50. Ruairi
Ruairi
Bridget watches me from across the room, arms crossed, her expression tight with concern. "What else did she say?"
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "She asked to meet. Said it was time to put an end to this." I exhale, forcing down my frustration. "She needs to cut ties with O’Sullivan. Whatever this is between them, it ends tonight."
Bridget shakes her head. "That’s not what’s important right now."
"Like hell it’s not. That bastard is using her. If she stays wrapped up in his world, it won’t end well for her."
My wife crosses her arms, stubborn as ever. "The most important thing is getting her home. Everything else will fall into place the way it’s supposed to."
"It almost sounds like you don’t care if she’s with him."
She holds my gaze, unwavering. "I don’t."
"You can’t be serious."
"If he treats her well, if she’s happy, who are we to stand in the way?"
I shake my head, my hands clenching at my sides. "No. That’s not how this works."
She gives me a skeptical look but doesn’t push. Instead, she asks, "When will you be home?"
I grab my keys off the counter. "I’m staying the night in Dublin. I’ll be back first thing in the morning."
Bridget nods, but I can see the worry still written all over her face. She doesn’t press me further, just watches as I crouch down next to Saoirse, who’s sitting on the floor, stacking her wooden blocks with the kind of focus only a toddler can manage.
I brush a hand over her curls, watching as she sets one block carefully on top of another. "You be good for your mammy while Dada is gone."
She nods solemnly, then looks up at me with big, curious eyes. "Where go?"
I tap her nose lightly. "I’m going to bring Aunt Evie home, a stór .”
"Auntie E home," she repeats, like she’s reminding me of my own task.
I chuckle, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "That’s the plan, love."
She thinks about this for a moment, then holds up a block. "Take?"
A small smile tugs at my lips as I take it from her tiny hand. "For luck?"
She nods, very serious. "No lose it."
"I won’t," I promise, tucking it into my pocket.
Satisfied, she goes back to her blocks, stacking them with a determined little hum.
Bridget steps closer as I stand, smoothing a hand over the front of my jacket like she’s fixing something, but really, it’s just an excuse to touch me before I go.
“Come home in one piece,” she murmurs, voice softer now.
"That the best you’ve got?" I ask a hint of amusement in my voice.
She huffs, shaking her head, but there’s warmth in her eyes. “Don’t make me say it, Ri.”
I exhale a quiet chuckle, brushing my knuckles softly on her cheek. "Wouldn’t dream of it."
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she squeezes my arm, fingers lingering just long enough to say what she won’t.
“Always,” I murmur and press a kiss to her cheek, then turn for the door.
I have a long ride ahead before I reach Dublin, plenty of time to figure out my next move.
How to handle Aoife and what to say to make her listen.
She’s always been stubborn, always pushed back any time she felt cornered.
There’s no avoiding the real issue—she’s not going to back down on working in the Syndicate.
The thought alone makes my grip tighten on the wheel. It’s not only about keeping her safe, though that’s a part of it. However, my sister is a capable young woman. She can shoot with the best of them, and I’ve seen her sparring skills. She’d give anyone a fight, but she shouldn’t have to.
The things I’ve seen and had to do—I don’t want that life for her. I never have. I want to keep her kind and loving. The world I live in is dark. The last thing I want is for it to twist her into something she was never meant to be.
But I can’t tell her any of that. She’ll shut down. If I refuse to give her a place in the Syndicate, she’ll dig her heels in to spite me. And if I try to dance around the subject, she’ll know I’m lying.
I need to be careful and play this right. Because getting her home is only half the battle. The real fight will be making sure she stays.
By the time I reach Dublin, I have a plan I think we can both live with. A compromise. Something that gives her just enough of what she wants without putting her in the kind of danger she doesn’t fully understand.
I pause outside the pub, looking through the window to assess the situation.
As head of the Syndicate, I know better than to walk in blind, especially here, in O’Sullivan’s territory.
I didn’t bring guards with me. A deliberate choice.
If I want Aoife to trust me, I can’t treat this like a battlefield.
Still, that doesn’t mean I’m careless. I scan the nearly empty space, noting the exits.
A handful of patrons scattered around. A couple of men sit hunched over their drinks near the bar.
They appear lost in their own conversations.
Nothing immediately sets off alarms, but I keep my guard up as my eyes land on Aoife.
She’s already here, sitting at a small table tucked in the back corner.
Her fingers lightly trace the rim of her glass.
She looks lost in thought, but there’s tension in the set of her shoulders, in the way her foot taps absently against the floor.
In the quick, darting glances she keeps throwing toward the door like she’s waiting for something. Or bracing for it.
After taking a measured breath, I step inside.
My footsteps are heavy as I walk across the wooden floor. "Aoife."
