16. Aoife
Aoife
The sharp crack of gunfire echoes off the walls as I squeeze the trigger again, the recoil kicking lightly in my arm. Another clean shot, center mass.
I lower the pistol, satisfaction warms my chest as I take in the target riddled with precise hits.
I started training while I was traveling, studying with some of the best sharpshooters in the world.
Each shot feels like proof that I’m capable of more than my father and Ruairi have ever given me credit for.
“You’re good,” his voice cuts through the stillness.
I set the pistol down and remove my ear protection.
Turning around, I find Ruairi leaning casually against the doorway of the shooting range, arms crossed over his chest. His expression is somewhere between impressed and curious. “Almost scary good,” he adds, pushing off the wall to approach me.
“Isn’t that the point?” I quip, raising an eyebrow.
He stops a few paces away, his gaze flicking to the target before settling back on me. “What’s got you in here?”
I shrug, keeping my tone light. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”
He studies me for a long moment, his sharp eyes seeing more than I’d like. I’ve been home for months, biding my time and planning how to approach him about the one thing I’ve been working toward for years. Now, the moment feels closer than ever.
“Can we talk?” I ask, tilting my head toward the door.
His brow furrows slightly, but he nods. “Alright. I’ll meet you in my office in fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect,” I say, my voice clipped as I turn back to my weapon. My hand brushes over the pistol, methodically unloading and cleaning it before setting it back in its case. Every movement is precise, almost mechanical, a way to keep my nerves in check.
Once everything’s in order, I leave the shooting range and head to my room.
The familiar weight of the folded paper in my bedside drawer is a comfort I’ve clung to for years. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I carefully unfold it. The creases are worn, the ink slightly faded, but the words are still as clear as the day we wrote them.
We were seven years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the old treehouse in the back garden. The summer air was thick with the smell of grass and sunshine. Ruairi was already trying to boss me around, even then.
“Da says I’ll run the Syndicate one day,” Ruairi declares, puffing out his chest in the way he always did when he wanted to sound important.
“You mean we’ll run the Syndicate,” I correct, crossing my arms.
His mouth pulls into a small frown, and he scrunches his nose but, after a moment, gives a quick nod. “Fine. We’ll run the Syndicate.”
“Together,” I add.
“Together,” he agrees.
I grab a scrap of paper from the small desk in the corner, and with my tongue sticking out in concentration, scrawl the words:
We promise to run the Quigley Syndicate together, side by side.
I push the paper toward him. “Sign it.”
“Wait,” he says, flashing a small pocketknife he isn’t supposed to have. “If we’re making promises, it has to be real.”
I don’t hesitate, holding out my hand as he makes a tiny slice on the tip of my finger. The sting is sharp but quick, and after he does the same to his finger, we press them to the page, smearing tiny drops of blood over our signatures.
“There,” he says, grinning. “Now it’s official.”
I smile back, tucking the paper into my pocket like it’s the most important thing in the world.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me back to the present. I refold the note carefully, slipping it into my pocket.
This isn’t just a childhood promise. It’s a pact we made together. And it’s time for my brother to keep his end of it.
Standing, I square my shoulders and head toward Ruairi’s office.
Stepping inside, it’s just as I remember it. Dark wood, shelves lined with books. The faint scent of our father’s cologne lingers in the air. Ruairi sits behind the desk, motioning for me to take the chair opposite him.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, leaning back slightly.
I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing the worn paper. My stomach knots as I pull it out, but I force myself to stay composed.
“I want to take my place beside you,” I say firmly, meeting his gaze.
He groans, rolling his eyes. “Not this again.”
The dismissal stings, and I sit up straighter. “Yes, this again. I’ve spent years preparing for this. While I was traveling, I wasn’t just sightseeing—I was training. I’ve studied Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Muay Thai. I’ve learned how to shoot, as you’ve seen for yourself.”
His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I’ve been working for this,” I continue, my voice rising. “I’m not asking to jump into something big. Let me start small. Anything.”
He shakes his head, leaning forward. “No. It’s not happening.”
Anger flares in my chest. “Why not?”
“The Syndicate isn’t a game, and it’s no place for a girl.”
My hands ball into fists at his words, the condescension igniting every ounce of frustration I’ve been holding back. “You’re unbelievable,” I snap. “You’re so stuck in your own head you can’t see past this archaic, sexist bullshit.”
Ruairi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Aoife, listen. I’ve already been thinking about your future. There’s someone I want you to meet. Cian O’Leary. He was one of Da’s most trusted associates. Smart, dependable, and?—”
I’m out of my chair before he can finish. “You’re trying to marry me off?”
He raises his hands defensively. “I’m trying to look out for you.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I repeat, my voice shaking with anger. I reach into my pocket again, this time slamming the worn paper onto his desk. “Read it.”
Ruairi’s brows knit together as he picks it up, unfolding it carefully. A small smile tugs at his lips as he reads, the memory clearly hitting him. “We were barely out of nappies,” he says softly, shaking his head.
“We promised,” I say firmly. “You agreed that we’d run this Syndicate together . You remember, don’t you? Slicing our fingers, signing it in blood? It meant something to me, Ri.”
His smile fades as he slides the paper back toward me. “We were kids, Evie. It was silly.”
“It wasn’t silly to me,” I snap, my voice breaking. “It was a promise. One I’ve held onto all these years. And now it’s time for you to honor it.”
He leans back, exhaling heavily. “It changes nothing. I won’t let you do this. Working in the Syndicate is no place for you.”
“I’ve been kept in the dark for years,” I argue. “I refuse to stand on the sidelines anymore.”
His jaw tightens. “This conversation is over.”
Fury burns through me as I glare at him. “This isn’t over,” I hiss, spinning on my heel and storming out of the office.
I nearly collide with Bridget in the hallway. Her eyes widen as she steadies me. “What’s wrong?”
“Your husband is being a stubborn ass,” I snap, pushing past her.
Bridget chuckles softly, following me. “And what else is new? What’s it about this time?”
I stop, turning to face her. “I want to work in the Syndicate. But he won’t even listen.”
Bridget’s expression softens. “He just wants what’s best for you.”
“Best for me?” I scoff. “He wants me to meet some associate and settle down like a good little wife.”
Bridget smiles faintly. “Cian O’Leary, right? He’s a good man. And Saoirse would love a cousin to grow up with.”
I roll my eyes, throwing my hands up. “You’re as bad as he is.”
She places a gentle hand on my arm. “I’m not saying you should do what he wants. But try to understand where he’s coming from. He only wants to protect you.”
I shake my head, stepping back. “I don’t need his protection. Or yours.”
And with that, I walk away, my resolve burning stronger than ever.