CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Aoife
THE DRESS IS beautiful.
Midnight blue silk that catches the light, falls like water over my hips, pools at my feet. The bodice is fitted, structured, holding me together when I feel like I'm falling apart. Off-the-shoulder sleeves that bare my collarbones, my throat, the places where a pulse beats too fast.
I look like a bride.
I feel like a sacrifice.
My hands smooth down the silk. The fabric is cool, smooth, perfect. No wrinkles. No flaws. Not like me. Not like the woman underneath who's fracturing with every breath.
The mirror shows someone I barely recognize.
Hair swept up in an elegant twist, held in place by diamond pins that belonged to William's mother.
Makeup applied by a professional who came to my room an hour ago, made my face into a mask of beauty.
Pale skin, dark lashes, lips painted the color of wine.
I look untouched by violence.
I look like I haven't been covered in my father's blood only two days ago, sitting for long hours in hospital chairs, watching machines breathe for the man who raised me.
I look like a perfect Mafia princess.
The illusion is flawless.
Downstairs, I can hear them arriving. Car doors slamming. Voices carrying through the late afternoon air. Laughter that sounds obscene when my father is fighting for his life in a hospital bed twenty miles away.
They're here for the engagement party. Here to celebrate the alliance between the Murphys and the O'Rourkes. Here to drink expensive champagne and toast to our future while pretending we're not all drowning.
I turn away from the mirror. Cross to the window.
My room overlooks the front of the estate, giving me a clear view of the circular drive, where black cars are pulling up one after another.
Men in expensive suits. Women in designer dresses.
Security everywhere, more than I've ever seen, watching every arrival with careful eyes.
They look like they're attending a wedding.
They should be attending a funeral.
My phone sits on the dresser, screen dark. There are no calls, no texts, nothing from the hospital, even though I've checked it seventeen times in the last hour. Reilan promised to update me immediately if anything changed with Father.
The silence is its own kind of torture.
I pick up the phone. My thumb hovers over Reilan's name. I could call. Could demand an update. Could hear my brother's voice and know that at least one person I love is still whole.
But what if the news is bad?
What if Father took a turn? What if he's worse? What if—
I set the phone down before I can finish the thought.
Not now. I can't fall apart now. Not when I'm expected downstairs in this dress, with this face, playing this role.
Music starts. Something classical, elegant, piped through speakers I can't see.
I close my eyes. Breathe slowly through my nose the way William taught me in that hallway after Father was shot. In. Out. In. Out.
But it doesn't help.
Nothing helps except the cataloging. The details. The things I can control when everything else is chaos.
The dress: midnight blue, silk, custom-made by a designer whose name I can't pronounce.
The shoes: silver heels, three inches, uncomfortable but beautiful.
The jewelry: diamond earrings, diamond pins, a single sapphire pendant at my throat that William sent to my room this morning.
No note. Just the pendant in a black velvet box.
The room: cream walls, mahogany furniture, Persian rug in shades of burgundy and gold. The window: ten feet tall, thick glass, heavy curtains I could close if I wanted darkness. The door: solid oak, unlocked, but I might as well be in a prison for all the freedom I have.
The sounds outside: more cars arriving, more voices, music swelling, someone laughing too loud. The clink of glasses. The murmur of conversation. A woman's voice rising above the rest, bright and false.
They're celebrating.
While my father lies dying.
The rage comes back, hot and familiar. I welcome it. Rage is better than grief. Better than fear. Better than the helplessness that threatens to swallow me whole.
Minutes tick by. Then more minutes. The party grows louder, the music swelling, voices rising in what sounds like another toast.
Where is William?
He should have come for me by now. Should have escorted me downstairs to stand beside him, to play the role of happy bride-to-be in front of the families. That's how these things work. The groom comes for the bride. They descend together.
But the minutes keep passing, and William doesn't come.
I pace the room again, my heels sinking into the Persian rug with each step. The silk dress swishes around my legs, the sound mixing with the distant music. My impatience builds with each circuit. Ten steps to the window. Ten steps back. Over and over.
What is taking so long?
The knock at the door is sharp. Urgent.
Finally.
I turn, expecting to see William, but when the door opens, two men in dark suits step inside. Security. Their faces are tight, professional, but I catch something in their eyes. Something that makes my stomach drop.
