23. Keira #2
"Vietnam," I say instead.
"We could get a dog. Raise two small, willful kids."
He laughs, full and sharp.
"This life would follow us wherever we go."
"True enough."
He goes still, then says, "It's not too late, you know. We could burn the plan, walk out the front door, and let the city eat itself."
"And Fiachra?"
"Fiachra would be bored inside of a week. He'd start a fight club in the first pub he found."
"Would you miss him?"
He's quiet for so long, I almost regret the question.
But when he answers, his voice is soft, the accent raw at the edges.
"He's my brother."
We lie in silence, listening to the house breathe.
Somewhere, a radiator ticks. In the street, a car alarm yelps and dies.
He strokes my hip, slow and lazy, as if he's mapping a border he knows he'll have to defend tomorrow.
I say, "Why did you never tell me about the roof?"
He's half-asleep, but he answers anyway.
"Didn't want you to think I was weak."
"I already know you're weak. Your eyes shine every time the news shows a puppy in distress."
He groans.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. "
He pulls me tighter, mouth against the hollow of my throat.
"You want the truth? All my life, I've been waiting for someone to stop me. Father never did. Fiachra never did. Even the nuns just let me be wild." He laughs bitterly. "Maybe that's why I love you. You scare the shit out of me."
I close my eyes and let the admission settle.
It's the closest he's come to saying it, the only way he can—by making it sound like a threat.
The world outside is already changing, the black turning blue at the edges, the air in the room cold enough that I have to burrow under his arm.
I think about the plan, the way we'll rip each other to shreds in front of an audience, the fact that tomorrow, I'll have to look at him like he's nothing.
"Promise me something," I say.
He grunts.
"If this goes sideways—if I get taken, or the Italians try something before the play is done—promise me you won't do anything stupid."
He kisses my neck, slow, like he's marking territory.
"I can't promise that."
"Try anyway."
He breathes deeply, and the silence is an answer.
I count the seconds until dawn.
I memorize the shape of his hands, the way they fit around my ribs, the way he holds me like I'm something precious and fragile.
I let myself want it, just for tonight.
The alarm goes at six, an ancient rattle that shakes the glass on the nightstand.
He kills it with a palm, then rolls over and pulls me with him, sheets tangled, skin raw from friction.
For a minute, we lie like that, neither willing to move .
There's a wordless agreement—when we stand up, we're at war again.
I say, "One last time?"
He grins.
"Bossy."
"You like it."
He flips me onto my back, his weight pinning me to the mattress.
He kisses me, hard, and I taste the night on his tongue, the salt of sweat and something sweeter, like hope.
After, I shower first, scalding hot, then wrap myself in a towel and watch him dress.
He buttons his shirt with military precision, hiding the scars, the stories.
By the time I'm dressed, he's already in the hall, boots on, face in his hands. I pause, watch him from the doorway.
His shoulders are wide, the line of his back a question mark.
I want to tell him I'm scared, but I can't.
Instead, I say, "You ready?"
He looks up, eyes cold again, the soldier back in place.
"Always."
He kisses me swiftly and leaves the bedroom.
This is part of the performance.
I will meet him at the breakfast table so that those serving there believe we did not spend the night together.
After he leaves, I take a long look at the mirror.
I never understood the old stories about mothers who could lift cars off babies or sprint through fire, not until I caught myself locking every window in the house and mapping out every escape route twice before I'd let myself sleep.
The instinct is not tenderness.
It's calculation.
I am a calculator.
The city is my equation.
The answer is never clean, but it's always true.
When I look in the mirror, I see the line of my jaw, sharp as my mother's used to be, and the hair she left me, a color that can't decide between copper and blood.
The bump is there now, rounding out my stomach, obvious even when I try to hide it under wool and attitude.
In another world, I'd be glowing.
Here, I am radioactive.
Everyone who comes near is either drawn or repelled.
My hands shake sometimes, but I can forgive them.
They have earned the right.
I run a brush through my hair, slow, counting the strokes like it's a magic trick that will keep the world away for another day.
I think of my mother, her hands rough, always pinning back my hair before a meeting, a job, a funeral.
She used to say, "Presentation is half the battle."
The other half is never letting them see you bleed.
I consider lipstick but decide against it.
There's no point pretending I'm still the girl who could walk into a room and leave with every eye.
Now, I walk into rooms and people look for the nearest exit.
There's a power in that.
I leave the room and head toward the hall.
Down the corridor, the sound of a kettle boiling.
The guards are already posted at the doors, the loyal ones and the ones too scared to ask questions.
I pass through the hall of mirrors—my father's idea, floor to ceiling glass on either side, so you never forget that you're always being watched.
The kitchen is empty except for Lena, who is already two coffees deep and vibrating with secondhand nerves.
She slides me a cup, the handle turned toward me like a peace offering.
"You sleep?" she asks.
"No."
"Good. It's better if you don't."
She's right.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the city in flames or the babies in a hospital, alone and wailing.
I see the pipeline running red, the names on the ledger bleeding off the page .
"I heard from Niamh," Lena says, voice lowered to a hush.
"The O'Duinns are planning a show tonight. Someone's bringing fireworks to the docklands."
"Let them," I say, sipping the coffee.
"No one will be looking at the docks after this morning."
She nods, but her eyes linger on my stomach.
"You sure you can do this?"
"I have to."
I leave her in the kitchen and walk through the old rooms, touching the backs of chairs, the frames of doors, the places where the wallpaper peels in corners.
I remember the nights when I was small, curled up on the rug in the den, listening to the adults argue about shipments and enemies and the latest idiot to cross the line.
I used to think they were giants, unkillable.
