8. Aoife
CHAPTER 8
AOIFE
FLAMES & FAITH
T he penthouse feels different after witnessing Finn's execution. Cormac's security doubled overnight—two guards at the door, hourly check-ins, cameras repositioned so there are no blind spots. My failed escape attempt and his brother's betrayal have made him paranoid.
But his precautions have one fatal flaw: they focus on keeping me in, not keeping others out.
The priest arrives at precisely ten o'clock. Connor escorts him into the living room where I wait, dressed in the modest black dress Cormac provided after I "accidentally" damaged my other clothes.
"Father Donohue," Connor announces. "Twenty minutes."
The priest nods, clutching his Bible to his chest. His collar sits slightly crooked, a sign of haste or nerves. Late fifties, thinning gray hair, and soft hands that have never known violence.
Perfect.
Connor leaves us alone—Cormac's standing order for my weekly spiritual counsel. A courtesy he grants me despite our circumstances. The only visitor I'm allowed besides himself.
"Miss Gallagher," Father Donohue greets me, his voice carrying the soft lilt of Galway. "How are you faring this week?"
I wait until the door clicks shut. "Better than expected, Father. Did you bring what I requested?"
He shifts uncomfortably. "Miss Gallagher, I'm not certain this is appropriate. Using confession as?—"
"Five thousand euros." I cut him off, gesturing to the envelope on the coffee table. "For your parish feeding scheme. No questions asked."
His attention shifts to the envelope. The hesitation lasts only seconds before he sighs, reaching into his Bible to extract a folded paper.
"The information you requested about Murphy." He places it beside the envelope. "Though I don't understand why you need this when Mr. Donovan?—"
"Has his own agenda," I finish, taking the paper. "Thank you, Father. Now, about the other matter?"
He produces a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket. "Holy water, blessed this morning as requested."
I accept it with a grateful smile. "You've done God's work today."
"I pray that's true." He tucks the envelope into his Bible. "Your spiritual counsel?—"
"Can wait until next week," I interrupt. "I need time alone to... contemplate my sins."
After the priest leaves, I unfold the paper. Murphy's daily schedule, compiled through his parish connections. His Wednesday routine includes confession at Christ Church Cathedral at 1:30 PM.
Today is Wednesday.
The "holy water" sloshes in its vial—not blessed by any church, but by a chemist in Father Donohue's congregation. A powerful sedative that works on contact with mucous membranes.
My escape requires perfect timing. The guard rotation happens at noon. Connor brings lunch at 12:15, always checking that I'm eating properly on Cormac's orders. My "exhaustion" after the warehouse incident has made them complacent about my afternoon naps.
I empty the vial into Connor's coffee when he steps away to answer his phone. By 12:30, he's slumped on the sofa, breathing steadily in chemically induced sleep. His access card and gun now mine.
The service hallway leads to the emergency stairs—locked for residents but accessible to security. Connor's card opens every door, and his unconscious body won't be discovered until the 2 PM check.
I emerge onto Nassau Street wearing Connor's oversized jacket over my dress, gun tucked into the waistband at my back. The weight of freedom hits me like summer sunshine after months of darkness.
* * *
Christ Church Cathedral looms ahead, medieval stone against modern Dublin. Inside, tourists murmur in hushed reverence while locals light candles in quiet corners. I slip into a pew near the confessional, waiting.
At 1:25, a familiar figure enters through the south transept. Danny Murphy—my father's longtime security chief and Finn's replacement traitor. The realization still burns. While Cormac was hunting his brother's betrayal, I discovered mine.
Murphy moves toward the confessional, shoulders hunched beneath his expensive coat. I follow, keeping my distance until he enters the wooden booth.
Five minutes later, he emerges, making the sign of the cross. I trail him through the nave, past ancient tombs and arching columns. When he pauses in the dimly lit north aisle to light a candle, I make my move.
"Hello, Danny."
He spins, alarm rippling through him before recognition settles in. "Aoife? Jesus Christ, you're?—"
"Free?" I supply. "Temporarily."
His hand moves toward his jacket. I shake my head slightly.
"I wouldn't. There's a Glock 19 pointed at your liver under this coat. Painful way to die."
Murphy's hand falls to his side. "How did you escape? Your father's been?—"
"My father thinks I'm still Cormac's prisoner. But that's not what we need to discuss, is it, Danny?"
Confusion radiates from him. "What are you talking about?"
"Finn Donovan," I say quietly. "Cormac's brother. You knew him well, didn't you?"
Murphy goes still. "I met him a few times."
"A few?" I press closer, keeping my voice low. "Or did you have regular planning sessions? Comparing notes on which Donovan shipments to hit? Which Gallagher secrets to sell?"
