She smiles, the expression never reaching her eyes as she balances the knife point on her fingertip. "I find it interesting that men like you still believe the women in our world are merely decorative." The knife spins, catching the light. "When my Da had Killian Brady executed for questioning our family's resolve, do you know who held the blade?"
The table falls silent. Even I feel the shift in the air as she transforms before them—the charming, talented bride-to-be melting away to reveal something far more dangerous.
"I was fourteen," she continues, voice conversational as she tests the edge of the knife with her thumb. "Brady thought the same thing you do—that I was just my Da’s pretty little bargaining chip."
Her words hang in the air like smoke. I watch the men's faces shift—from dismissal to discomfort to the dawning realization that they've severely miscalculated. My chest tightens with something like pride, something like fear. She's magnificent in her danger.
"Brady begged," she continues, still toying with the knife. "Not at first. At first, he laughed. Called me a little girl playing dress-up." Her smile is razor-thin. "He wasn't laughing by the end."
I slide my hand to her lower back, possessive. A warning or a claim—I'm not sure even I know which.
"What my fiancée means," I say smoothly, "is that underestimating either of our families would be unwise."
She leans into my touch, just slightly. Just enough to make it look like unity instead of the battlefield it is.
"Precisely," she agrees, setting the knife down. "Now, shall we discuss the Derry shipments, or would you prefer to hear more about my childhood hobbies?"
MacTavish clears his throat, reaching for his whiskey. "Derry seems the safer topic."
The conversation drifts back to business, but the room never fully recovers. It can’t. Róisín sits beside me like a coiled wire—polite, composed, lethal beneath the silk. They all feel it. Every man at this table knows now that she isn’t decoration, isn’t leverage, isn’t a pretty peace offering wrapped in red.
She’s a warning.
Dinner stretches on. Deals are implied, not inked. Smiles are careful. No one underestimates us again, not tonight. When the final course is cleared and the bell rings for dispersal, I rise first. I offer my arm and she takes it. For the cameras, for the crowd, for the lie we sell so well it almost feels like truth.
We walk out together under crystal lights and murmured approval, Belfast’s most dangerous fairytale restored—old lovers, future spouses, violence neatly buttoned into tailored suits and evening gowns. Outside, the night air is cold and sharp. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.
I lean close, my mouth near her ear. “Ye played that room like a blade,” I murmur. “I’m proud of you.”
Her smile never reaches her eyes. “Don’t be,” she says softly. “This is me being kind.”
The car door opens. I guide her in, my hand firm at her back. Possessive. Protective. Damned. As the door shuts and the city lights blur past, I know two things with absolute certainty: The peace will not last. And neither of us wants it to.
Chapter seven
Nocturne for the Dead
Róisín
Thecarglidesthroughthe city like it owns it. Tinted windows. Leather seats still warm from the gala lights and too many eyes. I sit straight, spine aching, blood humming low and restless beneath my skin. Finn is beside me, broad and solid, cufflinks catching what little light there is. Our driver doesn’t speak. He never does.
It’s the wee hours now. Belfast half-asleep, half-dead. The streets are scrubbed clean of noise, pubs shuttered, footsteps swallowed by fog and brick. I should feel relief, yet I don’t.
We stop at a light. The engine idles. The silence presses in, thick enough to taste. No other cars, no cross traffic, no late-night taxis cutting through like they always do. The driver’s hands tighten on the wheel—just a fraction too late to hide it.
My pulse slows. That’s the thing people never understand. Fear doesn’t always make you fast. Sometimes it makes you precise.
I glance at Finn without turning my head. He’s already watching the mirrors, jaw set, the easy arrogance gone. His hand drifts closer—not touching, not yet—but I feel it all the same, like gravity shifting.
The light stays red, too long. The quiet stretches, thin as a wire, and every lesson I ever learned crawls up my spine.Something is wrong.
The light flicks green, the driver eases his foot off the brake, but nothing happens. The engine coughs once—sharp, wrong—then dies completely. Silence slams down hard enough to ring in my ears.
“Shit,” the driver mutters under his breath, already reaching for the ignition.
Finn’s hand closes over mine at the same moment. “Don’t,” he says quietly.
The driver freezes and that’s when I hear it. A sound so small most people would miss it. The soft hiss of air escaping. Too controlled to be an accident. My gaze drops to the side mirror just in time to see the car behind us—black, unmarked—rolling to a stop far too neatly.
