Chapter 41 Sean
Sean
The call comes at half past seven in the evening, just as Ciara and I are finishing dinner. My phone buzzes on the table, and I glance at the screen. Paddy ‘the rat’.
I answer immediately. “Yeah.”
“Sean.” Paddy’s voice is rough, cautious. “Got something for you. About your problem.”
I put it on speaker. “We’re listening.”
“Friend of a friend saw your man out in Bullaun. Renting a cottage off some old widow who doesn’t ask questions. Been there about a day, keeping his head down.”
“How solid is this?”
“Solid. I don’t fuck with O’Neills.”
The shot of pride that fires through me is unexpected. No one has ever treated me like someone to be reckoned with. My name opened doors; it gave people fear of my father and my brother, but that is where it ended.
Ciara sees it, she sees everything, and grips my fingers tightly.
“Address?”
Paddy rattles a street name and number.
“Thanks, Paddy. I’ll remember this.”
“And I’ll remember that.”
I hang up and stare at Ciara. “Bullaun.”
“When do we leave?”
We. I couldn’t love her more.
“Before dawn,” I say. “I want daylight but not too many potential witnesses.”
She nods, standing and carrying our plates to the sink.
“Ciara—”
“I’m coming, Sean.” She turns to face me, her expression calm and resolute. “Don’t even think about leaving me here.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I say with a smile at her fire.
“I was going to say, I love you.” The truth is, I don’t want her out of my sight.
Not with Ryan still breathing, not with the Bratva’s paid-for neutrality feeling like a temporary ceasefire rather than a truce.
But beyond that, this is ours to finish. Together.
She returns my smile. “I love you too. Let’s get some rest before we go take out the trash.”
I nod and take her hand, leading her into the bedroom.
The walk down the hall feels different tonight.
It isn’t a march toward the gallows or a stumble into oblivion; it’s a pause before the final strike.
The air is thick with anticipation, heavy with the knowledge that tomorrow, blood will spill so that we can finally stop bleeding.
We strip out of our clothes in the semi-darkness, moving with a quiet efficiency that speaks to how attuned we’ve become.
There’s no desperate clawing for each other tonight, just the solid, grounding need to be close.
To recharge. I place my gun under the pillow, no longer afraid of blowing my brains out—or hers— because I’m drunk and disoriented.
The metal is cold against the silk, a promise for the morning.
When I slide under the duvet, Ciara is already there, turning into me as if she’s seeking shelter.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her flush against my chest, needing the physical proof that she’s safe. That she’s mine.
“Sleep,” she whispers, her hand resting over my heart. “We need to be sharp.”
“I know.” I kiss the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her fruity shampoo, letting it settle the last of my nerves.
Lying there in the dark, I stare at the shadows dancing on the ceiling.
Ryan O’Sullivan is out there in Bullaun, probably thinking he’s bought himself time.
He’s wrong. He bought himself a few hours of darkness before the sun rises on his execution.
The fear that used to live in my gut, the one I drowned in whisky for a decade, is gone.
In its place is a cold, hard resolve. I close my eyes, matching my breathing to Ciara’s.
Tomorrow, I take out a man who tried to kill me to get to my wife, but tonight, I hold my world in my arms.
Morning comes fast. 4:00 AM. The witching hour for the wicked.
We dress in silence. Ciara looks lethal in black jeans and a black silk shirt that skims her breasts and makes me hard just looking at her.
She braids her hair back tightly before curling it up into a bun.
She puts on a smattering of make-up, and I just stand there, watching her get ready for an execution like she’s going out to lunch.
She checks her SIG, the metallic click of the magazine sliding home the only sound in the penthouse.
“Ready?” she asks, turning to stare at me standing like a statue near the end of the bed, my tee still in my hand.
“Always,” I answer, finally pulling the black fabric over my head to cover the ink on my chest. I holster my Glock at the small of my back, the weight of it familiar and grounding.
It used to be that the only weight I carried was the burden of being the disappointment, the spare.
Now, I carry the weight of a husband, a protector, and an executioner.
It’s heavy, but for the first time in my life, my legs don’t buckle under it.
I grab the keys to the Range Rover from the bowl. “Let’s end this.”
We move to the elevator in silence. The descent to the lobby feels like a drop into the underworld, but with Ciara standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me, I don’t mind the darkness. She slips her hand into mine as the doors slide open, her fingers cool, her grip tight.
The street outside is cold. I unlock the car, the lights flashing a sharp amber warning in the gloom. I open her door for her, and she slides into the passenger seat.
The city is still dark and quiet as I climb in and fire up the engine. We slip out of Dublin like ghosts.
I keep to the speed limit, methodical and careful. No reason to draw attention.
Ciara doesn’t speak. She watches the landscape shift from urban sprawl to rolling countryside, the sky gradually lightening from black to deep purple to pale gray. Her hands are folded in her lap, calm and still.
“You okay?” I ask finally.
“Yeah.” She glances at me. “Are you?”
“Yeah.”
It’s not much of a conversation, but it doesn’t need to be.
She squeezes my fingers, a small smile touching her lips, and it’s enough.
We drive in silence for a while longer, the GPS guiding us onto narrower country roads. The landscape becomes wilder, more remote—rolling hills dotted with sheep, stone walls marking ancient boundaries, clusters of trees bent by wind.