She looks up. "Ruairi."
It’s been months since I’ve seen her in person, though that hasn’t stopped us from fighting through texts or over the phone.
Every conversation we’ve had has been laced with resentment.
I expected tension when we finally sat face-to-face, and I was right.
It lingers between us, thick and unyielding, filling the silence of every unspoken word.
She offers a tight smile. “Thanks for meeting me.”
I nod. "How’ve you been?"
“I’m doing well.” Her voice is steady, confident.
And looking at her now, I almost believe it.
We may be twins, but in my eyes, she’s always been my little sister. The one who needed protecting, the one I had to keep safe. But the woman sitting across from me isn’t the innocent little girl I remember. She’s composed. Self-assured. Controlled.
It should put me at ease. Instead, it unsettles me.
That’s all she says before a server approaches, setting a pint of Guinness down in front of me and another in front of Aoife. He follows it with a bowl of hearty Irish stew, the rich scent of beef and potatoes filling the air.
I glance at her, my brow raised.
She lifts her glass. “I ordered for us.”
I huff a quiet breath, shaking my head as I pick up my pint. “Thanks,” I mutter before taking a drink.
Aoife doesn’t say anything else before picking up her spoon, stirring the thick stew in front of her, and taking a bite. I follow suit, scooping up a spoonful, the rich, savory broth warming me from the inside.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence. The only sounds between us are the clink of metal against ceramic and the low murmur of conversation from the bar. It’s almost normal. Almost like we’re just two people sharing a meal instead of a brother and sister poised on opposite sides of a war.
Aoife shifts slightly, wrapping her hands around her glass. “How’s Bridget?”
“She’s fine.”
“And Saoirse?” she asks, looking up at me.
There’s no malice in her voice, no challenge in her expression.
“She’s good," I say after a moment. "Growing too fast."
Aoife nods, fingers idly tracing the condensation on her glass. “I bet.”
I set my spoon down, refocusing. “Enough small talk. We need to talk about why you called me here.”
"Of course,” she says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. “Let’s talk."
I keep my voice level carefully measured. "Cian seems to think you and he felt a connection while he was here."
Her lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile. “He was very charming”, she says lightly.
"I hope that opened your eyes to everything you could have. Everything you’ve been missing."
Aoife swirls her spoon through the last remnants of stew, then looks up. "Maybe you’re right."
That stops me cold. I expected resistance. Some sarcastic jab or fire in her eyes. But there’s none of that. Just calm. Until she keeps talking.
“But if I come back, it’s on my terms.”
My brows draw together. “What terms?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I want a seat at the table. I want a real place in the Syndicate.”
I exhale slowly. “You’re not ready for that.”
“You’ve never even let me try,” she snaps, heat finally cracking through her composure. “You kept me locked away like I was some secret. Some weakness.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Yes, it is.” She keeps her eyes locked on mine. “I want in. And I want to be with Eamon.”
The air in the room shifts—heavy, volatile.
My hand curls around my glass, knuckles whitening. “You want what?”
“I’m not choosing between love and loyalty,” she says, quiet but fierce. “I’ve played the obedient sister long enough. I won’t do it anymore.”
Anger flares white-hot in my chest. “He’s dangerous.”
“So am I,” she says, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I stare at her, trying to bite back the heat rising in my chest. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. The girl I used to protect with everything I had isn’t sitting across from me anymore. This woman, this version of her, is fire and defiance wrapped in velvet.
“You think he sees you as an equal?” I ask, voice low. “That man doesn’t love you, Aoife. He sees a Quigley. A tool. A weakness to use against me.”
“If that’s what he sees, then maybe we understand each other better than you think.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. For once, I don’t have the right words to fix this.
“You’re throwing away everything we built.”
She doesn’t blink. “No. I’m building something of my own.”
Before I can stop her, she steps back, brushing her phone off the table. “Excuse me,” she says smoothly. “I need the loo.”
And just like that, she turns and walks away.
I sit there in stunned silence, the weight of her words crashing down around me. My little sister. My last piece of family. Already halfway out the door, and I’m not sure there’s a damn thing I can do to stop her.
Minutes pass. Too many. I start to wonder if she used this as an opportunity to slip out the back. I take another slow sip of my beer, unease creeping in, my instincts humming.
Just as I shift to glance over my shoulder, someone stumbles past, knocking into my chair. I barely register the movement before I feel it—a quick, sharp prick at my neck.
I jerk, reaching up, but it’s already too late.
A familiar voice murmurs near my ear. “I’m sorry, Ri.”
My vision sways, my limbs going sluggish. I force my head to turn, to see for myself who it is.
Aoife stands holding the syringe.
“What the hell—” The words barely leave my mouth before the world tilts, the edges of my vision darkening until everything goes silent.