Prologue
THE VALENTINE MASSACRE
(Three Years Ago)
The old chapel never belonged to saints. Not really. Not when Róisín Malloy played her violin inside its cracked stone ribs—breathing life into a place where the angels had long since packed their bags and fled Belfast.
Tonight, the air trembles with the sound of her bow gliding over strings. A slow, aching melody. A promise whispered in wood and horsehair.A secret.
Finnian O’Callaghan stands in the doorway, shadowed by candlelight, hands shoved into the pockets of a too-thin jacket. He shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have asked. Their families would skin them alive for it. But the moment she lifts her gaze, he forgets the danger. He always does.
She smiles—tiny, shy, meant only for him.Christ, Finn would burn the whole bloody world for that smile.
He approaches like a sinner creeping toward absolution, slow and reverent. “Play it again,” he murmurs, voice low, hungry in a way he doesn’t yet understand.
Róisín blushes. “You already know it by heart.”
“Aye,” he says, stepping behind her, lowering his forehead to the warm curve of her neck. “But I like the way you sound when you think I’m listening.”
She laughs softly, the sound brighter than the chapel’s dying candles. Their hands brush; his heart stutters. They’re just kids—seventeen, stupid, star-crossed—but in this chapel, in this breath, they feel ancient. Inevitable.
He kisses her. Gentle at first. Then with the intensity of a boy who’s never had anything precious and can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch this. Her bow trembles. Her fingers slip. The note breaks—like a gasp.
“Finn…” she whispers, cheeks flushed.
He grins, cocky and smitten. “You’re mine, wee Rose.”
And maybe she is. Maybe she always was. But then—A crack. Not from the violin. From outside. Footsteps. Voices. Raised. Panicked.
Finn pulls back, breath turning to ice. “We need to go.”
Before they can move, the chapel doors explode inward. Men flood the room. Guns. Masks. Rage. Róisín screams, reaching for Finn but someone grabs her, yanks her backward, shoving her behind a pew.
Her older brother Ciaran—all broad shoulders and furious love—throws himself between her and the attackers. “Run!” he shouts.
Finn lunges to help him, but the muzzle flash blinds them all. One shot. Then another. Then the wet thud of a body hitting stone. Róisín’s world narrows to her brother collapsing, blood pooling beneath him like a spreading shadow.
“No—no, no—Ciaran—” She scrambles toward him, but arms catch her, hold her back, choke her.
And then she hears it. The words that will ruin everything.
“Finn betrayed you.”
She freezes. Her pulse stops. She turns her head—slow, disbelieving—to where Finn stands surrounded by men wearing the colors of the O’Callaghan ring. One of them holds him down. Another grips his hair.
A third shouts, “He gave us the meeting point. Little princeling sold you out.”
Róisín goes cold. Bone-deep. Soul-deep. Her violin drops from her hand, clattering across stone.
“No—Róisín—” Finn thrashes, desperate, eyes frantic. “I’d never hurt you. They’re lying—don’t you feckin’ believe them—”
But she doesn’t hear him. She only hears Ciaran’s weakening breath. Sees the blood soaking his shirt. Feels the knife strapped to her thigh. The world fractures. She tears free from the hands on her. Snatches the blade. And before anyone can stop her—she drives it into Finn’s side.
His breath punches out in a stunned sound—half shock, half heartbreak. Her palm slides over the blood blooming beneath the hilt.
Her voice breaks. “Youkilled him. You killed mybrother.”
His eyes aren’t angry. They’re devastated. Betrayed in a way that mirrors her own.
