Chapter 10
SAOIRSE
Iclose his door behind me and walk down the corridor without looking back, my legs steady even though my body still sings from him.
The house is quiet at this hour, the guards stationed where they always are, the lights low and warm against the dark wood.
I keep my expression neutral until I reach my room, then I slip inside and lock the door with a soft click.
I cross the room calmly, slip off my shoes, and walk straight to the tall bookshelf against the far wall.
It looks ordinary. Paperbacks. A few hardcovers. Some files I actually use. But three shelves up, tucked behind a thick history volume no one here would bother pulling, there’s a narrow gap carved into the wood paneling. I slide the book out carefully.
The vibration drones faintly from behind it. I reach into the hollow space and retrieve the phone, small and black and completely separate from the life I just walked back from.
It doesn’t stop vibrating, and the screen lights my face in the dim. Six missed calls. Three messages.
Call me.
Now.
Answer your phone.
I exhale slowly and press call before I can think too hard about what that tone does to me.
He answers on the first ring.
“Where have you been?” Father’s voice is calm, which is worse than anger.
“Busy,” I say, setting the phone on speaker and pulling my hair back into a loose tie. My reflection in the mirror looks flushed and satisfied, and I hate that I don’t look ashamed.
“Busy doing what?” he asks.
“Working.”
There’s a pause, then a faint sound in the background like he’s pacing across marble. I sit on the edge of the bed and cross one leg over the other.
“You don’t ignore me,” he says quietly.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“You were in his bed.”
It’s not a question.
I lean back on my hands and stare at the ceiling. “Yes.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Good,” he says.
The word lands strangely in my chest.
“I have lunch with his family tomorrow,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Silence on the other end. Then I hear him laugh, low and satisfied.
“His family,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“And he invited you?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t speak for several seconds, and I picture him standing in his office, looking out over the Wicklow grounds like he always does when he thinks he’s winning.
“Well done, Saoirse.”
The praise is simple. Direct. Rare.
I sit up straighter without meaning to. “He trusts you,” he continues. “That’s what this was meant to build.”
“What this was meant to build,” I echo, my fingers tightening around the phone before I catch myself and loosen them.
“The Vigo disruption,” he says. “The noise around his lanes. The clerk.”
I freeze.
“You,” I say carefully.
“Yes.”
I stand and start pacing now, my bare feet silent against the rug.
“You were behind it,” I say.
“Of course,” he replies. “We needed a problem he could solve with your help. Something contained. Something that would make you valuable.”
“You put synthetic opioids through cloned containers,” I say, keeping my voice level.
He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Small runs. Controlled. It was never about volume. It was about optics.”
I stop in front of the mirror again. “You risked his operation,” I say.
“I nudged it,” he corrects. “And you corrected it. That’s the point.”
My reflection looks like someone I don’t fully recognize. “You’re telling me the clerk was part of this?”
“He was incentivized,” Patrick answers. “Just enough to panic at the right moment. Just enough to talk when cornered.”
“And the Madrid consultancy?” I press.
“A shell,” he says. “One of ours, then sold to intermediaries so it doesn’t trace back.”
I drag a hand down my face. “You manipulated his inspection lanes,” I say.
“I created a flaw,” he replies quietly. “You spotted it. You fixed it. Now he sees you as indispensable.”
The word hangs there. “He invited me to his mother’s house,” I say, my voice lower now.
“Then you’re doing everything right, and we’re on track to finish this operation in time.”
That makes my stomach twist, and I force myself to breathe evenly. It’s odd how he speaks of Cillian like he isn’t a human being, but a mere stone to be removed from his path.
If Cillian falls, the docks shift overnight.
The export lanes realign. The suppliers who hover in neutral ground scramble for new protection.
My father absorbs the uncertainty like he always does, offering stability where he first created chaos.
Byrne Imports collapses or fractures, and the men who depended on Cillian’s structure look for the next man who can promise them order. That man would be Patrick O’Callaghan.
He gains territory without firing a public shot.
He gains influence in Madrid and Vigo through the gaps left behind.
He gains leverage over politicians who prefer one predictable kingpin to a turf war.
