CHAPTER SIX
Aoife
THE SHOCK WEARs off slowly.
Like ice melting. Like fog lifting. Like waking from a nightmare only to discover you're still in it.
One moment I'm pressed against the hallway wall, wrapped in a blanket that smells like someone else's life, watching medics rush past with equipment I can't name. The next moment, I'm standing. Moving. My legs work again, though I don't remember telling them to.
"Where are you going?" William's hand closes around my upper arm. Not roughly, but firmly. Like he thinks I might bolt.
He's not wrong.
"The hospital." My voice sounds strange. Distant. Like it's coming from someone else's throat. "I need to go to the hospital."
"Aoife." He steps in front of me, blocking my path. "You can't just…"
"He's my father." The words cut through whatever he was going to say. "He's my father, and he was shot in front of me, and I'm going to the hospital. Now."
I watch something flicker across William's face. Understanding that slowly fades as he exhales heavily. He's deciding whether to fight me on this.
"Move," I say quietly. "Or I will move you." My lip trembles, and I'm fighting not to spiral again like I did when I couldn't catch my breath.
It's an empty threat. He's twice my size, probably high on something based on the dilated pupils I noticed earlier, and covered in my father's blood, same as me. I have no way to move him if he decides to stay planted in my path.
But I say it anyway, because the alternative is falling apart right here in this hallway, and I won't give him that.
Won't give anyone that.
His jaw tightens. For a long moment, we just stand there, locked in some kind of silent battle I'm definitely losing.
Then he steps aside.
"Fine," he says. The word comes out rough. Reluctant. "But you're not going alone. And we're taking my team."
I don't argue. Don't have the energy. I just move past him toward the front door, and if my steps are unsteady, if my hands are shaking so hard I have to clutch the blanket tighter around my shoulders, that's between me and the blood-spattered walls.
The car ride is a blur.
I'm in the back of an SUV with windows so dark I can barely see out. William sits beside me, silent and tense. Two security guards in front. More following in vehicles behind us. An entire convoy just to get me to the hospital.
Because someone tried to kill me.
The thought keeps circling. Around and around like water down a drain.
That bullet was meant for me.
I was standing right where Father stood. Right in front of that window. And then I stepped back, moved aside for just a moment, and Father took my place.
Took my bullet.
My stomach lurches. I press my hand against my mouth, forcing down the nausea. When I pull it away, I see the blood on my arm. So much of it. Splattered across my dress. In my hair. Drying on my skin in flakes that make me want to claw myself open.
I close my eyes, but that's worse. Because when I close my eyes, I see it.
The window exploding. The spray of glass. The way Father's body jerked. The bloom of red across his white shirt. The sound he made, this awful wet gasp, like he was trying to speak but only blood came out.
And his eyes. God, his eyes. Looking at me. Confused. Afraid.
My father has never been afraid of anything in his life.
"Aoife."
I open my eyes. William is watching me with an intensity that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
"What?" The word comes out sharper than I intended.
"You're hyperventilating again."
I am. My chest is tight, breath coming in shallow gasps that aren't pulling in enough air. When did that start?
"Breathe," William says. Not gentle. Just matter-of-fact. "Slow. Like before."
Like before. When he pressed me against the hallway wall after the shooting and forced me to focus. When his hands framed my face, and he made me breathe with him, matching his rhythm until the panic subsided. When his steady voice was the only thing anchoring me to reality.
I force myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. The way he showed me in the hallway.
It helps. A little.
"Better," he says, and returns his attention to the window.
We don't speak again for the rest of the drive.
The hospital is in chaos.
Or maybe it's always like this and I just never noticed. Sirens. Shouting. People in scrubs running past with gurneys and equipment. The fluorescent lights are too bright, too harsh. They make everything look washed out and wrong.
A woman in a pantsuit intercepts us at the entrance. Hospital administrator, based on the badge clipped to her jacket.
"Mr. Murphy." She's breathless, nervous. "We've prepared a private wing as requested. Mr. O'Rourke is being prepped for surgery now. If you'll follow me…"
"No." My voice cuts through her practiced speech. "I'm going wherever my father is going."
She blinks at me. "I'm sorry, but visitors aren't allowed in the surgical…"
"I'm not a visitor. I'm his daughter." I step forward, and she steps back. Good. "Take me to him. Now."
The woman looks to William like he has some kind of authority over me. Like he can tell me what to do. The thought makes rage flare hot in my chest.
"You heard her," William says, and I hate how much relief I feel at those three words.