The color drains from him. "Aoife, you don't understand?—"
"I understand perfectly. You've been playing both sides. The question is, for how long?"
A woman passes nearby, casting a curious glance our way. I smile pleasantly until she moves on.
"Three years," Murphy admits finally. "It started small. Information exchange. Keeping the peace."
"By betraying my father." My voice hardens. "By getting Donovan men killed, which justified my kidnapping."
"Your kidnapping wasn't part of any plan," he insists. "Cormac went rogue after the Westmoreland shipment was hit. Nobody expected him to take you."
"Yet here we are." I press the gun harder against his side. "Finn's dead, Danny. Cormac executed him last night. Made me watch."
Horror washes over him. "Jesus."
"You're next on his list. He knows about the partnership with Finn."
"That's impossible. We were careful."
"Not careful enough." I allow a hint of sympathy to enter my tone. "But you can fix this. Tell me everything—dates, times, what information you shared. I'll take it to my father before Cormac gets you."
Hope flickers across him. "You'd do that? After what I did?"
"Family loyalty matters to me. If you help me now, I'll convince my father that Finn manipulated you. That you had no choice."
His shoulders slump in relief. "What do you need to know?"
"Everything. Starting with who else is involved."
For fifteen minutes, Murphy confesses his sins against the Gallagher family. Names. Dates. Bank accounts. Each detail damning him further to hell, while providing me the ammunition I need.
"There's one more thing," I say when he finishes. "The ambush on the O'Connell shipment where two Donovan men died. Was that planned?"
Murphy hesitates. "Not the dead bodies. That was Liam's call in the moment. Finn was furious."
"And my brother? How deep is he involved?"
"Deep enough. The whole thing was his idea originally—playing the Donovan’s against themselves while we?—"
The crack of a gunshot cuts him off. Murphy jerks, crimson stain blossoming across his chest. His mouth opens in surprise before he crumples to the stone floor.
Screams erupt throughout the cathedral. Tourists scatter, diving behind pews. I drop to the ground, frantically looking for the source of the shot.
Three men move through the panicking crowd. Not Donovan men—their movements don’t have the disciplined restraint Cormac enforces. These are Cassidy soldiers, rivals to both our families.
I scramble behind a stone pillar as bullets chip ancient masonry. Connor's gun feels inadequate against multiple attackers. The nearest exit is thirty meters away, across open space.
"Find the Gallagher bitch!" a voice shouts over the chaos. "Brennan wants her alive!"
Sean Brennan—the Cassidy underboss who's been pushing for war with both the Donovan’s and Gallaghers. If he orchestrated this, he must have had someone watching Murphy. Someone who recognized me.
I fire blindly around the pillar, buying seconds to think. The cathedral's layout offers few escape routes. The crypt maybe, or?—
A hand clamps over my mouth from behind, an arm like iron around my waist. I drive my elbow backward, connecting with solid muscle that doesn't yield.
"Stop fighting," Cormac's voice hisses in my ear. "Unless you’d prefer to try the Cassidy’s' hospitality over mine."
Relief floods through me, followed instantly by dread. Cormac's presence means he discovered my escape. Discovered and tracked me. He knows I drugged his man, I betrayed him—and I know what that means.
"Three shooters, west entrance," I whisper when he releases my mouth. "Cassidy crew. They killed Murphy."
"I counted four." His massive body shields mine behind the pillar. "Two more outside. We're taking the crypt exit."
"How did you?—"
"Later." He presses a second gun into my hand. "Can you run in those stupid shoes?"
I kick off the heels. "Better barefoot."
"On my go."
When Cormac Donovan gives orders in combat, even enemies listen. We move like shadows through screaming tourists, keeping low as bullets fly. Cormac fires—three shots, three bodies dropping.
The crypt entrance is just ahead, ancient steps descending into darkness. Cormac pushes me through first, following close behind as the heavy door swings shut, muffling the chaos above.
Dim emergency lighting casts long shadows across medieval tombs. Cormac grips my arm, pulling me deeper into the labyrinth of stone, death, and history. His fury radiates in waves, muscles tense beneath his suit jacket.
"You drugged Connor," he says, voice dangerously calm. "Stole his credentials. His weapon."
"He'll live."
"Unlike Murphy." His grip tightens. "What did he tell you before they killed him?"
"Everything." I match his pace through the winding crypt. "Names. Dates. Bank accounts. The whole network Finn built inside my father's organization."
His stride falters momentarily. "And you risked your life for this information why?"
"To understand who betrayed my family." I pull my arm free. "To understand yours."
