“That’s for forgetting his name,” she says calmly.
She moves to the second man before the echo of his scream fades. This one is older. Smarter. He watches her with the kind of fear that knows it’s already too late.
“You watched,” she says. “Didn’t you?”
He swallows. Nods. Her hand trembles once. Just once.
Then she hits him—hard. The sound cracks through the room. She doesn’t stop there. The knife flashes, carving truth into flesh with ruthless precision. Not wild. Not messy. Purposeful.
“For every night I woke up hearing him die,” she says, voice breaking only at the edges. “For every time I touched a violin and wondered why my hands still worked when his didn’t.”
I clench my fists behind my back. This isn’t my place. This is hers. The third man sobs. Begs. Prays.
She crouches in front of him, bringing her face level with his.
“They told me I was the wrong one,” she says quietly. “That I should’ve died instead.”
His eyes flick to me. Then back to her. Her blade presses to his throat—not cutting. Not yet.
“But here’s the thing,” she continues, standing again, voice steady now.Settled.“I lived.”
The knife moves fast. When it’s over, the room smells like iron and old stone and something final. She stands there, breathing hard, blood on her hands, on her sleeves, in her hair. I go to her then.
Not to take the knife. Not to stop her.
I take her hands instead, warm and slick and shaking, and I hold them like something holy. She leans into me—not collapsing, not weak—just… finished. I press my forehead to hers.
“It’s done,” I murmur. Not a promise. A truth.
Her eyes lift to mine. There’s no softness there. No apology. Only resolve. Only fire. And God help Belfast— because my wife has risen, and she didn’t come back gentle.
Chapter fifteen
Requiem for the Faithless
Róisín
Finn’sofficesmellslikeink and old wood and the kind of quiet that only comes after violence. I sit in the chair opposite his desk, spine straight, hands folded loosely in my lap. There’s blood on my knuckles I haven’t bothered to clean yet. It’s drying. I like the reminder.
The men who spoke too freely are gone. The walls still hum with what they learned. Finn stands at the window, back to me, shoulders broad and immovable. He hasn’t said a word since the door closed. He doesn’t need to. I can feel the shape of the plan settling between us, inevitable as gravity.
“They didn’t mean to kill Ciaran,” I say finally.
Finn turns. His face doesn’t change. That’s how I know I’m right.
“He wasn’t the job,” I continue, my voice steady. “I was.” Silence stretches. “And you,” I add, lifting my eyes to his. “You were meant to die too.”
He nods once. “They wanted the Malloy heir broken,” he says. “And the O’Callaghan line destabilized. Two birds. One chapel.”
My jaw tightens. Not with grief—with clarity.
“My brother stepped in,” I say quietly. “He put himself between me and the bullet.”
Finn’s voice drops. “Aye.”
I look down at my hands. At the faint tremor I refuse to acknowledge. “He wasn’t collateral,” I say. “He was a shield.”
Finn crosses the room in three strides and stops in front of me. He doesn’t touch me yet. He waits. “They used the church because they knew it would draw you,” I continue. “They knew I’d play. They knew you’d come.”
