my presence.
My gaze lingers for a second too long before I look away again.
But of course, he notices. “You can look, you know.”
The arrogance in his voice makes me roll my eyes immediately. “I wasn't looking.”
A low chuckle reaches me from across the room. Neither of us believes that.
I turn back toward him anyway, prepared to deliver another cutting remark, but the words die before they can leave my mouth.
Not because of his tattoos. Not because he is shirtless. Because my attention catches on the small device attached beneath his left arm.
The glucose monitor. The same one security stopped him downstairs for. Something about it suddenly feels wrong.
I study it more carefully. “You don't have diabetes.”
Domenico follows my gaze. “No.”
The answer comes so easily that I stare at him. “Then why are you wearing it?”
Instead of answering, he reaches up and removes the device. I watch him carefully.
A second later, the casing opens. My surprise must show immediately because he looks far too amused with himself.
Hidden inside are two tiny communication devices. One of them ends up in my hand.
I stare at the earpiece, then at him. “That is what security would find.”
“That is what they were supposed to find.”
For the first time that evening, genuine admiration slips through me. It is clever. Annoyingly clever. The monitor. The alias. The friendships. The stories people keep telling about Lucien. Nothing about this identity feels temporary. Lucien has existed here for years.
I study the tiny earpiece for a moment. “You really thought of everything.”
Domenico slides the second earpiece into his own ear. “Almost everything.”
The confidence in the answer should sound arrogant. Instead, it sounds factual. The conversation fades naturally after that. The tension is still there, lingering beneath the surface, but it feels quieter now.
Domenico disappears into the bathroom first, leaving me alone with the files, the silence, and far too much time to think. By the time he emerges half an hour later, dressed entirely in black, I have finally managed to force my attention back toward the reason we are here.
I take the earpiece and disappear into the bathroom myself, spending the next half hour getting ready. By the time I finish, the sky outside has turned completely dark.
The black lace dress feels appropriate for the evening. Elegant enough for a room full of old money and powerful people, but simple enough not to attract unnecessary attention.
When I step back into the bedroom, Domenico is waiting near the windows, his gaze lifting briefly as I enter. The look lasts less than a second before his attention returns to the watch resting against his wrist.
“Ready?”
I nod.
Neither of us comments on the fact that we are about to walk into a room filled with people capable of destroying entire lives with a single decision.
Together, we leave the room.
The manor feels different at night. The quiet elegance from earlier has disappeared beneath the steady hum of conversation and movement.
Staff move through the hallways carrying trays of drinks while guests drift between rooms in tailored suits and expensive gowns. Soft music echoes from somewhere deeper inside the house, blending with the low murmur of voices.
By the time we reach the main hall, several groups have already gathered near the entrance.
A woman separates herself from one of them the moment she notices us.
Dark hair frames her face in loose waves, and a scattering of freckles stretches across her cheeks and nose.
She looks around my age, though what catches my attention first isn't her smile but the dress she wears.
High-necked, long-sleeved, and falling all the way to the floor despite the heavy Irish humidity hanging in the air.
The choice feels deliberate rather than fashionable.
The smile that appears when she sees Domenico catches my attention next.
“Lucien.” There is an ease in her voice that speaks of familiarity rather than politeness.
Domenico smiles back. “Roisin.”
The exchange is brief, but it reinforces something I have been noticing since arriving in Ireland.
People here do not treat Lucien Moreau like a stranger or a convenient alias.
They know him well enough that the identity feels less like a cover and more like a life that existed long before I stepped into it.
Roisin's attention shifts toward me. “And this must be Vivienne.” Her smile softens. “It is nice to finally meet you.”
The word catches my attention immediately. I smile politely. “It is nice to meet you too.”
“I have heard quite a bit about you already.”
I glance briefly toward Domenico. He gives absolutely nothing away.
Roisin laughs quietly when she notices my expression.
“Do not look so concerned. We were simply surprised.”
“Surprised?” I ask.
“That Lucien finally arrived with someone.” The amusement in her voice deepens. “For years he would disappear for months at a time and return without so much as an explanation. People started making theories.”
“Theories?”
“Bets.” She corrects. “There were actual bets.”
I cannot help laughing.
Beside me, Domenico closes his eyes briefly as though reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment. “That information was not necessary.”
“Oh, it was absolutely necessary.” Roisin turns back to me. “You have no idea how impossible this man is.”
“I am beginning to form an opinion.”
That earns a laugh from her and a mildly offended look from Domenico. “I appreciate the loyalty.”
“You should not.” Roisin replies immediately. “She seems intelligent enough to know better.”
By the time we reach the dining room, dozens of guests have already taken their seats around a massive table illuminated by chandeliers and candlelight. Quiet conversations fill the room as crystal glasses catch the warm glow overhead.