We reach a maintenance door marked "Staff Only." Cormac produces a key—of course he has a key to a crypt—and ushers me through to a service corridor.
"The Cassidys followed Murphy here," he says once the door locks behind us. "They must have been watching him since Finn's gone. You walked right into their surveillance."
"Or they followed you," I counter. "Since you clearly followed me."
His jaw tightens. "GPS tracker in the rosary beads Father Donohue gave you last week. I've known about your little arrangement with him from the beginning."
The revelation stings. "Then why allow it?"
"To see what you'd do." He guides me through another door into an underground parking garage. "To test your loyalty."
A black Range Rover waits in the nearest space, engine already running. Declan sits behind the wheel.
"The Cassidys?" Cormac asks as we slide into the backseat.
"Two down at the north entrance," Declan reports. "The rest scattered when police sirens approached. We're clear for now."
The vehicle pulls smoothly into Dublin traffic, merging into anonymity. Only then does Cormac turn his full attention to me.
"You get one chance to explain yourself," he says quietly. "Before I decide your punishment."
The threat hangs between us, but something's changed since Finn's execution. The boundaries between captor and captive blurred by what happened against that warehouse column, by what he allowed me to witness.
"Murphy confirmed what I suspected," I tell him. "The betrayal runs deeper than Finn. My brother Liam initiated the partnership three years ago—information in exchange for maintain balance between our families while positioning for his own power play."
Cormac remains still, but tension radiates from his stillness. "Elaborate."
"Liam wants control of the Gallagher empire. He's been feeding information to Finn, who fed misinformation to you. The ambushed shipments, the territorial disputes—all carefully orchestrated to escalate conflict between our families while minimizing actual damage."
"Until the O'Connell Street shipment," Cormac says. "Where my men died."
"Liam's unilateral decision. It angered Finn, apparently. Changed the dynamic between them."
"And my taking you?"
"Unexpected. It disrupted their balance. Things were already heading south."
Cormac absorbs this information in silence. His hand rests on the seat between us, knuckles still scabbed from Finn's beating.
"You risked everything for this information," he says finally. "Why not just tell me your suspicions?"
"Would you have believed me? Or assumed I was manipulating you?"
His silence confirms my suspicions.
"Besides," I continue, "I needed proof before confronting my father. Murphy gave me that."
"Murphy is dead."
"But his phone isn't." I pull the device from my pocket. "Took it while checking his pulse. Everything's here—texts, voice memos, account numbers."
Cormac's hand closes around mine, taking the phone. "Clever girl."
"You should be thanking me," I say. "I've handed you the architect behind your brother's betrayal."
"After drugging my security chief, stealing his weapon, and nearly getting yourself killed. Oh, and causing a shoot-out in church, the one place gangster usually fucking behave." His voice drops lower. "Gratitude isn't what I'm feeling right now, princess."
The Range Rover turns down an unfamiliar street, away from the city center.
"Where are we going?" I ask, suddenly aware we're not heading to the penthouse.
"Somewhere safer. The Cassidys know you've escaped. They'll be watching your penthouse now."
We drive in tense silence through Dublin suburbs until reaching a private gate nestled between ancient oak trees. A modernist structure emerges from manicured grounds—glass and stone merging with the natural landscape.
"Your house?" I ask as Declan stops at the entrance.
"One of them." Cormac's hand finds the small of my back as he guides me inside. "Declan, secure the perimeter. No visitors."
The interior matches Cormac's aesthetic—minimalist luxury, nothing fancy. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Dublin Mountains, the city spread below like a carpet of lights as evening approaches.
"Your temporary accommodation," Cormac says, closing the door behind us. "Until I decide what to do with you."
"With me? Or with the information I gave you?"
"Both." He removes his suit jacket, tossing it aside to reveal a crimson-stained shirt beneath. Not his blood—one of the Cassidy men.
The adrenaline that carried me through the cathedral finally ebbs, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My bare feet ache from running across stone floors. My clothes covered in smudges of Murphy's blood where I knelt beside him.
"You could have been killed," Cormac says, breaking the silence. His voice laced with something beyond anger—concern disguised as an accusation.
"So could you, coming after me."
"I didn't come after you," he corrects. "I came before you. I was already there, watching the cathedral, waiting to see who Murphy met."
The realization hits me. "You knew about him. He was in your book."
"I suspected. After Finn, I had everyone connected to him under surveillance." He moves toward a bar cart, pouring two fingers of whiskey. "I didn't expect you to be his contact."
"I'm full of surprises."
"Dangerous ones." He offers me the glass. "You seem determined to test my patience."
