The room holds its breath. Finn says nothing. He doesn’t need to. I lean forward just slightly, enough that the firelight catches the rubies at my throat, the gold at my wrists, the ring on my finger that has the audacity to shine like any of this is holy.
“I didn’t marry into this house to be kept out of the rooms where decisions are made,” I say. “And I didn’t survive Belfast to be handled gently by men who mistake quiet for weakness.”
The lad’s eyes harden. There it is. The stupid pride. The fragile thing men carry like a weapon and call honour. He glances to the side—one quick look at the others—like he’s checking for witnesses. Then, under his breath, just barely loud enough to be heard…
“Should’ve killed the right Malloy in that chapel.”
For a second, everything in me goes weightless. Not because I’m shocked. Because I’m cold. Because the words don’t come from rumour. They come from memory. From someone who wasthere.
My fingers stay folded neatly in my lap. My posture doesn’t change. My face doesn’t move. But the air in the room shifts like a violin string pulled too tight—high, vibrating, about to snap. I let the silence stretch. Let him realise what he’s done. Let the others feel it land.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
His chin jerks up. Defensive. Stupid. He tries to recover it like it was a joke, like cruelty is just banter between men.
“I said—”
“No,” I cut in, still soft. “Say it the way you meant it. The way it sounded in your head before you let it slip.”
His throat bobs. And then—because he’s angry, because he’s humiliated, because he thinks my calm is permission—he does. He smiles. It’s ugly.
“They should’ve tried harder to killedyou,” he says. Clearer now. Louder. Like he wants the room to know he’s not afraid of me. “Would’ve saved us years of grief. Your brother died for nothin’.”
My lungs don’t move. My heart doesn’t race. It’s almost peaceful, the way my body goes still—like it’s choosing violence the way other people choose prayer. Around us, men shift. Someone’s hand inches toward a holster. Someone else takes one step back, as if distance can save them from what Finnian O’Callaghan is about to do.
The lad keeps going, because he’s committed now. Because he can’t stand being corrected by a woman in her husband’s chair.
“Whole bloody night was meant to be clean,” he mutters, bitterness dripping. “Two bodies. Two families crippled. That was the order.”
My eyes narrow, just slightly. Two bodies.
I keep my voice calm. “The order,” I repeat. “From who?”
His mouth tightens. That’s the mistake. Not that he said it. That he hesitated onthat. His gaze flicks—fast, guilty—toward the left side of the room. Toward the oldest of the men standing there. Not the one with the gun. The one with the ledger. The one whose hands are clean because other people do the bleeding.
And I watch the smallest thing happen: A warning look. A subtle shake of a head. A quietdon’t.
My blood goes colder. Because that’s not power hunger. That’s inside-the-house obedience. That’ssomeone hereholding the leash. I let my smile return. Slow. Beautiful. Wrong.
“Ah,” I say gently. “So it wasn’t just land you were keeping quiet, then.”
He breathes harder, nostrils flaring. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you saidchapellike it tasted familiar,” I murmur. “I know you saidorderlike you’ve taken them before.”
He opens his mouth again—And Finn moves. Not fast. Not frantic. Just… inevitability.
A shadow coming off the wall. A storm deciding it’s done waiting. His hands leave the desk with a soft sound, and the room goes so still it feels like the whole manor holds its breath with us.
Finn’s voice is quiet when it comes—so quiet it crawls under the skin. “Repeat that,” he says.
The lad’s eyes flick to Finn. And for the first time, he looks afraid. The plan was never to kill my brother. It was to eraseboth Finn and I.The thought settles into my bones with a terrible, awful clarity. Two bodies. Two families crippled. Power vacuum. Control.
The room isn’t breathing anymore. Everyone’s attention is locked on Finn and the man in front of him—the predator and the prey circling in tight, silent orbit.
No one is watchingme. So I move. Quiet. Measured. My silk skirts whisper softly against the marble as I step away from Finn’s desk, toward the far side of the room—toward the two oldest men standing shoulder to shoulder near the windows.
They’re seasoned. Calm. Untouchable-looking. The sort of men who survive because they never dirty their own hands. One of them notices me too late. His eyes flick down. Then back up.