And he gains something quieter, something he values more than territory.
Proof that his daughter can dismantle a rival from the inside.
That was always the assignment. Earn trust. Learn habits.
Identify weaknesses. Make the final blow clean.
I understood it as a way of life. I even believed in it.
Cillian was a rival. A threat. A name attached to a tragedy that shaped my childhood.
Removing him wasn’t personal. It was structural.
That’s how I framed it when I agreed. That’s how I kept my hands steady when I first walked into his office.
He was a target, not a man. A position, not a person.
“He’s getting serious about me.” Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the mere memory of his mouth on mine, how he took me apart under him, and how much I want him to do it again.
“Men like him don’t invite lightly,” Father replies. “You’ve moved past the bed and into his blood.”
I close my eyes for a second. I’ve been around men like Cillian before, and I’ve seen charm used as leverage and discipline used as theater.
I’ve watched men with power build empires out of fear and call it respect.
This should feel the same kind of transactional.
Yet it doesn’t. He doesn’t talk about dominance as destiny.
He talks about keeping lanes clean and people paid.
He doesn’t posture at the table. He listens and then decides.
He doesn’t touch me like he’s proving something to himself. He touches me like he’s choosing.
I’ve trained myself not to care about tone or nuance.
Men are men. Power is power. But when my father speaks of him as an obstacle, I hear the absence of everything I’ve actually seen.
I hear a plan that erases the dockworker’s son who still drives himself to his mother’s house on Sundays.
I hear a strategy that ignores the man who invited me into a space without guards and without negotiation.
And I ask myself why that unsettles me. It isn’t attraction. I’ve desired men before. It isn’t novelty. I’ve navigated complex operations before. It’s the possibility that this isn’t just a removal of a rival but the removal of something that, for the first time in years, feels… uncalculated.
I was meant to dismantle him. I agreed to it. I prepared for it. But now, when I imagine the city without him in it, I don’t see a cleaner map. I see a fracture line, and I don’t know which side of it I’d be standing on.
“That was the goal,” father adds.
“And what happens when this isn’t clean anymore?” I ask. “When he finds out?”
“He won’t,” Patrick says. “Not until it’s too late for him to matter.”
I sit back down slowly.
“He likes me,” I whisper, knowing I’m risking sounding weak.
“He likes what you give him,” Father corrects, his tone taking a sharper edge. “And you gave him exactly what he needed. Saoirse, I will not have you lose sight of the goal when you’re so close.”
“I’m not losing sight of anything,” I counter. “I just want to be careful. He watches everything.”
“Then give him something worth watching,” Patrick replies. “Stay sharp. Stay useful. Get me access to the family.”
I look at my reflection again.
“Why tell me now?” I ask quietly.
“Tell you what?”
“That you were behind Vigo.”
Another pause. “Because you earned it,” he says. “You handled it without falling apart. You didn’t hesitate when the pieces moved. That’s my daughter. You keep doing what you’re doing now, and this family will be whole again.”
I press my lips together and stare at the wall across from me.
“You’ll go to lunch,” he continues. “You’ll observe the mother. The sister. The uncle. You’ll note their routines. Then we move to phase two.”
“What’s phase two?” I ask.
“That depends on how well you keep performing.”
I nod once, even though he can’t see me.
“I won’t disappoint you,” I say automatically.
“I know you won’t.”
The call ends.
I stand there for a long moment, phone still in my hand, the room silent again.
He’s proud of me.
I hate that it feels like something I’ve been waiting for, and I hate even more that part of me still wants to earn it.
After he ends the call, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling long after the call ends, the room dark and quiet except for the faint droning of the heating system.
My body is tired, but my mind won’t shut off.
Cillian’s voice overlaps with my father’s in my head, praise from one, possession from the other, and I shift onto my side and close my eyes.
It doesn’t help.
Every time I drift, I see Cillian’s face when he said I was coming to lunch. I roll onto my back and press my palm over my stomach, then lower, my breath catching when I remember his hands on me earlier. The way he studies before he touches. The way he waits to see what I’ll do.
I slide my hand between my thighs slowly, not rushing, letting the memory do the work.