I accept the whiskey, needing its warmth. "And you seem determined to underestimate me."
"Not anymore." His attention slides over me, assessing. "What you did today was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. I haven't decided which."
"Why not both?" I take a slow sip, the alcohol burning pleasantly. "Brave and stupid often share a bedroom."
His mouth quirks slightly. "Like Gallaghers and Donovan’s?"
The question hangs between us, charged with everything unspoken. The warehouse column. His fingers inside me. The way I came apart for my enemy.
"That was circumstance," I say, not believing my own words. "Adrenaline. Shock."
"Liar." He steps closer, invading my space. "That was inevitable from the moment I took you."
The air thickens between us. My body remembers his touch, craves more despite every rational objection.
"This is nothing," I insist. "The information about Liam?—"
"Can wait." His hand captures my chin. "Right now, I need to decide how to punish you for today's little adventure."
Heat pools low in my belly at his words. "Punish me? I'm not yours to punish. You didn’t die and become God, nor are you my father, or teacher. You are nothing."
"No?" His thumb traces my lower lip. "Then why does your pulse quicken when I touch you? Why does your body betray you? Why can I smell your arousal from here?"
My cheeks burn at his crude words. More infuriating because it's so accurate.
"That's biology," I counter. "Not consent."
"Then say no." His mouth hovers near mine. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
The word refuses to form on my tongue. Instead, I surge forward, claiming his mouth with mine. The glass drops from my hand, shattering on the floor as I wrap my arms around his neck.
Cormac responds instantly, lifting me against him. My legs encircle his waist as he walks us backward until my spine meets the wall. His mouth devours mine—all possession and punishment and raw need.
"Do you have any idea," he growls against my lips, "what seeing you in danger did to me?"
I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Do you have any idea what watching you kill your brother did to me?"
His hips grind against mine, the hard length of him pressing against my core through thin fabric. "It made you wet," he accuses. "Admit it."
"Not the killing," I gasp as his teeth find my neck. "The cost. The way it hurt you."
He freezes momentarily, then attacks with renewed fervor. His hands tear at my dress, ripping the delicate fabric down the middle to expose black lace beneath.
"I should lock you in a cell," he says, palming my breast roughly. "Keep you chained where you can't endanger yourself."
"Try it," I challenge, fumbling with his shirt buttons. "I'll escape that too."
He tears the shirt open, buttons scattering across hardwood. The movement exposes his scarred torso—a map of violence endured. I trace one long mark across his ribs, feeling him shudder under my touch.
"You drive me insane," he confesses, unhooking my bra with one move. "No one has ever defied me like you do."
My breasts spill free, immediately captured by his hungry mouth. He sucks one nipple hard, teeth grazing sensitive flesh until I cry out. My back arches involuntarily, pressing more of my flesh into his mouth. He lavishes attention on the hardened peak, alternating between gentle suction and sharp bites that send jolts of electricity straight to my core.
His hand finds my other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple between skilled fingers until both peaks are equally sensitive and throbbing. The dual sensation makes me whimper, my body already building toward release.
"Is this how you punish all your prisoners?" I taunt, grinding against his erection.
He lifts his head, intensity pouring from him. "Only the ones who haunt my dreams."
The confession strikes deep. I affect him—like he does me. I capture his mouth again, pouring months of confusion and unwanted desire into the connection. His tongue battles mine for dominance as his hands slip beneath my ruined dress, finding the edge of my panties.
"These are in my way," he murmurs, hooking his fingers in the lace.
With one savage pull, the delicate fabric rips away. Cool air hits my exposed sex, quickly replaced by his fingers exploring my wetness.
"Already soaked," he notes with satisfaction. "From the danger or from me?"
"Does it matter?" I gasp as his thumb finds my clit.
"It matters." He circles the sensitive bundle of nerves. "I want to know what makes Aoife Gallagher this desperate."
"You," I admit, the word torn from me as he slides two fingers inside. "God help me, you do."
“He can’t help you.”
Something shifts in him—possessiveness mingled with victory. He pumps his fingers deeper, curling them to hit that spot that makes my thighs tremble. Each thrust of his hand pushes me higher, coaxing whimpers and moans I can't suppress.
"Since that first night in the alley," he confesses, "I've thought of nothing but making you mine. Taking you until you forget your name—until you remember only mine."
My hips rock against his hand, chasing pleasure as tension builds low in my belly. "Talk is cheap, Donovan."
He withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving me aching and empty. Before I can protest, he carries me across the room, depositing me on a glass dining table. The cold surface shocks my heated skin as he pushes me onto my back.
