3. Maeve
Maeve
The safe house sits beyond a narrow road in Westchester, hidden behind winter-stripped trees and the kind of silence that makes every approaching engine sound guilty.
Declan’s convoy turns off the main road twenty minutes before we reach it, then changes formation twice as though we are transporting a head of state rather than one furious mother and an Irish king discovering parenthood six years late.
I give Ronan the coordinates only after Declan leaves two of his men at the Queens apartment and replaces every driver who knew where we were going.
He does not argue when I insist the final location remain restricted to the six people inside the convoy, which either means he respects the risk or has finally realised threats will not make me cooperative.
The distinction matters more than I want it to.
I sit beside him in the rear of the armoured car with my handbag on my lap and Cillian’s photographs safely returned to my possession.
Declan has not asked to see them again, but he watches the bag as if he could strip away the leather by staring.
I keep expecting him to demand answers, issue commands, or accuse me of stealing his son.
Instead, he sits unnaturally still, the silence around him pulled tight enough to cut.
“You have been glaring at my handbag for forty minutes,” I say, because silence has never improved Declan’s temperament. “If you intend to interrogate it, I should warn you that it knows its rights.”
“I am considering how many photographs you have hidden inside it.” Declan keeps his eyes on the road ahead, but his voice has changed since the call with Adrianos. “You showed me six years in less than six minutes and expected me to consider that sufficient.”
“You are fortunate I showed you any.” I adjust the bag on my knees before he mistakes interest for permission. “Most absent fathers begin with supervised visits and disappointing birthday cards.”
“I was not absent.” His gaze comes to me at last, cold enough to make the distinction a verdict. “I was kept ignorant.”
“You threatened to kill his mother.” I hold his stare and refuse to soften the truth for his comfort. “That tends to complicate birth announcements.”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away before anger can choose the wrong target.
The road narrows as we climb, bare branches reaching above us like fingers closing over the sky.
I have travelled this route only once, after Niamh called from Boston to confirm they had crossed the border safely.
Thomas arranged the house through an old Gallagher contact who owed my father money and apparently considered seven years sufficient interest. I checked the ownership trail myself, then checked the man, his wife, his children, and the small construction company he uses to disguise property purchases.
Paranoia is simply preparation with an unpleasant reputation.
Still, Declan’s men identified two vehicles following Niamh, and one vanished before they could trace it.
The thought has been scraping through me since the airport.
Whoever prepared Cillian’s execution order may already know this location, and bringing Declan could either save my son or deliver the weapon intended to kill him.
Declan studies me from the corner of his eye. “You are calculating whether I am the greater risk.”
“I completed that calculation seven years ago.” I glance toward him and allow a thin smile. “The result was not flattering.”
“Recalculate.” He leans back, one hand resting near the weapon beneath his coat. “The variables have changed.”
“One has.” I look through the windscreen as the first escort vehicle slows ahead of us. “You know he exists.”
The convoy stops half a mile from the safe house.
Ronan exits first and speaks through his earpiece while two men disappear into the trees to sweep the perimeter.
Declan orders me to remain inside, which I ignore before the final word leaves his mouth.
Cold air cuts through my coat as I step onto the road.
He follows and catches my arm, but his grip loosens when I turn on him.
Neither of us mentions the way his fingers remain against my sleeve for one second longer than necessary.
Ronan reports no visible movement beyond the house, no unfamiliar vehicles, and no signal activity within the immediate radius.
The information should reassure me. Instead, the stillness ahead feels staged, as though the woods are holding their breath.
“I am going in first,” Declan says. His attention moves from the house to the tree line, assessing angles I cannot see. “You stay behind Ronan until I clear the rooms.”
“My son is inside.” I pull my arm free and start walking. “You can either accompany me or enjoy explaining to your men how I outran you in heeled boots.”
“You will stay where I put you.” Declan catches up without appearing to hurry and places himself between me and the house. “I have just learned I possess a son. I would prefer his mother not be shot before introducing us.”
“You remain astonishingly skilled at turning concern into an insult.” I keep pace beside him rather than accepting the position behind his shoulder. “It must require practice.”
The safe house appears through the trees, a two-storey stone cottage with dark shutters and smoke rising from the chimney.
Niamh insisted on lighting the fire because she believes central heating is evidence that civilisation surrendered too early.
No movement shows behind the windows. The porch light remains off, although I told her to leave it burning until I arrived.
I touch the phone in my pocket, resisting the urge to call because a ringing device could reveal where they are hiding inside.
Declan signals, and his men spread around the property with their weapons drawn.
Ronan approaches the front door, checks the frame, and finds no sign of forced entry.
My pulse remains too fast. Niamh would have noticed six armed men walking through the woods unless she is asleep, unconscious, or deliberately remaining hidden.
“The curtain moved upstairs,” I whisper. I point toward the window on the left, where a narrow gap appears between the fabric and the frame. “That is Cillian’s room.”
Declan’s gaze locks onto the window. Something fierce and naked moves through his face before control covers it again. “Ronan, rear entrance. Two men with him.” He draws his weapon and steps onto the porch. “Maeve, stay behind me.”
I obey this time because fear has stripped the argument from me.
Declan tests the handle, finds the door unlocked, and pushes it inward without allowing his body to cross the opening.
The entrance hall is dim, warmed by firelight from the sitting room.
A suitcase lies open beside the stairs, Cillian’s blue jumper hanging over one edge.
Nothing appears broken, but a mug has shattered across the floor near the kitchen.
Declan enters low and silent, scanning every doorway while I follow close enough to see the muscles shift beneath his coat.
His men move behind us, their boots careful against the old wooden boards.
The house smells of peat smoke, tea, and the apple shampoo Cillian insists does not make him smell like a baby.
That familiar scent nearly breaks the composure I have carried across an ocean.
“Niamh?” I keep my voice low, unwilling to shout until we know what waits beyond the sitting-room door. “It is Maeve. I brought company, unfortunately.”
The fireplace poker appears first. It swings out from behind the doorway at precisely the height required to ruin Declan’s afternoon, and he catches it one-handed before it connects with his knee.
Cillian comes with it, both hands wrapped around the iron handle, his narrow shoulders driving forward with every bit of strength he owns.
Declan could take the weapon from him without effort.
Instead, he freezes. My son stands between him and Niamh, wearing green pyjama bottoms, one sock, and an expression of furious concentration.
His red hair sticks up at the crown, and a smear of chocolate marks one cheek.
Behind him, Niamh holds a kitchen knife with the blade pointed directly at Ronan.
The entire Irish Syndicate has been halted by a six-year-old with a fireplace poker and a sixty-two-year-old widow wearing slippers shaped like sheep.
“Take another step and I will remove something you are emotionally attached to.” Niamh keeps the knife steady and examines Ronan as though deciding which part deserves her attention. “Judging by the suit, that may only be his wallet.”
Ronan lowers his weapon by several inches. His face remains professionally blank, but one corner of his mouth threatens mutiny. “Mrs Gallagher, I presume. I have been threatened more politely, but rarely by anyone wearing livestock.”
Cillian tightens his grip on the poker. “Leave her alone.” His voice is small but steady, and he shifts farther in front of Niamh. “I know where to hit because Aunt Niamh showed me.”