Now, most of them are dead, and the rest are hoping I'll forget what they owe.
The new guards avoid my gaze.
They pretend to check their radios, to fidget with the fit of their jackets.
Some of them are good.
Some of them will have to go.
I stop at the window overlooking the garden.
The grass is brown, half-melted in the frost.
The crows are already at work, fighting over the scraps of bread left on the stones.
I watch them for a minute, the way they scream and claw, the way the winner always looks around as if expecting a bigger threat.
That's what I want to give my children—the knowledge that there is always a bigger threat, and that the only thing you can do is be meaner, smarter, or at the very least, harder to kill.
I trace a circle on the glass, then press my palm flat to it.
The city is out there, waiting for me to make the first move.
I have to make it the right one.
As I make for the breakfast hall, I pause at the base of the stairs, one hand on the banister.
My stomach is tight.
I think of all the mothers before me, all the girls who never got this far.
I think of my mother, her face set like stone, and the day she told me that to rule a city, you have to be willing to lose everything.
I am willing, but not because I want to rule this city.
This will be what I leave behind for my children.
The breakfast hall is not the grand ballroom of my childhood, but it wants to be.
My father built it on the bones of an old library, stripped out the bookshelves, replaced them with long tables stained the color of new blood.
The walls are lined with hunting prints, stags and hounds, each one hung at the precise height to make guests feel small.
The floor is black and white tile, not marble but close enough, and in the far corner, someone has set up a coffee urn so large, it could heat a public bath.
Ruairí stands in the entry, face set to neutral, eyes flicking over the assembled staff.
Lena is at the far end, arms crossed and mouth set in a straight line.
The guards are here, too, all wearing the same uniform of cheap suit and latent suspicion.
Niamh has a seat at the table, already working her way through a pastry, eyes bright with the promise of a good show.
I step in, back straight, hands empty.
There's a hush as I walk to the table.
Every face is a mask, but I can read the hunger in the room—they want a performance, and I am about to give them one.
Ruairí follows, silent, taking the chair opposite me.
For a second, I let myself remember the last two hours, the safety of his arms, the confession of weakness.
Then I erase it.
There's no room for sentiment now.
I pour myself coffee.
The cup rattles, just enough to be noticed .
Lena clears her throat.
"The shipments from the North are delayed," she says.
"Customs is running a sweep on the M1."
"Tell them to bribe better," I say, "or find a new route."
Ruairí grunts, not looking up.
"Maybe if the Donnelly side had any discipline, we wouldn't have this problem."
The words are a shot across the bow.
I take it in stride.
"If the Crowleys could manage a single operation without pissing off the police, we wouldn't have to bribe anyone."
A few of the staff glance at each other.
I see the tension building, a slow surge, like the tide coming in under a full moon.
I lean back in my chair, cross my arms.
"You want to say something, say it."
Ruairí looks up, and the mask is perfect.
Cold, empty, not a flicker of warmth.
"You're bleeding this operation dry," he says.
"Spending on parties and fucking protection, like you're the princess of Cabra. The Italians are laughing at us."
I let the words hang.
"Better than rolling over and letting them fuck us," I say.
He slams his fist on the table.
The coffee jumps, spills in a black arc across the tiles.
Niamh smiles but covers it with her hand.
"Maybe that's what you want," he says.
"To burn it all down like your father did."
I see Lena tense, see her fingers twitch toward her phone.
She's waiting for the signal, ready to jump in if it goes too far.
I push my chair back.
"You don't get to talk about my father."
He stands.
"Someone has to. You're about to ruin everything he built. "
There's a moment, a single heartbeat, where I want to drop the act.
To tell them all it's a game, a show for the enemies outside the window.
But I see the way the guards watch me, the way Lena's face has gone white, the way Niamh has set her pastry down to savor the moment.
I raise my voice.
"If you don't like it, you can leave."
He stares at me, jaw working.
"Maybe I will."
I shrug.
"You never could stick around when things got hard."
He laughs, ugly.
"Fuck you."
I smile, showing teeth.
"Not anymore."
He grabs his coat, turns to the room.
"Anyone who wants to work for a madwoman, stay. The rest of you, call me in Wicklow. I'll be setting up a real crew."
He stalks out, boots echoing on the tile.
The doors swing shut behind him, rattling the glass in their frames.
For a long minute, no one moves.
The only sound is the drip of coffee off the edge of the table.
Lena is first to speak.
"Should I…?"
"No," I say.
"Let him go."
Niamh raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.
Mentally, all three of us are aware of the eyes on the room, cataloguing the seriousness of the moment.
The second we leave, word will spread.
I look at the staff, at the guards, at the faces waiting for me to crack.
"Meeting's over. Anyone late for shift will be replaced. Lena, get the next shipment ready. Niamh, eyes on the Italians. The rest of you, out."
They scatter, a controlled stampede.
Lena hesitates, then follows.
Niamh lingers, picking at the flakes of her pastry.
She says, "You think they bought it?"
I nod.
"They bought it. "
She stands, stretches, and leans in close, voice low.
"He'll be in the city tonight."
"I know."
She grins, eyes bright.
"You're good at this."
I smile back, but it's all bone.
"So are you. That's why you're still here."
She leaves, the room empty except for me and the slow spreading stain of coffee on the tile.
I sit, hands folded and wait for the adrenaline to fade.
My chest aches, a phantom pain where my heart used to be.
The plan is working.
The war is working.
I am still standing.
I stare at the doors, at the place where Ruairí vanished.
We both know he's not actually returning to Wicklow.
He'll be at the old headquarters in the city waiting for the enemy to make its next move.