“Rose… I didn’t—”
A gunshot ricochets. A violin string snaps—sharp, violent, final. Finn collapses to one knee. She stares down at him, chest heaving, face streaked with tears and chapel dust. Something inside her—something soft, something sacred—shatters.
He reaches for her. Weak. Bleeding. “Please… don’t go.”
She steps back. Then again. And again. Her violin lies on the floor between them. One string curled like a severed promise. Outside, the sirens begin. Inside, their last thread of trust dies. Róisín turns. Runs. And doesn’t look back.
Chapter one
The Devil’s Aria
Róisín
Thewarehouseisbaltic,the sort of cold that settles in your joints and reminds you exactly where you are. North Belfast doesn’t pretend to be welcoming. It never has.
I sit at the table with my ankles crossed, spine straight, hands folded neatly atop my folio. Italian calfskin. Custom embossing. I take my time removing my gloves—soft kid leather, dove grey—and place them carefully beside it. Details matter. Men notice when you don’t rush.
Declan O’Shea watches me like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Well I’ll be fucked,” he says, grinning wide. “Lady Malloy herself.”
I lift my eyes, calm, pleasant. “Disappointed?”
“Nah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Just thought you’d send a lad. Or at least someone with a bit more… bite.”
I smile faintly. “Careful. You’ve just met me.”
His men snicker behind him. One of them mutters something about posh birds. I ignore it. Declan pushes his chair back and jerks his chin toward the crate. “So. Let’s have a look at it then.”
“Of course,” I say. “You’ll find everything dead on.”
He motions, and two of his lads move in. Crowbars. The scrape of metal on wood echoes through the space. I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. The lid comes off. Declan steps forward, all interest now. He lifts one of the pistols, checks the weight, racks the slide. Clean. Modified. Quiet. He gives a low whistle.
“Feck me,” he says. “These are tidy.”
“I don’t do sloppy,” I reply. “Bad for the reputation.”
He grins at that. “Aye? Heard plenty about your reputation.”
“Oh?” I ask lightly. “Do enlighten me.”
He glances at me, eyes lingering. “They say you’re all silk till you’re not. Say you’ve a temper when pushed.”
I tilt my head. “They say a lot of shite about a lot of people.”
He laughs. Loud. “Fair enough.”
One of his men pulls back the false base. The rifles are revealed beneath. Declan’s brows lift, impressed despite himself. “These weren’t mentioned.”
“They’re a courtesy,” I say. “You were havin’ trouble sourcing. I solved it.”
He snorts. “You don’t do favours for free, Lady Malloy.”
“No,” I agree. “I do them for loyalty.”
He straightens, turning back to me. “Price is still mad.”
I shrug, graceful. “So am I.”
That gets another laugh. He thinks we’re flirting. We are—just not how he thinks.
