21. Keira
KEIRA
I gesture toward the table.
We sit.
Rory doesn't bother with pleasantries.
"You know the seat the council offered you?"
I nod.
"It's a coffin with velvet trim."
Jack tosses a file onto the table, a thick one that lands with a thud and meaningful enough that my hands go cold before I even touch it.
"Go on," I say.
Niamh opens it for me.
Page after page of surveillance shots, most of them low-res and gray-toned.
Some recent, some weeks old.
All of me.
Walking through the church basement in Phibsborough.
Standing at the flower stall near the Rotunda.
Slipping through the back door of Aoife's home on a rain-soaked Tuesday, coat pulled tight, no tail I could detect.
"They've been watching you since the wedding," she says.
"The council didn't care at first. They thought it was all decorative. Political. But when Ruairí began asking questions about the Donnelly shell companies and product moving without your knowledge, when you started moving the message network again… "
"They got nervous," I finish.
"No," Niamh corrects.
"They got greedy."
She flips another page, and this one hits pretty damn close to home.
A printed scan of an appointment book.
Aoife's name.
A date.
My initials.
That they have known about my pregnancy is common truth by now, but to have every second of my life scrutinized like this makes a shiver run up my spine.
Jack nods at the pictures.
"They don't know how far along. But they know enough. The biggest issue is what comes would be Crowley and Donnelly blood. And that scares the shit out of them."
I lift my eyes.
"Why?"
"Because it would be legitimate," Niamh says.
"Because it's history and power in one. Because it is about more than just two children. It's a line, a future they can't control."
Rory leans forward.
"And because if you live long enough to bring those children into the world, it means you've won."
That quiet settles again.
The pre-verdict hush. I sit back, spine straight.
"So the seat they offered me?—"
"Was never meant to be sat in," Niamh says.
"It's a trap. They wanted to lull you into ceremony, show surface-level acceptance. And then isolate you. Smear your name. Use your silence as complicity when Moretti made his real move."
There it is.
The name.
"Moretti," I say.
Rory nods.
"Italian financier. Runs clean operations on the surface—shipping, port ownership, bonded storage. But beneath it, he's the new muscle. Word is that the O'Duinns are also answering to him."
"He wants the city?" I ask.
"He wants the bloodline erased," Jack answers.
"The city comes after. "
I rise from the table.
"So they watched me," I say.
"And watched Aoife. Planned a purge."
"They were going to wait," Niamh says, "let you stabilize the network again, take the bait seat, prove your usefulness, then kill you quietly. No spectacle. Just gone. You, Ruairí, and the babies."
I pace once, twice.
Then I stop.
"I want every single name that's signed off on this surveillance," I say.
Jack nods.
"We've started compiling. There's at least one insider on the council side. Likely Padraig O'Duinn."
"Of course it's Padraig," I murmur.
The man is a power-broker, and next-in-line for a seat on the Council of Seven.
No wonder they don't want to cross him.
Rory grimaces.
"The Council wanted the Donnelly and Crowley families united for one reason. To create a single, controllable axis of old blood and operational muscle. You were never meant to lead it. You were meant to seal it. That was the extent of your role."
I sit back.
"They thought a marriage would cool tensions.
Keep the ports open. Let product flow under a single set of ledgers.
Your name still holds weight in the north, Keira.
Crowley muscle runs south from Galway to Cork.
Together, on paper, you could re-stabilize a network that was slipping toward fracture after your father's death. "
"But not truly together," I say.
Rory nods once.
"The arrangement was meant to expire before it became real.
You would smooth over the funeral transition, carry out the wedding, provide a few staged photo ops at treaty tables, and then something quiet would remove you from the board.
A car crash. An overdose if they got lazy.
Ruairí would emerge as the bereaved but competent widower, and the Council would crown him as the unifying figure.
They thought they were buying a legend. One that didn't involve your actual survival. "
I feel Jack's eyes on me, but I do not look away from Rory.