"Miss O'Rourke." The first one speaks, his voice controlled but rushed. "We need you to come with us. Now."
"What?" I take a step back. "Where's William? He's supposed to—"
"There's no time to explain." The second guard moves toward me. "Please, Miss O'Rourke. We need to move you immediately."
"Move me where? The party—"
"Now." The first guard's hand is already on my elbow. "Miss O'Rourke, please."
Every instinct screams that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
But what choice do I have?
The hallway is empty.
That's the first thing that registers. There's no staff, no guests, no one except the two men flanking me.
Just the sound of the party below.
We move quickly, my heels clicking against hardwood as the guards rush me forward. The corridor stretches longer than I remember, doors on either side all closed, lights dim.
Where is everyone?
At the top of the stairs, I pause, looking down at the main staircase that descends to the foyer, where I can hear the party spilling from the main function room. But the guard's hand tightens on my elbow, steering me away.
"This way, Miss O'Rourke."
We turn down a different corridor, one I've only been down once before. It leads to the service areas, the back of the house, where staff move unseen. My heels are too loud on this floor, each step announcing my presence.
"What's happening?" I ask as they propel me forward.
"No time to explain. Keep moving."
We turn another corner. Then another. The sounds of the party fade behind us.
"I need to know what's—"
"Here." One of them opens a door to fluorescent lights and a concrete floor. The garage.
Three black SUVs sit in a row, windows tinted so dark I can't see inside. Engines running. The smell of exhaust is sharp in the enclosed space.
"I don't understand," I start to say.
But one of the guards is already moving to the middle SUV, opening the back door.
"Get in. Stay low."
I look into the dark interior. See nothing at first. Then movement. A figure in the shadows.
William.
My heart stops.
He's in the driver's seat, twisted around to look at me. His face is tight, expression hard.
Why isn't he at the party? Why isn't he with everyone else?
He doesn't speak. Just holds one finger to his lips and points to the back seat floor with his other hand.
Get down. He gestures.
I don't move. Can't move. Nothing about this makes sense.
"My brother is in there," I say, pointing back toward the party. "The families. Everyone—"
"Aoife." William's voice is low, dangerous. "Get in the fucking car. Now."
Something in his eyes makes me obey. Not fear, exactly.
I climb in. The security guard immediately shuts the door behind me. The SUV is already moving before I've found my balance.
"What—"
"Get down." William's voice is sharp from the driver's seat. "All the way down. Don't look up."
"William, tell me what's—"
"Down!"
I drop to the floor, my dress tangling around my legs. The space is cramped and dark. I can smell leather and cologne.
The SUV turns sharply. I brace myself against the seat. We're not going toward the front drive.
We're going in the opposite direction.
I risk lifting my head slightly. Through the tinted windows, I can see we're crossing the back lawn. Manicured grass. Ornamental trees. The gardens that looked so beautiful from my window.
"Stay down," William growls.
"Where are we going? Why are we leaving everyone—"
Another turn. Faster now. The SUV bounces over uneven ground. We're off the lawn now, on some kind of service road I didn't know existed.
Through the windows, I can see the back of the estate. All those lights. All those people. Fireworks explode into the sky in rapid succession now. Gold and silver and red.
So many fireworks.
Something cold slides down my spine.
"William," I whisper. "William, what's—"
Light.
Blinding, white, impossibly bright light that turns the interior of the SUV into daylight for one frozen second.
I look up without thinking.
And I see it.
The Murphy house erupts.
Not fireworks. Not a celebration.
Explosion.
The entire east wing lifts into the air in a ball of fire and debris. Windows shatter outward in a spray of glass that glitters like diamonds. The sound reaches us a heartbeat later, a roar so loud it feels like it's inside my chest, crushing my ribs, stopping my heart.
The fireworks weren't fireworks.
They were bombs.
And I watched them launch. Watched them arc through the sky. Watched them land on the house where everyone I know is gathered.
Where my brother is.
"REILAN!" The scream tears out of my throat. "REILAN!"
I'm scrambling up, clawing at the window, trying to see. Another explosion rocks the house, this one from the west wing. Fire blooms like a flower, orange and red and hungry.
"STAY DOWN!" William roars.