He leans closer, dropping his voice. “If this meeting doesn’t go your way, perhaps we could… discuss alternatives. Privately.”
Róisín’s gaze flicks to me for half a second. Not for permission.For sport.Then she turns back to him, smile deepening just enough to be lethal.
“Careful,” she murmurs. “That almost sounded like a threat.”
He grins. “Sounded like an invitation to me.”
Inside, something feral snarls. I imagine the sound his skull would make against the concrete. Imagine how long it would take his men to realise he’s already dead.
But outwardly—I remain calm. Because this is the game. And she’s playing it beautifully.
I let the silence stretch. Let him think he’s winning. And when Róisín folds her hands again, posture perfect, eyes glittering with quiet menace, I know—This is about to get bloody.
The papers slide across the table. Maps. Deeds. Old borders traced in red ink like healed scars someone’s decided to reopen.
“The land was unused,” the same man says, spreading his hands. “No active operations. No visible presence. We assumed—”
“You assumed,” Róisín cuts in, voice calm as still water, “that absence meant permission.”
Every head turns to her. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.
“That land feeds three families,” she continues, folding her hands neatly atop the documents. “It houses a dock route, two safe warehouses, and a chapel that predates your grandfather’s bones in the ground. If you didn’tseeactivity, it’s because you weren’t meant to.”
The man clears his throat. “With respect, Lady O’Callaghan—”
She smiles. It’s polite. Controlled. Lethal.
“Respect,” she says, “would have been asking. Respect would have been sending word. Respect would have been not moving men onto Malloy land like rats into a pantry.”
A few of his men shift. Someone coughs.
He leans back, trying to recover ground. “Times change. Alliances change. You’re married now. Different priorities.”
There it is. I hear it before I see it—two men to my right, whispering behind hands they think are subtle.
“She’s O’Callaghan now. Won’t make waves.”
“Lady of the house. Probably lets him handle the dirty work.”
My jaw tightens. Róisín hears it too. I know she does because her fingers still. Just for a second. Then she looks back at the man across from us, eyes sharp as broken glass wrapped in velvet.
“You mistake my title for a muzzle,” she says lightly. “Marriage didn’t soften me. It armed me.”
He scoffs. “Surely you’re not suggesting a war over a strip of land.”
She leans in then—just enough.
“I’m suggesting,” she says quietly, “that you’ve confused my silence for surrender. And that mistake tends to be fatal.”
The room goes dead quiet. Every man in it knows who she is now. And exactly how wrong they’ve been.
He leans too close next. Close enough that I smell his cologne—cheap, sharp, trying too hard. Close enough that he thinks the ring on her finger means obedience. Ownership. Safety.
“Didn’t think the stories were true,” he murmurs, voice pitched low and smug. “That the Malloy girl finally learned how to behave.”
Róisín doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then—steel sings. The knife appears in her hand like it’s always been there, an extension of thought rather than muscle. One clean, vicious motion—thunk.
His palm is pinned to the table, blade sunk deep through flesh and wood. Blood blooms instantly, dark and hot. He screams. She’s already on him. Her other hand fists in his hair, yanking his head back hard enough his neck bares, forcing him to look at her. Her face is calm. Beautiful. Empty in the way storms are empty. She leans in, lips brushing his ear. Her voice is soft. Belfast-cold. Deadly.
