The Devil’s Pawn (Empire of Sin #2)

Chapter 1

SAOIRSE

Ireland’s criminal world was built long before I was born, and my father made sure I understood every part of it before I learned how to tie my shoes.

The O’Callaghan mansion sits on the Wicklow ridge, far enough from Dublin to avoid attention, close enough to control everything that matters. My father’s never relied on luck. He prefers structure, loyalty, and the simple truth that power stays with the men able to defend it at all hours.

This afternoon, I walk into his study as instructed, without knocking or waiting. He’s trained me to understand that hesitation is a form of weakness.

My father stands beside the wide table he uses instead of a desk.

He’s never liked barriers between himself and anyone he speaks to.

The table is littered with documents, maps, photos of dockworkers, customs agents, warehouses in Ringsend, East Wall, and North Lotts.

The docks are as political as Leinster House and twice as corrupt.

“Close the door,” he says.

I do. He doesn’t look at me until I’ve locked it.

“You know the state of Dublin,” he says. “You know the balance we’ve kept for decades.”

I nod. That balance has always been clear.

The O’Callaghan network controls the south access routes, the courts of the old IRA sympathizers, and the contractors who handle private security.

The Byrne Syndicate controls the docks, the import channels, the port unions, and the men who move cargo without asking questions.

Police interference is selective. Politicians make speeches about crime, then attend fundraisers hosted by our allies.

My father lifts a file from the table. “That balance is breaking.”

He opens the file, revealing recent port logs and customs reports. Several entries are marked in red. False declarations. Underestimated weights. Repeated signatures belonging to men known for taking bribes that never reach us.

“The Byrnes have doubled their shipments in the last six months,” he says. “New routes, suppliers, and alliances. They’re cutting into Western Europe without involving us.”

“That’s bold,” I say, lifting a brow in surprise.

“It’s calculated.” His tone sharpens. “Cillian Byrne isn’t a street thug. He forces out the old union loyalists, cuts off the heroin suppliers, and restructures the entire dock network. Money runs through export accounts that look legitimate.

“Product moves through controlled pharmaceutical channels with higher profit and lower risk. He’s positioning himself above the criminal world and outside the reach of normal business oversight.”

I stay silent. My father doesn’t need agreement. He needs action.

“Are you ready?” he adds.

My throat tightens. This is my chance to prove I am the heir of this family and no lesser than a man. “Yes, Father,” I say.

“Good.” He opens another folder. This one holds a forged résumé, corporate records, certification documents, and a clean identity card. “This is your entry point.”

I study the paperwork. The name reads Riley Quinn, age twenty-nine. Logistics analyst with experience in international supply chains. Fluent in customs regulations, port efficiencies, and cross-border freight.

“You’ll be hired at Byrne Imports,” he says. “He’s looking to expand his back-end operations. His old guard can’t keep up. He’s been interviewing outside talent for months.”

“So I’m the solution he thinks he needs,” I say.

“You’ll make sure he believes that.”

My father taps the stack of documents.

“You’ll track shipments from Colombia, Spain, and the Balkans, identify which containers carry real value, and map his distribution network. A system will be in place so you can report back to me.”

It’s exciting work, I’d admit that. I’d been itching to get busy and do something meaningful, but even then, I’m not unaware of the risks. “And if he notices me watching?”

“He’s too arrogant.” My father’s eyes harden. “He doesn’t know you. And I hope I’ve trained you well.” His eyes move over my body. I’d be disgusted, but I know he’s assessing value here. My beauty is my weapon, one that he intends me to fully use.

“The old families are watching,” he says. “If the Byrnes keep growing, they’ll start dictating prices, routes, and alliances. They’ll claim authority they don’t deserve. Dublin can’t afford that shift. Neither can we.”

He speaks as the head of the O’Callaghan Outfit, one of Ireland’s oldest criminal families.

My great-grandfather handled weapons shipments during the Troubles.

My grandfather took control of the security contractors who protected union leaders.

My father expanded everything into a structured organization that managed protection, political leverage, and the southern distribution corridors.

We operate through construction firms, security agencies, and transport companies that answer only to us.

Every ally pays for stability. Every rival respects our reach.

