Because this is mine.
The melody climbs, relentless, sweeping through minor keys like a confession whispered to God and ignored. Every rise and fall is deliberate, beautiful, unhinged. Rachmaninoff understood the ache of wanting to be free — and tonight, so do I.
In the reflection of the polished lid, I catch glimpses: Cillian’s stillness, Rouge’s grin fading to awe, Darragh’s smug smile tightening. Malachi watching me like a man who’s seen a ghost. They think I don’t know. That I can’t hear the whispers, theplots, the knife poised behind the applause. But this is my requiem, and I’m playing it before they can bury me.
The final section hits — that sweeping, thunderous resolution. My whole body moves with it now. Shoulders. Wrists. Breath. My heel lifts off the pedal just enough to let the echo breathe, then drops again to catch the last note before it dies.
It’s not just sound. It’s survival.
When the last chord rings out, it fills the silence like smoke — thick, holy, defiant. I keep my hands on the keys, holding the vibration, forcing them to listen to theendof me. And then, slowly, I lift my head.
The applause breaks like a gunshot. Loud. Reluctant. Reverent. Every man in this room — every monster — is clapping forme. Cillian’s gaze meets mine across the room, blue fire and quiet promise. Rouge raises his glass with a sharp whistle.
But Darragh… he doesn’t move. He just watches, smiling like he’s already buried me in his mind. I smile back. He’ll learn soon enough.
The applause still hangs in the air when Cillian moves. He’s across the room before I can stand, the crowd parting for him like they know better. His tie’s still loose, his jaw sharp, eyes molten under the chandelier light. He stops beside the piano, leans down, and murmurs something in Irish against my ear — words I don’t fully catch, but my body does.
“Mo ghrá, rinne tú iad uile adhradh duit agus níl siad fiú ag tuiscint cén fáth.”3
It’s low. Sinful. Worship wrapped in threat. A flush crawls up my throat, and I don’t even try to hide it.
He straightens, offering his hand. “Come on, Duchess.”
The title rolls through me like heat.Duchess. Dublin’s Darling Daughter reborn under the Devil’s hand. I rise, placing my hand in his. He pulls me close, and the crowd watches—too quiet, too curious—as we step down from the stage together. Rouge falls in behind us, ever the shadow with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Cillian leans close enough that his breath touches my neck. “You’ve no idea what you look like right now.”
“I think I do,” I murmur.
He huffs a laugh that sounds almost dangerous. “You’re mine, Siobhán Kelleher.”
Before I can answer, a new voice cuts through the noise—cold, sharp, and soaked in authority.
“You can’t trust a siren, son.”
Cillian’s hand tightens on my waist. We both turn. His father stands near the entryway, silver hair immaculate, disdain carved into every line of his face. The old devil himself.
“Not now,” Cillian warns.
His father’s eyes sweep over me—slow, judging, like he’s assessing a threat he’d rather drown. “She’ll destroy you. Just like her mother.”
The words hit like shrapnel. My nails dig into my palm, but I don’t flinch. Before Cillian can respond, the air splits open.
BOOM.
The chandeliers shudder. Glass rains down. Screams erupt as the blast throws light and sound through the room.
Rouge is already moving, gun drawn, shouting over the chaos. “Down! Everyone down!”
Cillian drags me behind him, eyes scanning the smoke, the bodies, the blur of motion. The sharp crack of gunfire follows, echoing against the marble.
A man lunges from the haze—gun in one hand, knife in the other. He grabs my arm, yanking me backward. Instinct takes over. I grab my heel, twist to face him, and drive it straight into his throat. He gurgles once, blood bubbling, then collapses at my feet.
“Jesus Christ,” Rouge shouts. “She’s lethal!”
Cillian grabs me, voice like gravel. “That’s my girl.”
Another shot. Another scream. Rouge fires twice, clean and fast, dropping two men by the bar. The smell of gunpowder burns the air, mixing with perfume and the metallic tang of blood.
