"Who deserves better than this. Better than me."
The words are so quiet I almost don't hear them.
I close my eyes, fresh tears sliding down my cheeks. "Then why did you agree to it? If you think I deserve better, why didn't you just refuse?"
There’s a short, bitter laugh, and then the silence this time is so long that I almost think he’s left. Then, he speaks again, still quietly.
“Refusal wasn’t an option, Maeve.” His hand thumps against the door, making me jump. "I know what I am, Maeve. I know I'm not good for you. But at least I'll keep you safe."
My throat tightens. "By beating people to death in our driveway?"
"If that's what it takes."
I should be horrified. I am horrified. But underneath the fear and shock, I feel something else in my chest, something I don’twant, but is growing there anyway. A sense of understanding…even gratitude, that Sean was there for me when that man showed up.
Because he's right about one thing—that man wasn't going to stop because I asked nicely. He’s right that in this world, violence is the language everyone speaks. And I'm supposed to learn it too.
"Just go away," I whisper, exhausted. "Please, Sean. Just go."
I hear him sigh through the door. Then footsteps, walking away.
Eventually, I force myself to stand. My legs are stiff from sitting on the floor, and my eyes are swollen from crying. I move to the window seat, curling up with my knees pulled to my chest, and stare out at the garden. Mrs. Brady brings dinner to my room around seven. She doesn't ask questions, just sets the tray down and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before leaving. I don't touch the food. I can’t bring myself to eat, and once again, I wonder if starving myself to death is an option. There are easier ways to go, but I imagine I’d probably be passive even in that choice. The thought angers me, because I don’twantto feel passive, to always be led around by the circumstances of my life rather than taking some agency for myself. But what other choice have I ever had?
Night falls, shrouding the estate outside in darkness, and the house grows quiet. I wonder where Sean ate dinner, if he went to the dining room expecting me to be there or if he decided to eat somewhere privately, too. I can't stop thinking about what Sean said.
This is the world your father lived in. The world the Council operates in.I don't know anything about the estate, the business, the world I've inherited. Just like I don't know my own husband.
The thought crystallizes into a decision. I searched my father’s office once already, and everything was locked. But now,Sean’s been in there. He might have unlocked drawers, taken out files. He might even have left some of them unlocked.
I need to take a second look.
Around midnight, when the house has been silent for hours, I slip out of my room. The hallway is dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the windows. I move quietly, hoping none of the old boards creak under my bare feet, and make my way downstairs.
I test the office door once I make it there, wondering if Sean locked it behind him. But it opens, and I slip inside, closing it carefully behind me.
A closed laptop is on the desk—Sean’s, probably. But there are files sitting next to it, ones that I don’t think were there before. I walk carefully over to the desk, sinking down into the big leather chair as I reach for the first one, keeping my ears pricked for any sound that might indicate someone has heard me and is coming to check out the noise.
The first several that I look through aren’t anything particularly interesting. It’s all business stuff—Sean is clearly trying to get up to speed on what my father owned and how it all relates to him now. I let out a frustrated sigh as I reach the bottom of the stack and know nothing more about Sean, just more about how much real estate and how many businesses my father owned in the city and around it.
I see another file on the edge of the desk. I reach for it, flipping it open, and flinch when I see Connor McBride’s face on the first page.
As I flip through it, I realize it’s a file on the Council members. And in the back, a series of documents on the Council’s enforcers.
There are three of them. A man named Kiernan O’Rourke, one called Brian McHenry, and then… Sean.
He looks younger in the photo, I realize. Very young—early twenties, maybe. He’s not smiling in the photo, but then again, none of them are. Below the photograph, I read:Sean Flannery. Code name: Wolf.
I flip to the next page. It’s a kill list, I realize. I hadn’t looked over the prior two, but they must have had one, as well. My stomach churns—there are so many targets. Names of people he's killed, methods used, success rates. It's all there, clinical and detailed, like a résumé for death.
Target eliminated. Clean kill. No witnesses.
Target eliminated. Collateral damage minimal.
Target eliminated. Witnesses eliminated.
I feel nauseated, looking at it. There are dozens of them. Years of kills, meticulously documented. Sean Flannery, the Wolf of Dublin, the Council's most effective weapon. I keep reading, unable to stop even though every page makes me feel sicker.
This is who you married.