We're led through a maze of corridors. White walls. Tile floors. The smell of antiseptic so strong it burns my nose. People stare as we pass. At the blood. At the security team surrounding us. At William, who probably looks exactly like what he is—a Mafia prince with death in his eyes.
The private wing is quieter. Emptier. Just a few nurses moving between rooms with clipboards and concerned expressions. The administrator leads us to a room at the end of the hall.
Through the window in the door, I can see Father.
He's on a bed. Tubes everywhere. Monitors beeping. His throat is wrapped in bandages that are already soaking through with red. A doctor leans over him, checking the IV line.
My legs stop working.
I'm frozen in the hallway, staring through that window at my father, who's always been invincible. Who built our family from nothing. Who survived wars and betrayals and decades in a world designed to kill him.
He looks so small.
"Aoife." William's hand on my shoulder. "They need to take him to surgery."
I know that. Know they're about to wheel him away to cut him open and try to put him back together. Know I might not see him alive again.
The thought breaks something in me.
I push open the door and stumble inside. The doctor looks up, startled.
"Just a moment," I say. It comes out as a plea. "Please. Just one moment."
The doctor hesitates, then nods and steps back.
I move to Father's bedside. His eyes are closed. They've probably given him something for the pain.His chest rises and falls in shallow movements that make me think of birds with broken wings.
"Dad." My voice cracks. I hate it. Hate how young I sound. How scared. "I'm here."
He doesn't respond. His eyes remain closed.
I take his hand. His skin is cold. Too cold.
"I love you," I whisper. The words feel inadequate. Too small for what's happening. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
For what? For standing in front of that window? For making him move? For existing in a world where bullets are how people solve problems?
For all of it.
"We need to go," the doctor says gently. "Now."
I nod. Can't speak. Just hold Father's hand for one more breath. Two. Three.
Then I let go.
They wheel him away. I watch through the window as the bed disappears down the corridor, surrounded by doctors and nurses who will either save him or fail.
And I stand there in the empty room, covered in his blood, and feel my entire world tilt sideways.
I hear his voice echoing down the corridor, sharp and demanding. "Where is she? Where's my sister?"
Reilan.
Then he's there. Bursting through the door of the room where they just wheeled Father out. His eyes find mine across the empty space, and I see my own fear reflected back at me.
"Aoife." He crosses to me in three long strides.
I don't remember moving. But suddenly I'm in his arms, and he's holding me so tightly I can't breathe.
And I break.
The sobs come from somewhere deep inside. Violent. Wrenching. They tear through me like something alive, clawing its way out. Reilan just holds on, one hand in my hair, the other pressed against my back, keeping me together while I fall apart.
"He's in surgery," I manage between gasps. "They don't know. They don't know if he'll—"
"Shh." Reilan's voice is rough. "He's strong. He'll make it through."
But I can hear the uncertainty underneath. The fear he's trying to hide.
I pull back enough to look at him. "It was meant for me." The confession spills out. "The bullet. It was meant for me, Reilan. I was standing right there, and Father moved, and—"
"Stop." His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "This is not your fault. Do you hear me? None of this is your fault."
But it is. The bullet had my name on it. Father just happened to be standing in the way.
"Who did this?" Reilan's voice drops. Goes hard. "Who shot him?"
"We don't know." William's voice cuts through from across the room. I'd forgotten he was there. He pushes off the wall, moving closer. "Yet."
Reilan's eyes cut to him. "You’d better find out. Fast. Because when we do…"
"When we do," William interrupts, stepping into Reilan's space, "they'll be dealt with. My way."
The air between them crackles. Reilan's jaw tightens, but William doesn't back down.
Doesn't even blink. There's something dangerous in his stance, in the way he holds himself.
A reminder that he's not just my unwanted fiancé, he's a Murphy.
And right now, in this moment, he's the one calling the shots.
Reilan looks like he wants to argue. To assert his authority as my brother, as an O'Rourke. But after a long moment, his gaze shifts back to me.
"Come on. Sit. You look like you're about to collapse."
He guides me out of the room and down the hall to a private waiting area.
I sink into one of the uncomfortable chairs, and Reilan sits beside me.
His arm wraps around my shoulders, and I let myself lean against him the way I used to when we were kids.
When the world was simpler and I still believed our father could protect us from anything.
The waiting room is too quiet. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant beeping of machines.
William stands by the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in low tones I can't make out.
Security guards stationed at both doors.
A nurse checks in every twenty minutes to tell us there's no news yet.
We wait.
And wait.
And wait.