Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
alastríona
Vittoria's parents have decided it’s time for her to get married.
Not to someone she loves. Not to someone she's chosen. To someone her family will pick out like they're ordering dinner. Within a year she'll be walking down an aisle to meet a stranger, and I'll lose the only person in Belfast who gives a damn whether I live or die.
"I’ve still got a year," she says over the phone, but her voice cracks on the words. "Maybe they’ll change their minds."
I'm lying on my bed in the flat above Murphy's, staring at water stains on the ceiling that look like faces in the dark. We both know her parents won’t change their minds. They’ll choose some Italian man who’s far too old for her.
"Maybe they will," I lie back. “You never know; stranger things have happened.”
She laughs but there's no humor in it. "Mam says whoever they choose will have a good family—like that matters when you've never laid eyes on the man."
"Maybe you'll fall in love."
"Maybe I'll grow wings and fly away."
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us thinking about all the things we can't say. How unfair it is. How scared she must be. How much I'm going to miss her when she gets married.
"I have to go," she says finally. "Mam and Dad are setting up engagements for me to meet people."
"Right. Talk soon?"
"Always."
The line goes dead, and I'm alone again. Story of my bloody life.
I roll off the bed and check the time. Half six. Murphy's opens in an hour, which means I need to get my head on straight before dealing with the usual crowd of drunks, gamblers, and men who think buying a girl a drink means they own her for the night.
Dad would've laughed at that. "Any man thinks he owns you, mo stór, you remind him who your father is." Killian Gallagher didn't raise his daughter to back down from anyone. Too bad he's not here to remind me of that anymore.
It’s been eighteen months since he died—a carjacking gone wrong while in America. He was buried there, so I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. Mam got a phone call, and it was the day my world crashed down around me.
Not only did Dad die, but Mam packed a bag that very day and fucked off to London without so much as a goodbye. She left me with nothing but memories and a flat above the worst pub in Belfast.
"You're stronger than you know, love," Dad used to tell me when I was small. "You’ve got my stubbornness and your mam's good sense. Nothing in this world can break you if you don't let it."
Easy for him to say. He never had to face the world without him in it.
Things could've turned out worse, I suppose. I could've ended up on the streets or worse. Murphy took pity on me—or maybe he just needed cheap labor—and gave me work pulling pints and dodging wandering hands. It's not much but it keeps the lights on and food in my belly.
Most days, that's enough.
Today's not most days.
I pull on jeans and a black jumper, tie my hair back, and head downstairs. Murphy is already behind the bar, counting last night's till with the concentration of a man who knows every penny matters.
"Alright, love?" he asks without looking up. Murphy's sixty-odd and built like a brick shithouse, with hands that have seen more fights than a boxing referee. He's also one of the few decent men left in Belfast, which is why his pub attracts every scumbag within a ten-mile radius.
"Grand," I say, grabbing my apron from behind the bar. "Quiet night?"
"They're all quiet until they're not."
True enough. Murphy's has seen its share of excitement over the years. Broken bottles, broken noses, the occasional stabbing when the football's on and emotions run high. Nothing I can't handle, though. Dad made sure of that before he died.
"Keep your wits about you, mo stór," he'd always say. "Trust the wrong person and you'll end up face down in the Lagan. Trust the right person and they might just save your life."
Good advice. Shame he didn't follow it himself when it mattered.
"Expecting anyone special tonight?" I ask, checking the whiskey bottles.
"Define special."
"The kind that brings trouble."
Murphy shrugs. "It's Belfast, love. Troubles always expected."
The first punters start filtering in around seven. It’s the usual crowd: dock workers looking to forget another day of backbreaking labor, pensioners nursing half pints because their wives think they're at the library, and young lads with more attitude than sense.
I know them all by name, by drink, and by the particular brand of misery they're trying to drown.
Tommy wants whiskey because his wife died and left him with nothing but bills and memories.
Mrs. Kelly drinks gin because her son's doing ten years in prison and she blames herself.
Mickey orders pints because he's got eight kids and a wife who reminds him of that fact every bloody day.
They're my people, I suppose. The forgotten ones. The ones who slip through the cracks and end up in places like Murphy's, sharing their pain with strangers who understand.
