Chapter 12
SAOIRSE
The hallway feels different when I step out of the study.
I follow Cillian down the narrow corridor and let my gaze travel without turning my head too sharply, taking in the small details that don’t belong in the homes I grew up around.
There are scuffed baseboards and framed school photos and a coat rack that actually holds children’s jackets, not decorative ones bought to signal a life that doesn’t exist.
I shouldn’t notice things like that.
But I do.
The floors creak faintly beneath us and the walls are lined with photographs that aren’t staged for press or power. They’re crooked in places and sun-faded at the edges, and I pause half a second in front of one where a younger Cillian stands beside a girl with braids and a missing front tooth.
“Your sister?” I ask quietly.
He nods once. “Maeve.”
“She looks like trouble.”
Cillian huffs a laugh. “She was.”
I smile despite myself and move again, and that’s when I see the open door at the end of the hall.
Inside is a room painted pale blue with low shelves and a small wooden table covered in crayons and paper, and there’s a toy boat on the floor near a basket of blocks.
Nothing expensive. Nothing curated. Just used.
I slow without meaning to.
Cillian notices. “My nephew,” he says. “He spends Sundays here.”
There’s something in his voice that softens when he says it, and I glance at him briefly before looking back into the room.
The rug is worn in the center, like a child sits there often. There’s a blanket folded on the arm of a tiny couch and a stack of storybooks with creased spines.
It hits me unexpectedly.
This house wasn’t built to intimidate anyone. It wasn’t built to impress investors or outshine rivals. It was built to hold people. To gather them. To keep them close.
My childhood home had marble floors and high ceilings and silence that echoed too long after arguments ended.
We had art on the walls worth more than the furniture in this place, and none of it mattered when doors slammed and security guards stood outside like reminders that affection came with conditions.
This feels different.
This feels… normal.
Cillian stops beside me. “You like it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer honestly.
He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to measure the truth in that, then gestures forward. “Come on.”
We turn the corner into a wider space where the dining room opens toward the kitchen, and the smells of roasted meat and fresh bread drift through the room in a way that feels almost disarming.
There’s no long table polished to a mirror shine.
There’s a sturdy oak table with mismatched chairs and a linen runner down the center, and plates are already set without any formal place cards or ceremony.
His mother stands near the stove with a serving spoon in her hand, and when she sees us, her face lights in a way that doesn’t look rehearsed.
“Welcome,” she says warmly, stepping forward. “I’m glad Cillian didn’t scare you off right after you had the tea.”
“I’m harder to scare than I look,” I reply, offering my hand.
She takes it and squeezes gently instead of shaking it. “I like that.”
There’s flour on her apron and a faint smudge near her wrist, and I find myself oddly comforted by the fact that she hasn’t changed out of it to present something more polished.
“You can call me Siobhán,” she adds. “No need for anything formal here.”
“Thank you, Siobhán,” I say, and I mean it.
An older man with broad shoulders and oil-stained hands steps in from the back door, wiping them on a cloth. “Is this the famous Riley?” he asks with a grin that matches Cillian’s in a way that makes the resemblance obvious.
“Don’t encourage her,” Cillian mutters.
I tilt my head slightly. “I prefer infamous.”
The man laughs. “Good. She’ll fit.”
“That’s my uncle, Declan,” Cillian says.
“And you’re underdressed for someone meeting the family,” Declan adds with mock seriousness.
“I’ll try harder next time,” I answer, and he winks before moving toward the sink.
Maeve enters a second later with a child balanced on her hip and a casserole dish in her free hand, and the room fills with noise that isn’t strategic or guarded.
The baby reaches toward Cillian immediately, and he takes him without hesitation, settling the child against his shoulder with easy familiarity.
“Traitor,” Maeve says lightly to the baby. “You only like him because he spoils you.”
“I don’t spoil him,” Cillian replies.
“You bought him a boat.”
“It’s educational.”
Maeve rolls her eyes. “It’s motorized.”
I watch him bounce the child gently while arguing about toys, and something in my chest shifts in a way I don’t appreciate.
This is the devil of the docks. This man who shuts down piers and reroutes empires stands in his mother’s kitchen debating the merits of a toy boat.
We take our seats, and Siobhán insists I sit near her and hands me a bowl of potatoes before I can object, and Declan pours wine without asking whether I prefer red or white.
