Chapter 1 #2
He’s tall, with thick arms that strain the sleeves of his black shirt and a chest broad enough to fill a doorframe.
His forearms are covered in ink—black wolves run along one, jaws open, eyes sharp.
The other has a string of Latin words carved between faded hash marks and a small, clean cross like a gravestone. It looks earned.
His shirt is tucked tight into tailored black trousers, and there’s a faint scar running from under his left ear to the collarbone that makes him look even harder up close.
No gold. No flash. Just a black watch and the kind of stillness that keeps a room in check.
But it’s his eyes that stop me cold—icy blue, focused, and completely unreadable, and when they fall on me, my breath slips before I catch it.
He doesn’t look away and drags that gaze like he’s deciding whether to burn me or bend me.
Heat floods through even as Niamh leans in. “You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“That’s Byrne.”
“I know that too.”
Cillian’s eyes sweep over me once more before he disappears behind the curtain leading up to the VIP lounge. His guards follow. The curtain falls closed.
My pulse finally eases, but the heat stays under my skin. I finish my drink in one swallow, and Niamh’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re in a mood,” she teases.
“I’m in several.”
“You want another?”
Before I can answer, I feel movement at my back. Two of my father’s men—Gavin and Rory—step out of the crowd like they’ve been waiting for the right timing.
Gavin doesn’t bother with greetings. “Your father wants you home.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s barely midnight.”
“He said not to argue.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m declining.”
Rory crosses his arms. “We’re not leaving without you.”
I lift my chin. “Then you’re staying. Order a drink. Relax. Enjoy the music.”
Gavin exhales. “Saoirse.”
“I’m not doing this with you tonight,” I say. “I’ll be at the house before dawn. That’s enough.”
Gavin reaches for my arm. I pull back even though a muscle in his jaw twitches. Rory pretends not to notice. He hates touching me for any reason. He says I spark trouble the way other people spark static. “I’m going home when I’m ready,” I say. “Not before. Not because Da snapped his fingers.”
Gavin lowers his voice. “Don’t test him tonight.”
“I’m testing myself.”
They exchange a look that translates to we’ll get blamed for this later, but they don’t drag me out. They’re not stupid. I’m my father’s heir, trained since I could walk, and I carry knives in places polite women aren’t supposed to know about. If they force me, I’ll make it embarrassing.
“Fine,” Gavin says. “Half an hour.”
“Two hours.”
“One.”
“Done,” I say, even though I have zero intention of complying.
Once they back off, I turn to Niamh. “I’m starving.”
She grins. “I thought you’d never say it.”
Riot Room serves food through a hatch near the back bar, the kind that keeps drunk crowds standing. We order chips, fried chicken, and soda bread. I carry the tray myself, ignoring the looks from men who can’t decide whether they want to flirt or avoid eye contact entirely.
I like that sort of attention. It reminds me I’m not a ghost in my father’s house.
We eat at a small high-top table. I tear into a chicken piece like I haven’t eaten in days. Grease clings to my fingers. I don’t care.
“I think you scared Gavin,” Niamh says.
“He deserves it.”
“You’re wound tight.”
“I’m being thrown into the docks on Monday with a forged name and a fake life. I’m allowed to be wound tight.”
Niamh drinks half her pint in one go. “That sounds insane. Wanna talk about it?”
I can’t, for privacy reasons, so I shake my head. “Nah, not really.”
Like my father’s men, my friends also know when not to push. “Whatever it is, you’ll pull it off.”
“I will. That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
I think about Cillian Byrne’s eyes locking with mine. “I’m afraid I’ll have too much fun.”
That makes the both of them giggle. Once we finish eating, Niamh goes to dance again. I stay at the table, wipe my hands, and pull out my phone. I open the encrypted folder my father’s men sent earlier. My new identity stares back.
RILEY QUINN
Age 29.
Degree in supply-chain management.
Work history in Rotterdam, Hamburg, and Antwerp.
Consultant for logistics modernization.
No criminal ties.
No family attachments.
No flags.
I scroll through the cover story again and again until it sits in my mind like something I’ve lived.
I study the forged references. I memorize the phrasing in the CV.
I practice Riley’s cadence quietly, matching the tone of a woman who works long hours in clean offices and pretends the world makes sense if it’s organized well enough.
But the anger in me is real. It doesn’t belong to Riley. It belongs to Saoirse. I don’t need my father to remind me why this mission matters. I don’t need guilt to push me. I have enough of my own.
Cillian Byrne has power because people trust him to run Dublin’s docks like a clean machine. They call him disciplined. I call him the man whose coldness killed my mother.
If I have to flirt, I will. If I have to fuck, I will. I’ll do everything it takes to rob him the way he robbed me of my childhood. I’m going to destroy the devil, even if that means dancing in his den.