His mouth at my ear. His hand at my hip.
The weight of him when he decides he’s done holding back.
I move against my own fingers and bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep quiet, my other hand fisting the sheet.
It’s not just the heat I remember.
It’s the way he looked at me after. Curious. Guarded. Choosing.
That’s what pushes me over the edge. I come with his name caught in my throat, and when I finally settle back into the mattress, my pulse steadying, I stare at the ceiling again.
This is getting complicated.
Sleep takes me eventually.
Morning comes clean and sharp. I wake early and dress in something simple for work, nothing that signals anything beyond competence.
The day runs tight. I review freight summaries, check reconciliation reports, answer two calls about minor supplier disputes.
I move through the office like I always do, steady and efficient, and no one would guess that by this time tomorrow, I might be sitting at his mother’s table.
Around eleven, Roisin leans against my doorway. “Big plans today?” she asks casually.
“Just numbers,” I say without looking up.
She smiles faintly. “You look like you’re preparing for more than spreadsheets.”
I close the file in front of me. “Lunch,” I say.
“With?”
I meet her eyes. “His family.”
Her eyebrows lift. “That’s not small.”
“I’m aware.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods once and leaves without another comment.
By noon, I pack my things and head back to my quarters.
I shower again, slower this time, letting the water steady my thoughts.
I take my time choosing what to wear. Not too sharp.
Not too soft. A fitted cream blouse, a navy skirt that falls just below the knee, low heels that won’t sink into grass if there is any.
I dry my hair and leave it loose, then add a thin gold chain at my throat. Minimal makeup. Clean lines. I don’t want to look like I’m trying.
I’m fastening my watch when there’s a knock on my door.
I freeze for half a second, then walk over and open it.
Cillian stands there in a dark jacket and open collar, no tie, sunglasses hooked in his hand. He looks like he belongs anywhere he chooses to stand. “I was told you’d be ready,” he says, his gaze moving over me once.
“I am.”
He nods once. “Good.”
“I assumed Roarke would collect me,” I say as I step out and lock the door.
“I wanted to,” he replies.
I almost blush.
We walk down the corridor together without speaking, and when we reach the courtyard, his car is already waiting. He opens the passenger door himself. I pause for half a second, then get in.
He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.
The city thins quickly once we head north. Brick gives way to stone. Shops give way to terraces and then to wider roads lined with trees that bend slightly toward the coast. I watch the skyline fall behind us in the rearview mirror. “Do they know about me?” I ask.
“My mother knows I’m bringing someone,” he says, eyes on the road. “That’s enough.”
“And your sister?”
“She’ll pretend not to analyze you. She will anyway.”
“And your uncle?”
“He’ll decide in ten minutes whether he likes you.”
I glance out the window as the road curves upward, the sea appearing in flashes between buildings.
Howth rises ahead of us slowly, cliffs cutting against the sky, houses scattered along the slopes. The harbor comes into view, boats rocking gently in their berths, the water bright under the afternoon light. It’s beautiful in the way old romance novels are. “You grew up here,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t feel like the rest of your world.”
“It isn’t.”
We pass through the village center, small cafés and shops lining the street, then turn onto a narrower road that climbs higher. The houses grow larger but not extravagant. Solid. Weathered. Built to last.
He slows as we approach a stone house set back slightly from the road, ivy creeping along one wall, a low fence marking the boundary. Behind it I can see a small yard that slopes toward the water, the harbor visible in the distance.
“That’s it,” he says.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
It’s not intimidating. That’s what makes it worse.
It looks like somewhere real. He pulls into the gravel drive and kills the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves. “You nervous?” he asks.
“Should I be?”
He turns to look at me fully now. “No,” he says. “Just be yourself.”
I hold his gaze. “You’re sure that’s what you want?” I ask.
He studies me for a long beat, then reaches over and brushes his thumb lightly along my collarbone, just once.
“Yes.”
The front door opens before either of us steps out.
A woman stands there, watching us from the threshold. Cillian opens his door. “Ready?” he asks.
I swallow once and nod. “Yes.”
And then we step out of the car together.