Bullaun is small and easy to navigate. The address Paddy gave us is easy to find and mostly isolated, but I keep driving so we can circle back. There’s no cover on the approach, but the road curves about fifty meters before the cottage, giving us a clear line of sight to the front door.
“There,” I say, pointing to a spot where the road widens slightly, backed by a thick hedge. “We wait there.”
Ciara nods, her expression focused.
I turn the car around and position us in the spot I indicated, angled so I have a clear view of the cottage through the driver’s side window. The engine idles quietly, ready for a quick exit.
Leaning forward, I pop the glove box open and pull out the silenced Glock, which is taped to the top, with a smile. “Connor is predictable,” I say to Ciara.
“Do you think you can get to him through the window?” Ciara asks, frowning as she watches me place a scope on it.
“Only one way to find out,” I mutter and turn to the cottage.
I lower the window, letting the biting morning air sharpen my senses.
It’s quiet out here, deceptively peaceful for what’s about to happen.
I rest my forearms against the door frame, using the heavy steel of the Range Rover to steady the weapon.
It’s not a sniper rifle, but at fifty meters with a steady hand and a clear line of sight, it’s lethal enough.
Through the scope, the cottage interior is dim, but movement catches my eye. A shadow paces back and forth in the front room. Ryan. He looks frantic, a caged animal realizing the lock is broken. He stops, lifting a bottle to his lips—probably vodka, cheap and nasty.
“He’s there,” I murmur, my pulse steady, a slow drumbeat of anticipation. “Drinking his breakfast.”
Ciara isn’t looking away. She’s watching the cottage just as intently as I am.
I exhale, emptying my lungs until there is nothing left but focus.
Ryan turns toward the window, staring out at the empty road, unaware that death is parked just up the lane.
I center the crosshairs on his face. I don’t feel the old shakes.
I don’t feel the thirst. I feel absolute, terrifying clarity.
I squeeze the trigger.
The suppressed thwip is barely louder than a cough. Down the road, the cottage window shatters inward, a spiderweb of destruction. Ryan jerks violently, the bottle flying from his hand as the bullet hits him between the eyes and he’s thrown backward into the darkness of the room.
“He’s down.”
I holster my gun, shift the car into gear, and pull away.
Calm. Methodical. Professional.
Ciara doesn’t look back. Neither do I.
We’re a mile down the road before she reaches over, her hand finding mine on the gearshift. I lace our fingers together, holding on tight.
The road ahead is clear, the sky bright and open. Behind us, Ryan O’Sullivan is already fading into memory—a problem solved, a threat eliminated, a chapter closed without fanfare, without an all-out gunfight, without a word uttered.
We drive back toward Dublin in silence, the weight of what we’ve done settling over us like a blanket. But it’s not heavy. It’s not suffocating.
It’s just finished.
“We need to switch cars,” I say. “I know a place.”
“Of course you do,” she says with a smile and sits back.
The garage is an hour out, tucked behind a derelict petrol station that hasn’t seen a customer since the nineties.
It’s a dead drop I set up years ago for a rainy day, though I never imagined the storm would look like this.
I pull the Range Rover into the corrugated shed and kill the engine.
The sudden silence rings in my ears, but for once, it doesn’t scream for a drink.
I get out and greet the man who strolls up to us.
“O’Neill,” he says by way of a greeting.
“Needs stripping, got a spare?”
He eyes up the Range Rover, already calculating how much he can make by chopping it. He nods and gestures with his head to a nondescript Ford Mondeo. It’s the kind of car that blends into the tarmac, invisible to the world. Just like we need to be until the dust settles.
We transfer quickly. Ciara doesn’t say anything. She slides into the passenger seat of the Ford like a queen taking her throne, unfazed by the stale air inside.
Back on the road, the tension finally snaps, leaving behind a strange, weightless exhaustion. I reach over, grip her hand.
“Why do I get the feeling we are being watched?” she asks softly, watching the green fields roll by.
“Because you aren’t used to the practical side of this life. No one is watching us. And even if they were, the O’Neill name will make sure they look away again.”
“What is your plan when we get home?” she asks.
“To have sex with my wife after breakfast,” I reply with a smirk.
“Nice,” she comments, “but seriously. What now?”
“Now, who knows?”
“You’re being deliberately coy, Sean. I’m asking if you want to be more embedded in the O’Neill organization.”
“I know that’s what you’re asking, and to be honest, Ciara.
I have no idea. Nor do I know if that’s what Connor wants.
I’ve always been the one he used to get Liam to do what he wanted.
He dangled me like bait, taunting Liam until he did what Connor wanted.
I don’t even know if there is a place for me there. ”
“But if there is,” she presses.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, the cheap plastic worn smooth by a thousand other hands. “If there is,” I admit slowly, keeping my eyes on the gray stretch of road ahead, “then I take it. But not as the spare. Not as the fuck-up he keeps around to make Liam come to heel.”
Ciara turns in her seat, watching me with that intensity that usually makes me want to either confess my sins or drag her into the backseat. “As an equal?”
“As an O’Neill.”
She smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips that hits me harder than the whisky ever did. “I like the sound of that.”
“I thought you might.” I glance at her, feeling the weight of the last week settle into something manageable. “So it’s okay with you?”
“I never wanted to play house, Sean,” she says softly, squeezing my hand until her nails dig into my skin. “I wanted to build an empire, and I think we just laid the foundation.”
I chuckle, the sound rough but real. “God help Dublin.”
“God help anyone who gets in our way,” she corrects.