“You’ll eat,” Siobhán says firmly when I try to take a modest portion. “You’re too thin.”
I blink, caught off guard by the familiarity of it. “She says that to everyone,” Maeve assures me.
“It’s true,” Siobhán insists.
Cillian watches me from across the table, one brow lifting slightly as if to ask whether I’m overwhelmed.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, and he nods once.
Conversation starts easily. Declan complains about a shipment delay at the repair yard without naming specifics, Maeve rolls her eyes and talks about a student who tried to cheat on a spelling test, and Siobhán asks me where I grew up with genuine interest rather than interrogation.
“South side,” I answer. “Near the coast.”
“Good schools there,” she says approvingly.
“Yes.”
“And your parents?” she asks.
There’s a half second where I feel the edge of something sharp.
“They’re… busy,” I say carefully.
Cillian’s gaze flicks to me, then away, and the conversation shifts without pressure.
Plates pass back and forth, bread tears, wine refills, and for a moment I almost forget the purpose behind being here.
I laugh at something Declan says and reach for the butter at the same time Cillian does, and our fingers brush again under the table in a way that feels entirely too intimate for a room full of family.
Siobhán watches us both with a small, knowing smile.
“So,” she says lightly, setting her fork down. “How did you two meet?”
I lift my glass slowly, buying myself a second to decide which version of the truth to serve. Cillian doesn’t let the question hang long.
“She works with me,” he says smoothly, reaching for the bread basket as if that’s the only explanation required. “Logistics oversight.”
Siobhán nods once, satisfied enough for now. “Good. He needs someone who keeps him organized.”
“I’m very organized,” Cillian replies dryly.
Maeve snorts. “You alphabetized your toy soldiers when you were eight.”
“I was organized,” he corrects.
Declan laughs into his wine. “You were insufferable.”
The tension I’d braced for dissolves into easy teasing, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Cillian shoots me a brief glance, not protective, exactly, just steady, as if to say he’s got it handled.
Food begins to move in earnest after that.
Siobhán sets a platter of roast lamb in the center of the table, the crust browned and fragrant with rosemary and garlic, juices pooling beneath it in a way that makes my mouth water instantly.
There are bowls of buttery potatoes dusted with parsley, glazed carrots shining under a thin coat of honey, cabbage cooked down until it’s tender but still bright.
Fresh soda bread sits warm beside a crock of salted butter, and when I tear into a piece, the steam hits my face and for a second, I close my eyes.
“Eat,” Siobhán insists again when she catches me pausing.
I do.
The lamb is rich and tender, the herbs sharp and clean against the slow heat of roasted meat.
The potatoes are soft enough to melt without being bland, and the bread tastes like something made by hand rather than ordered for appearance.
I didn’t grow up with meals like this, not ones where dishes were passed without ceremony and people leaned over each other to refill plates without asking permission.
At my parents’ table, dinner had been quiet and staged. Plates were plated in the kitchen and delivered by staff. Conversation was controlled, measured, careful. If someone laughed too loudly, it stopped quickly.
Here, Declan tells a story mid-bite and nearly chokes on his own punchline. Maeve rolls her eyes and hands him water. The baby smacks the table with a spoon and everyone pretends it’s percussion.
“You should tell her about the time you tried to run away,” Maeve says suddenly, pointing her fork at Cillian.
Cillian gives her a warning look. “Don’t.”
“You packed a duffel bag with three shirts and a jar of coins,” she continues anyway. “You made it as far as the pier before Da found you.”
“I was ten,” he mutters.
“You left a note,” Maeve adds, grinning at me. “It said you were going to build your own shipping empire somewhere warmer.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Ambitious.”
“He had maps,” Declan says. “Charts spread out on the floor. We thought he was planning a treasure hunt.”
Cillian leans back in his chair, one arm resting loosely along the back. “I was planning.”
“You were sulking,” Maeve corrects.
“Yes, but with method.”
The room fills with warmth that isn’t forced, and I watch him as he listens to them dismantle the myth he’s built elsewhere. The devil of the docks is reduced to a boy with maps and coins in a jar.
“You were always serious,” Siobhán says gently. “Even when you were small.”
He shrugs. “Someone had to be.”
The table quiets for a brief second at that, and I see something flicker across his mother’s face before she smooths it away and reaches for more bread.