The Byrne Syndicate, on the other hand, grew from dockside workers who smuggled whatever moved through the ports.

They built power through the unions and port foremen.

They controlled cranes, shipping schedules, and off-the-record docks long before anyone else understood the value.

When the old leader died, his son tried to keep it together, but the true shift happened five years ago when Cillian Byrne took over.

Cillian lost his fiancée in a car bombing that targeted him.

The blast killed her instantly. He survived.

Since then, he’s been colder, angrier, and more selective about who stands near him.

His grief turned into discipline, and discipline turned into growth.

He cut out heroin suppliers. He pushed into high-value pharmaceuticals.

He doubled his revenue through efficient transport agreements.

The docks answer to him now, and that scares every established family in Dublin.

“Ireland’s criminal landscape isn’t simple,” my father continues.

“Old IRA money still moves quietly through shell companies. Foreign suppliers compete for access. British intelligence meddles when it suits them. The Gardaí crack down when the papers demand it, then ease off when politicians make calls.”

He’s survived three decades of this because he understands one rule. A threat ignored becomes a takeover.

“What’s the timeline?” I ask.

“Immediate. You start Monday. Byrne’s HR director will call you within the hour. You’ll accept. You’ll appear eager. You’ll present yourself as someone who wants a clean corporate future.”

“And once I’m inside?”

“You’ll get close to Cillian Byrne. He trusts no one, but he respects competence. He values precision. You’ll give him both.”

I wait. I know there’s more. My father doesn’t bring me into a room alone unless the task has weight.

He steps closer.

“You won’t fail this,” he says.

“I won’t.”

His voice drops. “You remember what his family did to your mother.”

My stomach pulls tight, the way it always does when he brings her up. I was thirteen when the overdose happened, when I stood beside a closed casket and my father put a hand on my shoulder and said, “That’s what the Byrnes leave behind. That’s what they took from us.”

He never lets the story fade. He repeats it whenever he wants to remind me that pain has a source and duty has a direction. “They killed her. And they walked away without consequence,” he says.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“You shouldn’t.” His voice stays even. “You were old enough to understand loss. You’re old enough now to answer it.”

In this family, grief doesn’t weaken you. It shapes you into a weapon. “I know what I owe,” I say.

My father steps closer. He doesn’t touch me.

Contact is something he reserves for moments he wants to brand into memory, and this isn’t one of them.

“The Byrnes want to expand,” he says. “They’re pushing into Europe and aligning with Spanish suppliers.

In all likelihood, they plan to cut us out of routes we’ve controlled since before you were born. ”

I nod. “You’ll stop that,” he finishes. “From the inside.”

He turns away, conversation over. I stand there a moment longer, waiting to see if he’ll add anything, but he reaches for his whiskey, which means I’m dismissed.

I walk out of the study and close the door behind me.

Duty waits for me on Monday. A new name, history, and mission.

My last weekend as Saoirse O’Callaghan has just begun.

The O’Callaghan family has its own way of blowing off steam. Alcohol. Crowded rooms. Loud music. Fast nights that push the next day far away. We aren’t the kind of family that hides indoors. We own pubs, nightclubs, private lounges, and half the security teams that guard them.

So when Aoife texts, We’re going out tonight a few minutes later, it isn’t optional.

I get ready and meet Aoife and Niamh outside Riot Room, a warehouse club in the Liberties known for strong drinks, loud sets, and a back corridor where deals happen under the cameras no one admits exist. It isn’t officially ours, but the owners owe my father enough favors to keep us safe.

“You look like you’re about to be drafted into the army,” Aoife says as we walk in.

“That’s not far from the truth.”

“Your da again?”

“Yup.”

We order drinks. Aoife starts dancing with some guy in a leather jacket. Niamh drags me onto the floor even though she knows I don’t relax easily. But tonight I try. This is my last night before stepping into someone else’s life.

I move. I let the alcohol loosen the edges. I let the beat drown out my father’s voice.

Then people move aside just enough to create a narrow path toward the private lounge above the floor. Security steps through first. Two men, both sharp, both alert, both trained well enough to scan a room in seconds.

Behind them comes a group I recognize from photos, and at the center is Cillian Byrne. I’ve seen pictures. I’ve heard stories. None of it prepares me.