Chapter 22
CILLIAN
The chapel sits on the edge of the property overlooking the same stretch of sea she woke to weeks ago, stone walls restored but not modernized, windows prettily stained, benches polished by three generations of hands.
We announced the date and the location two weeks ago under the pretext of keeping it small and contained, and every detail circulated exactly as intended.
Close family only. Minimal staff. No press. No extended allies. Privacy.
Patrick will believe it.
Conall stands near the rear doors speaking quietly into an earpiece while two men check the perimeter sweep for the third time this morning, and Declan leans against a pillar pretending he’s only here as an uncle and not as the quiet architect of half our outer defenses.
My mother adjusts flowers near the front, her movements precise, while Maeve argues with a caterer about the placement of trays as if this is any ordinary wedding.
“You’re overthinking the seating,” Maeve says to me when I pass her.
“I’m not thinking about seating.”
“That’s worse,” she replies and straightens my collar without asking.
Guests begin arriving in measured intervals, names checked at the outer gate even though we all know them by heart.
My mother insisted on invitations printed and delivered by hand, and every one of them contained the same instructions about timing and discretion.
Patrick’s watchers have had weeks to note the pattern.
Declan steps closer as the last of the cars settle into place. “North ridge clear. Marine unit in position beyond the break. Road team rotated twenty minutes ago.”
“Keep the outer cordon relaxed,” I tell him quietly. “Let it look soft.”
He nods once. “It does.”
Inside, the officiant stands near the altar reviewing his notes even though we met with him twice and he knows exactly what he’s to say and what he’s not. He’s a family priest who has buried our dead and baptized our children, and he greets me with a look that carries both blessing and warning.
“You certain about today?” he asks under his breath.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a second longer, then nods.
The doors at the front open, and conversation shifts as Saoirse steps inside on my mother’s arm.
She isn’t wearing anything extravagant. The dress is simple, long-sleeved, fitted to accommodate the curve she no longer hides, ivory against her skin, her hair pinned back in a way that keeps it clear of her face. There is a thin chain at her throat and nothing else.
Maeve inhales sharply beside me. “Well done, Brother.”
I don’t answer. I watch her walk toward me with steady steps, and I see the calculation in her eyes even now as she takes in the room, counts exits, measures distances. She doesn’t look afraid. She looks ready.
When she reaches me, my mother presses her hand into mine and kisses her cheek. “You’re family now,” she says quietly and steps away.
“You look calm,” Saoirse murmurs once we’re facing each other.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
The priest begins, his voice carrying through the small chapel without strain.
He speaks about commitment and witness and responsibility, and I listen while also tracking the subtle shifts at the doors, the slight repositioning of Conall’s men, the flicker of a phone screen near the back as Declan checks a feed.
We exchanged vows privately three nights ago in my office with only my mother present, words we needed to say without anyone watching. Today is performance and declaration and bait.
When it’s my turn, I take her hands fully.
“I won’t send you away again,” I say, and the words are simple and direct. “I won’t mistake anger for clarity. I won’t let you carry war alone.”
Her grip tightens.
“And I won’t stand in shadows when you’re fighting in the open,” she answers. “I won’t disappear into silence. I won’t build distance out of fear.”
There are no tears. No dramatics. Only agreement.
The priest nods once, satisfied, and moves through the formalities while outside, a gull cuts across the sky and the tide shifts below the cliff.
“Do you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Yes,” she says.
“Then by the authority vested in me—”
The rear doors burst inward.
The first sound isn’t the gunfire. It’s wood splintering under force and a shouted warning cut short mid-syllable.
Then shots explode through the chapel.
Glass shatters high along the side windows, benches scrape violently across stone as guests drop, and Conall moves before the echo fades, pulling my mother down behind the first pew while Declan draws and returns fire toward the doorway.
“Down!” Maeve shouts, already dragging Saoirse with her as I pivot and push her behind the stone column nearest the altar.
Two men in dark jackets force their way inside, weapons raised, firing in controlled bursts toward the front where they expect me to be standing in full view. They don’t know the reinforcement behind the walls, or the outer perimeter tightening at the first breach.
