41. Eamon
Eamon
She went to a fucking Syndicate meeting without telling me.
Without guards.
Without backup.
I already have no respect for the bastard, but this? This was careless. Dangerous. I should kill him just for putting her in danger.
Bringing a woman to a meeting like that was reckless enough, but bringing Aoife Quigley? He should’ve known better. Her name alone makes her a target. And if the wrong people realize who she is, what she is, she’s dead.
Instead, she let O’Leary lead her straight into the fire.
And those fucking pictures.
I don’t know what pisses me off more. The fact that she spent the day with him and let him stick his tongue down her goddamn throat in my elevator or the fact that he sent them straight to Ruairi like she’s some kind of trophy.
Every part of me is teetering on the edge. And that’s why we’re here. I need her to back out. To realize this isn’t a game. That what happens down here isn’t something she can walk away from unchanged.
But she doesn’t.
My voice is harsh as I push her to give up. “Having second thoughts?”
Her chin lifts, defiant. “No.”
I watch her closely, reading every emotion she doesn’t think she’s showing. The tension in her shoulders, the way her breath hitches before she catches herself and forces it under control.
“You can still turn back, Aoife,” I say, my voice quieter now but no less firm. “It’s not too late.”
Silently, I plead with her to take the out. To admit that this isn’t what she wants. To prove that some part of her still values self-preservation over proving a point.
Because if she does this, if she goes through with what I’m about to ask of her, there’s no undoing it. No coming back.
But she doesn’t.
Her jaw sets, her spine straightens, and without a word, she pushes past me, her shoulder knocking into mine as she descends first, her steps steady despite the slick stone beneath us.
It’s a challenge. A silent fuck you.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face before following.
That was it. Her last chance.
And she walked right past it.
The underground level closes in around us.
The heavy air presses against my skin like something living.
The scent of rot and damp stone mingles with the metallic sting of blood.
I try to take a deep breath, but it sticks in my chest. My fingers flex at my sides before curling into fists, the tension winding through me like a coiled wire.
I’ve done this more times than I can count. I know the steps, the process, the outcome. But tonight is different. She makes it different.
My pulse thrums in my ears, too fast, too loud. I roll my shoulders and crack the tension in my neck, but it does nothing to shake the apprehension that gnaws at me.
I might be making the biggest mistake of my life.
But my plan is already in motion. There’s no stopping it now.
Aoife doesn’t speak as I lead her through the dimly lit corridor, past the heavy oak doors and jagged stone archways that have stood for centuries. Until we come to the holding room.
We step inside, and I know the exact moment her eyes find him. Aoife stops beside me, her reaction controlled—but I see it. The hesitation. The unspoken questions.
I silently question what the fuck I’m doing bringing her down here.
“This,” I say, keeping my voice even, “is one of your brother’s men.”
She stiffens.
“He was caught skulking around my docks,” I continue, keeping my eyes locked on the man in front of us whose time left on earth is quickly growing short. “We found the explosives in his bag. Tucked beneath crates, rigged to go off the moment my shipment arrived.”
“Not just spying,” I add. “He wasn’t here to gather intel. He was here to make a statement. To send a message from Ruairi. So now we’ll send one back. Do you know how we’ll do that, Aoife?” I ask, turning toward her.
Her throat works as she swallows. Her answer is quiet. “He needs to die.”
My gaze darkens with approval. “Good girl.”
I reach out, fingers brushing a loose strand of her fiery red hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move away.
Then, I unholster my gun.
I don’t miss the slight tension in her shoulders, the almost imperceptible shift of her weight.
I hold the weapon out to her. “You’re going to pull the trigger.”
She stills. The air around us grows impossibly heavy as if the castle itself is watching, waiting.
This is it.
The defining moment where she either backs down, proving Ruairi right, or she takes the next step, knowing there’s no coming back from it.
I wait, hoping she sees the steep cost.
Hoping she decides it’s too much to pay.
But then, her fingers close around the grip.
She raises the gun, clicks the safety off, and pulls the trigger.
The gunshot shatters the silence, echoing through the chamber. The man jerks once, then slumps forward, lifeless.
I don’t look at him.
I look at her.
Waiting for the breakdown. The guilt. The regret.
But she doesn’t fall apart.
She doesn’t even waver.
She lowers the gun and turns to me, her expression unreadable as she hands it back. Like it’s something she’s done a hundred times before.
A íosa Críost.
After holstering my gun, I take Aoife’s hand and guide her out of the room. My men’s eyes follow as we pass, their usual indifference replaced by unspoken respect for the woman at my side.
I knew she was strong. I knew she was relentless.
But this?
She’s a goddess. And Ruairi is a fucking fool.
As we step outside into the night air, the significance of what just happened settles in my chest.
I’d be honored to run my Syndicate with her by my side. But her heart is set on Belfast. On the Syndicate that boasts her family’s name.
And after tonight, I know she’s more than capable of running it.