Dad would've fit right in here. He loved me fiercely, protected me completely, and made sure I never doubted for a second that I was the most important thing in his life.
"You're my heart walking around outside my body," he'd say while tucking me into bed when I was younger. "Nothing matters more than keeping you safe and happy."
He kept me safe right up until he couldn't keep himself safe. He kept me happy right up until the day they put him in the ground.
"Another round, Tríona?" Tommy calls from his usual corner booth.
"Coming up." I pour his whiskey—a double because he tips better when he's properly drunk—and carry it over. Tommy's been coming here since before Dad died. He always sits in the same spot and orders the same thing. He’s a creature of habit, like most of Murphy's regulars.
"How's the young one tonight?" he asks, because Tommy knew Dad and feels obligated to check on me.
"Can't complain."
"Aye, well. Your da always said complaints never got anyone anywhere."
I smile despite myself. Tommy's got a selective memory when it comes to Dad. He remembers him as a gentle giant instead of the hard man who'd break your legs for looking at his daughter wrong. But that's grief for you; it softens the sharp edges until even dangerous men become saints.
The door opens around nine, letting in a gust of Belfast wind and trouble in an expensive coat.
I know immediately he doesn't belong here. It's not just the clothes, though the jacket probably cost more than I make in a month. It's the way he moves, like he owns every room he enters. The way his eyes scan the pub, cataloguing exits and potential threats without seeming to.
Dangerous. Professional. Definitely not local.
Dad's voice echoes in my head: "Trust your instincts, mo stór. They'll never lead you wrong."
My instincts are screaming at me to be careful.
He slides onto a barstool, and when he speaks, his accent confirms what I already suspected.
"Jameson. Neat."
Dublin. Of course.
I pour his drink without making eye contact. Rule number one when dealing with dangerous men: don't give them anything to latch onto. Dad taught me that, along with how to spot unmarked cars, which streets to avoid after dark, and why you never trust a man who smiles too much.
"If someone seems too good to be true, they probably are," he'd say. "And if they seem too dangerous to handle, they definitely are."
"Quiet night," the stranger says.
I make a noncommittal sound that could mean anything. Small talk's not part of the job description, and something about this one sets my teeth on edge. Not in a bad way, which is worse. In a way that makes me want to lean closer instead of backing away.
That way lies trouble.
"You always this chatty?" he asks.
Now I look at him properly. Mistake. He's got dark hair that needs cutting, darker eyes, and the kind of face that belongs in old paintings, all sharp angles and shadows. Handsome as the devil and probably twice as dangerous.
The kind of man Dad would've warned me about. The kind who could make a girl forget everything she's been taught about staying safe.
"Depends who's asking," I say.
"Just a thirsty traveler."
"Right. And I'm the bloody Queen of England."
He laughs, and the sound does something stupid to my chest. Low, rough, like he doesn't do it often. Makes me wonder what it would take to hear it again.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets girls like me into trouble.
"What brings you to our lovely establishment?" I ask, because Murphy pays me to be civil to customers—even the ones who look like they collect souls for a living.
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that's none of your business."
Fair enough. I top off his whiskey without being asked; professional courtesy between people who know when to stop asking questions.
He watches me move behind the bar, and I can feel his gaze like a physical thing. Not lecherous like some of the punters who come through here. More like he's memorizing me, filing away details for reasons I don't want to think about.
"Any man looks at you like that; you make sure there's distance between you and the door," Dad used to say. "And if that fails, you remember what I taught you about kneecaps."
Sound advice. So why am I not following it?
"You live around here?" the stranger asks.
"Why? Writing a travel guide?"
"Just curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"Good thing I'm not a cat."
Christ, he's persistent. Also, good-looking. Also, definitely not someone I should be having this conversation with.
I've been around dangerous men my whole life. Dad was one of them, IRA through and through; the kind who solved problems with explosives and asked questions later. But he loved me completely, protected me fiercely, and made sure I knew I was worth dying for.
This stranger's different. This one makes my pulse quicken instead of my survival instincts kicking in. He makes me forget everything Dad taught me about staying safe.