14. Aoife
Aoife
The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, and my stomach flips, not from the landing but from the reality waiting for me. I grip the armrests tightly, my breath shallow as the plane slows to a stop.
My parents are gone.
The words echo in my head, hollow and cruel. I’ve replayed Ruairi’s voice over and over during the flight, his grief barely concealed as he told me what happened. But it still doesn’t feel real.
When I step off the plane, the cold Belfast air bites at my skin, a sharp contrast to the Maldives’ warmth. Ruairi’s there, waiting near the private terminal, his shoulders squared, his expression guarded.
The moment I see him, the grief I’ve been holding in breaks free. His arms open, and I rush toward him, collapsing into his embrace.
“Ruairi,” I whisper, my voice cracking as the tears come. “Tell me it’s not true. Please.”
He holds me tightly, his hand cradling the back of my head as I sob into his chest. “I wish I could. God, I wish I could,” he murmurs.
I cling to him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as a sob wracks my body. “It doesn’t feel real,” I whisper.
“It doesn’t,” he agrees, his voice thick with grief. “I keep waiting for the phone to ring, for them to walk through the door. But they’re not coming back.”
His words hit like a blow, the finality of them sinking in as my knees give out. He holds me tighter, his hand steadying me.
“I’ve got you,” he says softly.
Pulling back slightly, I look up at him through blurred vision. “Are you sure it wasn’t a hit? No one… no one was targeting them?”
His jaw tightens, his grief momentarily eclipsed by anger. “I had it checked out. Every angle. It was nothing more than a drunk driver who shouldn’t have been on the road.” His voice falters as he adds, “The other driver didn’t make it either.”
I nod slowly, though it does little to ease the ache in my chest. “I can’t believe they’re gone.”
“Neither can I,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “But we’ll get through this. Together.”
The drive to Ruairi’s house is silent, the finality of our loss filling the space between us. When we pull up, the porch light is on. Bridget stands in the doorway, Saoirse balanced on her hip.
The sight of them sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing over me.
Bridget hurries down the steps, her eyes wide as I step out of the car. “Aoife,” she says, wrapping me in a warm hug, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry.”
I hug her back tightly, my throat too tight to speak. Saoirse reaches out to me, her tiny hands grabbing at my coat, and something in me shatters all over again.
“She’s been asking for you,” Bridget says softly, handing her over.
I hold my niece close, her little arms wrapping around my neck as she babbles softly, completely unaware of what’s happened. Her red curls tickle my cheek, and for a brief moment, the warmth of her presence steadies me.
Inside, the house is quiet but feels full of unspoken grief. Bridget has tea waiting, but it goes untouched as we sit together, trying to process what comes next.
“Did they leave any instructions?” I ask, my hands gripping the warm mug tightly.
“They did,” Bridget says gently. “Your father wanted something small and private. For family and close friends. Nothing public.”
Ruairi nods. “I’ll handle everything.”
I shake my head, sitting up straighter. “No. I want to help. I need to.”
“Can you give us a minute?” Ruairi asks. “I need to speak with Aoife alone.”
Bridget glances at me, her expression softening with understanding. “Of course. It’s time for Saoirse to go to bed anyway.” She presses a gentle kiss to my cheek and whispers, “Let me know if you need anything.”
I nod silently and watch as she heads upstairs, her voice low as she soothes the baby.
When the sound of her footsteps fades, Ruairi leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his face set in the grim determination I know too well.
His jaw tightens as he pins me with a look that’s both protective and unyielding. “This isn’t something you need to carry, Aoife. As the head of the family, this is my role now.”
“Head of the family?” I echo, my voice sharper than I intend. “I’m part of this family too, Ruairi.”
“You are,” he agrees, his voice steady but firm. “But it’s not the same, and you know it. Da would’ve wanted me to handle this. Alone.”
I scoff, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “Da wouldn’t have wanted you to shut me out. He?—”
“He wouldn’t have wanted you dragged into this,” Ruairi interrupts. “He spent his entire life keeping you away from the mess. I’m not about to change that now.” His tone is edged with finality.
His words hit like a slap, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to respond.
“This isn’t just about the Syndicate,” he continues, his voice softer now but no less resolute. “This is about family. About doing what Da and Mam would’ve expected of me. Let me do this for them. For us.”
The room falls silent. I know he’s trying to protect me, just like he always has, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
Finally, I exhale shakily and nod, the fight draining out of me. “Fine,” I say quietly. “But after the funeral, we’re revisiting my place in the family. This conversation isn’t over.”
His expression hardens, his frustration evident, but then it softens just slightly. He nods once. “We’ll talk,” he says, though his tone makes it clear he doesn’t plan to budge.
The funeral is held three days later. True to my father’s wishes, it’s a small, private gathering with only family and a few trusted associates from the Syndicate. The chapel is quiet, its stone walls and vaulted ceilings casting long shadows in the flickering candlelight.
I sit in the front pew, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. Ruairi is beside me, his jaw set in a way that’s both protective and unreadable. Bridget sits on his other side, Saoirse in her lap, mercifully quiet as if even she can sense the gravity of the moment.
The priest speaks in soft, measured tones, his voice echoing faintly through the chapel as he talks about the importance of family, legacy, and love.
But the words fade into the background as my focus drifts to the polished mahogany caskets at the front of the room, each adorned with a spray of white lilies and roses.
This is it. The final goodbye.
For a fleeting moment, my thoughts drift to Eamon. I picture him here beside me, his presence steady and unwavering in a way that could make this unbearable moment feel just a little less heavy.
But he’s not here. He can’t be. And even if he were, he’d never belong in this world. My world.
The ache sharpens as I push the thought aside, forcing myself to focus on the present. This isn’t about what I want or what I wish. It’s about honoring them.
When the service ends, we move outside to the small graveyard behind the chapel. The air is crisp, the kind of biting cold that turns your breath into visible clouds. I wrap my coat tighter around me, but it does little to shield me from the chill seeping into my bones.
As the caskets are lowered into the ground, the priest says a final prayer. I bow my head, my tears spilling silently down my cheeks.
“They loved you, you know,” Ruairi says softly beside me.
I glance at him, his face pale against the black of his coat. “I know,” I whisper, though it doesn’t make the loss any easier.
When the burial is complete, Ruairi steps forward, his hand shaking as he drops a single white rose onto each casket. Bridget follows, her movements steady.
I’m the last to stand over them. The petals of the roses I hold are soft and fragile between my fingers before I let them fall into the open grave.
“I’ll make you proud,” I whisper, my voice catching. “I promise.”
Back at Ruairi’s house, the silence is heavier than it’s ever been.
The guests are gone, and the house is empty except for us.
Bridget busies herself in the kitchen, her grief manifesting in quiet movements as she cleans and prepares tea.
Saoirse is down for a nap the faint sound of her breathing comes through the baby monitor.
Ruairi and I sit in the living room, the same place we’d talked that first night I came back.
“They’d be proud of you, you know,” he says, his voice low.
I glance at him, my eyes still red from crying. “Would they? Da spent his whole life keeping me away from the Syndicate. Keeping me out of his world.”
“He did it to protect you,” Ruairi says firmly. “Not because he didn’t think you were capable.”
I scoff softly, shaking my head. “We’ll never know now, will we?”
Ruairi’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue. But instead, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll revisit this,” he says, his tone resigned. “After things settle.”
I nod, though the fire inside me hasn’t dimmed. I’ve spent my entire life waiting for my moment, and I won’t let grief, or Ruairi, keep me from taking my rightful place in the Syndicate.
For now, though, I let the silence settle between us, the weight of the day enough to keep my fight at bay.