"Let's see if actions satisfy you better," he says, unbuckling his belt. His trousers and boxer briefs drop to the floor, freeing his impressive cock.
Long and thick, the head already glistening with pre-cum. My mouth waters at the sight, remembering how he felt against my tongue in the penthouse.
He stands between my spread thighs, running the head of his cock through my folds. The sensation makes me squirm, desperate for more. He teases me mercilessly, rubbing the sensitive tip against my clit before dipping just slightly into my entrance, never giving me what I truly need.
"Last chance to stop this, princess," he warns, his cock poised at my opening.
"Fuck me or I'll finish myself," I threaten, reaching between my legs.
He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head with one large hand. "Oh no. When you come, it will be because of me."
With his free hand, he positions himself at my entrance. Our connection intensifies as he pushes forward, stretching me inch by excruciating inch. The invasion burns despite my wetness—his size demanding space my body struggles to provide.
"Christ, you're tight," he groans, pausing halfway. "Relax for me."
I force my muscles to yield, breathing through the delicious pain of being filled so completely. When he finally seats himself fully inside me, we both moan at the perfect connection. The fullness is overwhelming—my inner walls gripping him like a vise, every ridge and vein of his cock magnified by my sensitivity.
"You were made for me," he murmurs, beginning to move. Slow, deep thrusts that hit places never touched before. "For this."
My back arches off the glass as he sets a rhythm that borders between pleasure and pain. Each thrust pushes me higher, building tension that threatens to shatter me completely. The glass beneath me creaks with each powerful stroke, our bodies joining with increasing urgency.
"Let me touch you," I plead, straining against his grip on my wrists.
He releases them, immediately bracing both hands on the table for leverage as he increases his pace. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails leaving half-moon impressions in tanned skin. The new angle allows him to drive deeper, hitting my g-spot with devastating force.
"Say my name," he commands, driving deeper. His pelvis grinds against my clit with each thrust, adding another layer of pleasure to the overwhelming sensations.
"Cormac," I gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside me. "Fuck—Cormac!"
His rhythm falters at the sound of his name on my lips. "Again."
"Cormac," I repeat, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist. "Please..."
The word—half demand, half surrender—breaks something loose in him. His control shatters as he pounds into me with abandonment. The table shifts beneath us, glasses falling and shattering unnoticed on the floor. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by our shared moans and gasps.
"Mine," he growls, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. "You're mine now, Aoife. Say it."
The stimulation pushes me toward the edge. My inner walls clench around him, the dual sensation of his cock stretching me and his fingers working my clit overwhelming all rational thought.
"I'm—fuck—I'm yours!" I cry out, unable to deny him in this moment of pure sensation.
The admission triggers my climax. Pleasure explodes outward from my core, muscles clenching around his cock as wave after wave crashes through me. The orgasm is violent in its intensity, robbing me of breath, of thought, of everything except the white-hot ecstasy pulsing through every nerve ending.
Cormac follows moments later, burying himself deep as his release pumps hot inside me. His body tenses, a primal groan torn from his throat as he claims me completely. I feel each pulse of his cock as he empties himself, marking me from the inside in the most primitive way.
For long moments afterward, we remain connected, breathing synchronized in the aftermath. His forehead rests against mine, vulnerability in the gesture that defies our complicated relationship.
"She's a wildfire," he whispers, to himself. "I'd let her burn me alive."
The confession, not meant for my ears, lodges somewhere deep in my chest. This man—who executed his brother without hesitation, who kidnapped me without remorse—harbors a depth of feeling I never expected to discover.
Slowly, he withdraws from me, both of us wincing at the separation. His seed trickles down my thigh, a reminder of what just happened between us. Without the heat of passion, reality begins to intrude—the shattered glass surrounding us, my ruined dress, the dangers still lurking beyond these walls.
Cormac lifts me from the table with gentleness, carrying me through the house to a master bathroom gleaming with marble and chrome. He sets me on my feet before turning to fill the massive tub.
"You're not what I expected," I admit as steam rises between us.
He tests the water temperature. "Neither are you."
"What happens now?"
"Now?" He helps me into the tub, the warm water soothing aches I didn't realize I had. "Now we figure out how to use what you learned without getting you killed."
"We?" I sink deeper into scented water. "Are we allies now, Cormac?"
He removes his remaining clothing, stepping into the tub behind me. His powerful body envelops mine as he pulls me against his chest.
"We're something," he answers, lips brushing my temple. "Something neither Gallagher nor Donovan has a name for yet."
As his arms tighten around me, I realize a fundamental truth: I escaped the penthouse today only to surrender something far more valuable than my freedom. Something I never intended to give my enemy. A piece of my heart.