The moment Domenico enters, several people greet him. Some stand to shake his hand. Others ask about his travels or reference stories from years ago.
An older gentleman with silver hair studies me with open curiosity. “And who is this lovely woman?”
Domenico's hand settles lightly against my lower back before he answers. “This is my fiancée, Vivienne.”
The reaction around the table is immediate. A few eyebrows rise. Someone laughs quietly. Apparently, the fiancée is far more surprising than Lucien's arrival.
I offer a polite smile. “It is a pleasure to meet all of you.”
Before the conversation can continue, the large doors at the far end of the dining room open.
The change is almost imperceptible at first. Nobody stands. Nobody announces anything. Yet the atmosphere shifts immediately.
Conversations trail off mid-sentence. Several guests glance toward the entrance. Others subtly straighten in their chairs. The room seems to sharpen around a single point of focus.
I follow everyone's gaze.
An older man enters first. Fergus Keegan.
He does not move particularly fast, nor does he make any effort to draw attention to himself. He doesn't need to. The authority surrounding him is already woven into the fabric of the room. Decades of power cling to him as naturally as his tailored suit.
His silver hair is combed neatly back, and the lines etched into his face speak of age without suggesting weakness. If anything, they make him look more dangerous. Like a man who has survived long enough to become very good at recognizing threats.
A step behind him walks Darragh.
For the first time, I understand why so many people speak about him with equal parts admiration and caution.
He is younger than I expected, but there is nothing youthful about his presence. Dark hair falls carelessly across his forehead. A cigar rests between his fingers. His expression remains calm as his gaze sweeps across the room, taking in every person seated around the table.
They move toward the table without speaking much. Fergus takes the seat at the head while Darragh settles beside him. The rest of us follow suit, and conversation slowly resumes.
Dinner begins with harmless topics. Travel. Business. Mutual acquaintances. The sort of conversations wealthy people use to feel each other out before discussing anything important.
I spend most of the time listening. Observing. Learning who speaks the most and who everyone else seems careful not to interrupt.
At one point, Darragh's attention shifts toward Domenico. Or rather, Lucien.
A faint smile touches his mouth before he says something in Irish. I only understand fragments, not enough to follow the entire exchange, but enough to recognize a greeting between people who already know each other.
Domenico answers immediately. His pronunciation sounds effortless. Natural.
Eventually Darragh's attention shifts toward me.
“Vivienne.” He says. “Lucien mentioned he would be bringing his fiancée this year. I was curious.”
There is something about the way he speaks that makes even simple observations feel deliberate.
“I hope I haven’t disappointed.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Not at all.”
Across the table, Fergus speaks for the first time.
"Dites-moi, Mademoiselle, que faites-vous dans la vie?"
Tell me, Miss, what do you do for a living?
For the briefest moment, I catch Domenico glancing toward me.
He never asked whether I spoke French.
I answer before the silence can linger. “Ma famille est dans l’investissement et la finance depuis plusieurs générations.
Cependant, j’ai toujours été davantage attirée par un travail qui me permet d’avoir un impact direct.
J’enseigne l’autodéfense aux femmes dès que mes obligations me le permettent. ”
My family has worked in investment and finance for generations. But I have always preferred work that allows me to help people directly. I teach self-defense classes for women whenever my schedule permits.
For the first time this evening, I notice genuine surprise flicker across Domenico's face. The expression vanishes almost immediately, but I still catch it. The small victory is unexpectedly satisfying.
Fergus studies me for a moment before nodding once.
Darragh leans back in his chair. “So you can fight.”
“I can take care of myself.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “That is a useful skill.”
“Especially in this family.” Roisin mutters.
Several people laugh, including Darragh.
The moment is brief, but it eases some of the tension around the table.
As the evening progresses, the conversation gradually shifts toward business. On the surface, everything sounds legitimate. Beneath the surface, I suspect every topic carries layers that are never spoken aloud.
Most people focus on whoever is speaking. I focus on everyone else. The exchanged glances. The moments of hesitation. The reactions people fail to hide quickly enough.
Several times throughout dinner, I catch Fergus watching me. His attention never lingers long enough to appear rude, but it happens often enough for me to notice.
The scrutiny makes me uneasy. It feels as though he is measuring something. Looking for inconsistencies. Deciding whether I belong here.
Beside me, Domenico appears completely comfortable. He participates when necessary, remains silent when it benefits him, and somehow manages to control the flow of conversations without ever appearing dominant.
Nobody dismisses him. Nobody questions him. That alone tells me more about Lucien's position in this world than any intelligence report ever could.
By the time dessert arrives, one thing has become painfully clear. Getting into the Keegan estate was the easy part. Staying inside it without making a mistake is going to be far more difficult.