I step out just long enough to get a clear line and fire once, and the lead attacker drops hard against the threshold, weapon skidding across the floor. The second pivots toward me, and a shot from the balcony cuts him off at the shoulder and spins him sideways into the pews.
More gunfire erupts from outside.
Conall’s voice carries through the chaos. “Secondary at the west window!”
Stone chips near my head as a round tears through the edge of the column, and Saoirse grips my sleeve.
“This is it,” she says quietly, and there’s no panic in her voice.
“Stay down,” I reply.
Outside, engines roar, and another volley cracks through the air as the outer teams engage.
Inside the chapel, smoke hangs low and sharp, alarms begin to shriek from the main house, and somewhere behind me, the priest is ushering my mother and Maeve toward the side passage built into the old stone wall.
Declan advances toward the rear doors with two men flanking him, stepping over the body at the entrance, while Conall signals toward the ridge team through a hand sign I’ve known since I was eighteen.
The sea beyond the shattered window looks the same as it did an hour ago.
Another blast rocks the outer courtyard, closer this time.
Then the gunfire intensifies, tearing through stone and glass as the real assault begins.
I move before the second burst finishes, and my hand is already at Saoirse’s waist, shoving her down behind the stone lip of the chapel platform while Nikolas and Conall step in hard on either side of us.
“Down,” I bark, and Maeve is already dragging my mother behind the first pew while Declan hauls the priest flat by the shoulder and curses loud enough to cut through the shots.
This is the part Patrick thought would break us.
He fed on habits for years. He studied grief, family, timing, and pride, and he always assumed everyone else did the same. He thought a wedding made me soft, and he thought public joy would make me sloppy. He thought I would stand in a suit at an altar and forget I was raised in blood.
He never understood that I planned this day like a siege.
“Nikolas,” I snap.
“West wall, two down already,” he answers, firing through the side opening between columns. “South gate team is engaged. They’re inside the outer grounds.”
Good. Let them come deeper.
Saoirse grabs my sleeve, her face pale but steady, veil half-torn and pinned under her shoulder. “The back corridor,” she says, voice low and fast. “If Gavin’s here, he’ll send a second pair through service access. He always doubles entries when he thinks the first team is noise.”
I look at her and nod once. “Conall, service corridor now. Two men with you. Take them alive if you can, but don’t slow down.”
Conall moves at once, ducking low as another round punches through stained glass over the side aisle. Colored shards rain across the stone floor, and someone near the entrance screams before one of my men shouts, “Friendly, friendly,” and drags them behind cover.
I pull Saoirse tighter behind the altar base and angle my body over her while Nikolas reloads, calmly and quickly.
The guests are where they were told to go if anything happened, which is why we gave out every detail weeks ago and called it privacy.
Small ceremony. Family only. Remote chapel on the coast. Predictable route.
Predictable hour. Predictable soft target.
Patrick heard exactly what I wanted him to hear.
The truth sat under it.
Every staff hand was vetted. Every flower delivery was stripped and scanned.
Every musician is mine. Two of the “caterers” are Nikolas’s shooters from Belfast, and the old groundskeeper trimming hedges since dawn had run enforcement for my uncle Declan before I was old enough to hold a gun.
We laid cameras in the tree line, pressure alerts on the rear wall, and staggered teams under civilian clothes across the house and chapel grounds.
We leaked the layout, but we rebuilt the lanes.
Patrick got the invitation and walked into a box.
Shots crack from the vestibule, then stop, then start again in shorter, controlled bursts. That rhythm tells me my men have line of sight and the attackers are trying to push through cover they expected to own already.
Maeve crawls toward us on her elbows, hair half-fallen from its pins, face flushed and furious. “Mam’s fine. Declan’s fine. Father Byrne is swearing in Latin.”
“Good,” I say.
She glares. “You call this good?”
“Compared to Plan B, yes.”
Her mouth opens, then another burst hits the side windows and she ducks reflexively. “I hate that you planned enough for a Plan B.”
“I planned enough for a Plan D.”
That shuts her up for half a second, which is a family record.
Nikolas leans out, fires twice, then drops back. “Front team’s collapsing them inward. Three at the doors, one on the bell path, and I’ve got movement in the graveyard wall gap.”
“Mine or theirs?”
“Too fast to tell.”