"They did not expect you to question shipping manifests. They did not expect you to re-open the message network. They did not expect Ruairí to hold off on consolidating power until he could trace the quiet theft of Donnelly assets back to their source."
"And they definitely didn't expect a child, let alone two," Niamh says quietly.
Rory continues.
"They underestimated both of you. They assumed Ruairí would take the marriage as a convenience and you would take it as penance. They thought he would spend the nights in Wicklow and you would play the dutiful shadow. They did not factor in the possibility that the union might actually hold."
"Because if it does," I say, "we are not just a power couple. We are the new center of gravity."
"Exactly."
Rory lays a small slip of paper on the table.
It's nothing, a printout of a customs ledger, the ink still fresh.
He taps the line that matters.
"That," he says, "is what Padraig O'Duinn is using to re-route containers from Spain through bonded warehouses tied to Moretti's holding firm.
It has Donnelly signatures forged from two years ago.
The volume of arms moving through those lanes tripled in the last three months.
You're being framed for international trafficking.
Slowly. Carefully. So that when they come to burn it all down, they have a reason. "
"And with the pregnancy," I say, "they have a motive. "
Rory doesn't smile.
"They wanted a Donnelly-Crowley marriage because it gave them an illusion of peace while they pulled the real levers. Now it is an actual alliance. With a living heir. And that makes you dangerous."
"So Padraig is protecting the illusion," I say.
"He is the illusion," Rory answers.
"The man who pretends this is still an era of gentlemen's wars. Who believes the right suit and the right dinner guest will keep bloodlines in check. But his real loyalty is to Moretti, because Moretti is promising him Europe. A seat at the global table. And all Padraig has to do is deliver one body. Yours.”
"There's more," Rory adds.
"We pulled this from an intercepted message. Padraig's been talking to someone in Brussels. A banker. One of your old names. Liam…"
"My ex-fiancé," I say flatly.
Niamh's eyes widen slightly.
"He's tied to dormant Donnelly assets," I explain.
"Trusts. Bonds. Property. If they're using him, it means they're going for inheritance next."
"Exactly," Jack says.
"They want to erase not just your living claim, but your legal and financial ones too. No heir. No holdings. No presence."
I close the file.
My voice is calm.
"They won't succeed."
Niamh watches me for a beat longer than necessary.
"No," she says.
"But it means war."
After that, they take their leave and I get more work done.
I uncap a pen, pull a legal pad toward me, and start filing out what I know and what I need to know and what still hides in the silences between the council's offer and the Italians' threat.
At the top of the page I write ,
ENEMIES WITH NAMES.
Moretti – Italian, not the top of the chain, but close.
Sends a photo to provoke, not bluff.
Photographer unknown.
Possibly local.
Need to shake the source.
Knows about Aoife.
The children.
The bloodline.
Motive—cut off the Crowley/Donnelly claim before it takes root.
Possible allies inside Dublin—O'Duinn? Others in the council?
Liam Feeney—ex-fiancé, banker, Brussels.
Tied to legacy Donnelly assets—shell companies, gold, offshore routing licenses.
Why now?
Did Padraig reach out?
Or was he already involved?
Still a coward.
Still petty.
And still thinks money means loyalty.
Padraig O'Duinn – power-broker, old money, next in line for council seat.
Always wanted central authority without the dirty work.
Working with Moretti to eliminate legacy claimants.
Stands to gain full southern control if Donnelly line ends and Crowley assets are discredited.
Motive—consolidation under foreign-backed legitimacy.
Weakness—ego, tradition, assumes others still play by his rules.
I go to the cabinet next, where I keep the older Donnelly files including photocopies of property deeds, trust paperwork, and the last official records my father signed before he disappeared.
Most of it isn't useful anymore.
The city has changed too much.
The alliances have shifted, the names on the councils aren't the same, and the old deals have either expired or been rewritten.
But I'm not here to dwell on the past.
I'm trying to figure out why Moretti wants me dead.
Why he's watching my movements.
Why he's targeting my children.
I sort through everything related to shipping, finances, and overseas contacts.
