And he’s going to be my husband.
I watch them walk to their car, a black SUV parked in the circular driveway, and I see Sean looking at the house from his seat by the window. Even from this distance, I can feel the weight of his gaze, cold and assessing.
Then they're gone, red taillights disappearing into the rainy darkness, and I'm alone again.
I stand in the doorway, the cold chilling me to the bone, but I barely feel it.
In two weeks, Sean Flannery will be my husband. He'll live in this house. He'll control my money, my life. He'll have rights to me that I can barely let myself think about.
I make it back to the staircase before my legs give out, and I sink down onto the bottom step, my whole body shaking. Mrs. Brady appears from somewhere, her face creased with worry.
"Maeve? What did they want?" Any attempt at formality on her part—theMissthat she’s always tried to tack onto my name and Siobhan’s—is gone. She’s far too worried for that, and somehow that makes it all feel so much more terrifying.
"I'm getting married," I hear myself say, and my voice sounds strange, distant. "In two weeks. To one of them. The tall one."
Mrs. Brady's face goes pale. "Oh, love. Oh no."
"His name is Sean Flannery," I continue, still in that strange, flat voice. "The Wolf of Dublin. They say he'll protect me."
"The Wolf of—" Mrs. Brady’s voice stops. I look up at her, and I see that her eyes are wide, as if she knows something I don’t.
“What is it?” There’s a note of something hysterical in my voice.
“I—” She swallows hard. “I’ve a nephew in Dublin. He’s mentioned that name before. He's... Maeve, he's a killer. A contract killer."
I press a hand over my mouth, whether to stop a sob or a hysterical burst of laughter, I don’t know.Of course he is. Ofcourse they're marrying me to a killer. Why would it be anyone else?
My sister and brother were murdered, and I’m being married to a murderer. The irony would be hilarious if it weren’t so devastating.
"Maeve—"
"I need to be alone," I say, standing up abruptly. My legs are unsteady, but they hold me. "Please, Mrs. Brady. I just need to be alone."
She nods reluctantly, and I wait for her to disappear into another room. But I don't go to my room. Instead, I find myself walking down the hall to my father's office.
It’s unlocked, fortunately. Desmond must have left it that way the last time he was here, before he left to…
I can’t finish the thought. I still haven’t come to terms with what my brother did, who he really was. There’s so much I haven’t come to terms with, and now there’s something else. A marriage.
To a violent, angry man.
The room still smells like my father and Desmond—cigars and expensive cologne and old leather. The desk is massive, dark mahogany, with stacks of papers on one side. His computer sits dark and silent, probably password-protected. There are bookshelves filled with first editions. His filing cabinets line one wall, full of secrets I've never been privy to.
If there's information about Sean Flannery anywhere, it would be here. My father kept files on everyone important in our world. Surely he would have known about the Wolf of Dublin.
The filing cabinets are locked, and no matter how many drawers I dig through, I can’t find a key. The computer is, as I expected, password-protected, and I can’t seem to guess it, although I try a few obvious choices—my and my siblings’ names, my father's birthday, variations of our family name—butnothing works. After three attempts, the system locks me out entirely. Feeling defeated, I go through the papers on his desk and the few files I find in drawers, but it’s not what I’m looking for. There are some financial statements, lease paperwork for a building, and legal documents waiting to be signed, but nothing about Sean Flannery. Nothing about the Irish Council's enforcers.
Frustrated, I slam my hand down on the desk, pain shooting up my arm. Wincing, I rub it, staring despondently at the meaningless paperwork.
I sink into my father's leather chair, suddenly exhausted. The office is dark except for the desk lamp I switched on, casting shadows into the corners. This room was always intimidating when my father was alive—his domain, his territory, where he conducted the business I was never supposed to know about. Now it's just empty. Another ghost-filled room in a ghost-filled house.
I think about Sean Flannery, trying to remember every detail of his face, his bearing, his presence. He'd looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, maybe. Tall—well over six feet. Broad through the shoulders and chest, muscular in a way that I found frightening, though I suppose I have no idea what it would feel like to be attracted to a man. I’ve never experienced it.
I picture the scar through his eyebrow and down his cheek. The stubble on his jaw. Those cold, cold green eyes.
The Wolf of Dublin.
A killer.
