Chapter 19
Dervla
Something isn’t right. Neither Cormac nor Declan has checked in since they hauled all the weapons in with Gallagher. Roisin has locked down all the doors, and we are effectively sealed inside, and I’m on my own, staring out of Whitmore’s office window like a lost puppy.
My office.
My fucking office.
I turn as the door opens, and then my heart drops to my feet. “Dad?”
He shuts the door behind him.
For one second, I genuinely think I’ve cracked. That this is what finally does it. Not the dead men, not Whitmore, not the Romans, not the weight of this place landing on my shoulders. Just grief reaching up from the floorboards and putting on my father’s face.
He looks older.
That is the first thing that punches through. Older, tired around the eyes, thinner in a way that feels carved out rather than natural. His hair is touched with more grey than it was the last time I saw him alive. His coat is dark and damp at the shoulders. He looks real enough to ruin me.
“No.”
My voice comes out thin and vicious.
His face shifts. Not shock. Not guilt exactly. Something worse. Something that says he expected this.
“Dervla—”
“No.” I step back so hard, I hit the window. My hand goes automatically to the gun at the back of my jeans. “No, you do not get to walk in here and say my name like that.”
His eyes drop to the movement of my hand, then lift again. He does not reach for me. Good. If he does, I might shoot him on reflex and ask questions after.
“I know how this looks—”
“You know how this looks?” I laugh, and the sound is ugly enough to flay paint. I shake my head. “She knew. She knew it wasn’t you. She knows you’re still alive.”
“Siobhán?” he asks carefully.
“Obviously,” I sneer.
“She does. She is working with me.”
That hits me harder than any-fucking-thing else right now. “What? She shot Whitmore. She shot at my guys and me, at Gallagher and Roisin. Do not step in here after I buried you and tell me that bitch is innocent.”
“She didn’t kill Whitmore,” he says.
“We saw her…” I trail off. We didn’t actually see anything except her fleeing and shooting at us. “Right. So who did? You?” I can’t process the fact that he is still alive. Not yet. Breaking down about this right now is not an option. I want answers before I break.
“No, not me,” he says, his expression annoyed in that way he does when I’ve said something stupid.
“If you even think about blaming Séamus, I will shoot you in the head, for real this time.”
“Not Séamus,” he says in exasperation. “It was Troy Kavanagh. His dad is pissing off a lot of people. Whitmore was digging, he found out too much. Troy was sent to kill him. Siobhán heard them on the bug, but she got here too late.”
“Troy killed Whitmore?” I repeat, not quite believing that, because I couldn’t imagine Troy killing anything. Pussy.
Or maybe not.
“People surprise you when they think somebody bigger will carry the consequences for them,” Dad says.
I stare at him.
Alive.
Standing in my office while my whole body tries to decide whether to shake, scream, or put a bullet through him.
“Why did you fake your death?” I ask quietly.
“That is a more complicated answer, but the long and short of it is, I had to trigger a chain of events that could really only happen if I died.”
“Who killed you? The man I found…”
“That was Siobhán.”
“Right. And this chain of events was me losing my mind with grief and coming here to find out who killed you and bury them? Thus, starting a clusterfuck where I find out about Mum, Séamus, Maeve, this entire life that was going on without my knowledge because I was too fucking dumb to see it, or too na?ve to care.”
“Pretty much,” he says unapologetically.
“Right. Why did you have to die? Why couldn’t you just tell me?”
“You wouldn’t have had the balls to do what you’ve done. I don’t mean that as an insult, Dervla. But telling someone they have to become the heir to a crime family empire that rules half of the country doesn’t give you the capability to do it.”
“So, you did this for my benefit,” I say bitterly.
He nods slowly. “Séamus has pulled the plug on the second layer. The Romans will be here soon.”
“Is that why you’re here? To be the harbinger?”
“No, I’m here because Cormac saw me earlier, pretty sure he told Declan, and both of them are tearing themselves apart over it.”
That hits me square in the cunt. “They knew?”
“Literally minutes.”
“That’s why they’re avoiding me,” I scoff. “Great.”
“Don’t blame them. They know the greater good is at stake.”
“Oh, I don’t blame them. I don’t blame them at all. I blame you!” The words rip out of me hard enough to leave my throat raw.
Dad takes them without flinching. Of course he does. He has always been able to stand in the blast radius of other people’s feelings and call it strategy.
“I know,” he says.
“No, you fucking don’t. You do not get to say that. You do not get to stand there breathing and tell me you know. I found your body. I saw your blood. I watched every bastard around me talk about your death like it was fixed and final while I tried not to lose my mind. I buried you.”
His jaw tightens. “I know what it cost.”
“Then you did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
That clean, blunt yes nearly does me in.
“Thanks for the honesty now that it doesn’t fucking help.”
We stand there in a simmering silence that eats away at me. But I push it aside because none of this is helping anything. “Troy’s dad. The Romans. Who do I need to kill first?”
“Whoever crosses the campus line first.”
“And your best guess would be?”
“Brendan Murphy,” he says, going tactical and moving towards the window. “He is the current leader of the Romans.”
“Makes sense,” I mutter, falling into line, because that’s what I do. Even today.
“You have ousted all of his assets and taken control of St. Aug’s. He will want it back.”
“Why? What’s so special about this place?”
“Universities as old as this one always are. The elite are sent here to indoctrinate, for lack of a better word.”
“Where does Siobhán fit into all of this?”
“She worked for them. Was installed by Brendan himself. Then she met me, and things changed.”
“How?” I croak.
“She realised she was on the wrong side of history.”
“She shot at us.”
“She missed.”
“Do you love her?” I spit out.
“Yes.”
I nod stiffly. “Does she love you?”
He smiles softly. “I fucking hope so.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “I hate you.”
“Get in line.”
His mouth nearly curves, which makes me want to throw the nearest object at his head.
A knock hits the door once, then Aidan opens it without waiting. He steps in, sharp-eyed, gun in hand, ready for trouble, and stops dead when he sees my father standing in front of Whitmore’s window like he belongs here.
For one bright second, nobody breathes.
Then Aidan’s expression changes in a way I have never seen before. Not surprise. Not fear. Pure assessment. He takes Dad in, takes me in, takes in the distance between us and the fact that I haven’t shot anyone yet.
“So,” he says evenly. “That explains a lot.”
Dad looks at him with open irritation. “You are Aidan O’Connell.”
“Unfortunately for some people.” His gaze flicks to me. “You all right?”
“No,” I say. “Not even a little.”
Aidan shuts the door behind him and moves further into the room. He keeps the gun low, not aimed, but not gone either. “Do I need to kill him?”
Dad’s mouth flattens. Mine curves, which feels rude in the middle of this. I don’t give a fuck.
“Not yet,” I mutter.
Dad gives Aidan an approving smile, which disappears quickly. “Brendan,” he says, getting back to the issue at hand. “Where is everyone else? We need them here for a briefing.”
“Why are you taking over?” I ask him. “I thought this was all supposed to be for me? Fuck off. Go and find your mate, Kevin, and chat about how you fooled everyone for weeks.”
“How do you know Kevin knew?”
“Wild guess,” I drawl. “Go. I don’t need you here.”
He gives me a level stare and then nods once. He doesn’t say another word as he steps past Aidan, who lets him go, keeping his eyes on him as he leaves the office.
“Don’t,” I say, turning back to the window. “I can’t.”
“I know. Just tell me you’re okay?”
I pause, assessing that, but then realise, as surreal as this is, as heartbreaking as it is, I’m okay. “I am.” For now.