If the Italians have been tracking me, they've likely been watching the family's ports, accounts, and travel records.
That's where I focus.
Then I see a name—Taviano Ricci.
It's written in the margin of a trade agreement from years ago—something that linked the ports of Bari in southern Italy to Cork.
I don't recognize the handwriting.
The note looks informal.
But the Ricci name is familiar, and not in a good way.
They've been tied to the Moretti family for over a decade, possibly longer.
This tells me something important—the Italians have had their eye on Donnelly operations long before I came back.
Possibly since before I left.
I flag the page.
I write Taviano's name at the top of a clean sheet.
Then I start building a list—names, locations, connections.
I pin them to the board on the far wall and draw lines between them showing how Moretti might be moving people and money through Dublin using older Donnelly routes.
Lines that explain why removing me and any child I might carry would benefit them.
This isn't random or personal.
It's business.
They think the bloodline is the last obstacle.
So they're trying to wipe it out before it grows.
My phone begins buzzing with a call from Ruairí.
I answer.
"Remember how you wondered how the kidnappers knew about my pregnancy? It turns out this is bigger than what we anticipated. Italian involvement bigger."
"I'm coming," comes the reply after a brief pause.
I nod and hang up.
At eight, the kitchen sends up food and it is the simple kind that I can eat without thinking—chicken broth, brown bread, jam.
I eat at the desk and keep writing.
At ten, Lena tells me the cars are set and the roof posts are up.
At eleven, the gate calls in.
The convoy is here.
Ruairí comes in wet from the rain.
He nods to Lena, then to me.
He smells like the road and cold air.
We go upstairs to the bedroom and shut the door.
He sets a thick folder on the desk.
"I got the file. Killian is tracing the network."
I flip it open and see the first page is a full report.
Photo surveillance of me at the clinic. A second angle, timestamped eight minutes later.
A third from across the street showing Aoife's building in full view.
The rest of the file outlines names we didn't expect—Irish names, not Italian—who are helping them track me.
One is from Louth.
One is a nephew of an old councilman.
One has a record that should have flagged a long time ago.
"Killian's working the devices," Ruairí explains.
"The burner that took the photo pinged in Blackrock, then Ringsend, then near the port. He's mapping it now. Same with the financial side. He has banking access in Luxembourg and is pulling everything linked to the Brussels shell."
"And the name Ricci?" I ask.
"He's a handler," Ruairí confirms.
"He moves cargo through Sandymount and uses auction sales to cover the trail. Killian flagged six false bills of lading from the last shipment. All tied to Ricci's account in Bari. "
I close the file and stand.
"They're not just pushing drugs. They're pushing blood. Ours."
"Yes."
He takes a deep breath and touches my cheek.
"Let's discuss what to do in the morning. For now, I'll take the room across the hall."
I let him get three steps.
Then I rise, walk to him, and catch his wrist.
"Don't."
His breath is quiet, but I feel it hitch beneath my palm.
"Keira," he says, my name already frayed in his mouth.
"I don't want quiet tonight," I tell him.
"And I don't want space."
His hand comes to my hip.
"You're sure?"
"Yes," I whisper, already slipping fingers beneath his shirt, feeling the ridges of old wounds, the warmth of a man who's fought too long and never once asked to be touched without terms.
The kiss is slow, not gentle.
It's everything that's been simmering for months—words we didn't say, pain we didn't name, the terrible understanding that we've been made from violence but want to live like something more.
I taste rain and tension, taste the steel edge of restraint as he kisses me back harder.
His mouth drags down my throat and I arch against him, not shy, not sweet, just need in a woman's shape.
When his hands lift me to the table, nothing clatters.
His voice is thick at my ear, low and rough and gone with wanting.
"You want me here, Keira?"
I pull his belt open with both hands.
"I want you home. "
He groans as I wrap my legs around him, pulling him flush, grinding slow and high until we both hiss into the heat between us.
"Say it again," he growls.
"You," I pant, eyes fluttering.
"I want you. "