I remember thinking I would never play again.
I lift my chin. The final notes ring out, sharp and deliberate, slicing clean through the silence that follows. When the soundfades, it doesn’t disappear. Itwaits. Finn’s lips brush my temple. A promise without words.
Someone heard that. Someone always does. And somewhere in the shadows of this ruined chapel, a past mistake is already moving toward us.
I lower the violin slowly. I don’t turn around. Not yet. I don’t turn when the doors groan open. I don’t need to. The chapel announces him for me—the scrape of boots on stone, the hitch in the air, the way Finn’s hands go still at my waist. I lift the violin from my shoulder and, very deliberately, unwind the E string. It sings once as it comes free. Thin. Sharp. Honest.
I wrap it around my fingers. Footsteps stop a few paces behind us.
“Well,” a voice says, too smooth for the wound it carries, “if it isn’t the happy couple.”
I glance down at my hands as I coil the string, neat and patient. There’s a bandage on his hand—I can see it in the reflection of the cracked altar glass when I finally look up. Clean. White. Ridiculous.
He clears his throat, like he’s stepped onto a stage.
“Name’s Padraig Keane,” he says. A pause. A smile I remember carving apart earlier. “Thought it only right I introduce myself proper this time.”
Finn’s arms tighten—not restraining, not protective. Ready. I lift my eyes. And smile back. I tilt my head, eyes dropping pointedly to his hand. The bandage is still there. Fresh. Clean. Wrapped like a lie trying to behave.
“Oh,” I say lightly, as if we’re exchanging pleasantries at Mass. “You came back withthat?”
I gesture with the violin string, slow and deliberate. It glints in the candlelight.
“I thought I was very clear at the meeting,” I continue, voice calm as still water. “That was a warning. Not an invitation.”
Padraig’s jaw tightens. His shoulders square like he’s remembered too late that pride is the only thing he’s ever owned.
“Wasn’t clear enough, apparently,” I add, my smile sharpening. “Because here you are. Again.”
Finn doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His silence is a blade.
Padraig scoffs, heat flashing across his face. “You think stabbing my hand makes you frightening?”
I hum, considering. “No. I think ignoring it makes you anidiot.”
The word lands clean. Precise. Surgical. His face darkens. The charm cracks. Anger leaks through the seams.
“You Malloys always did think you were untouchable,” he snaps. “Marriage must’ve gone to your head.”
I finally turn fully then, meeting his glare without flinching.
“No,” I say softly. “Clarity did. And you’re still struggling with it.”
His breath goes sharp. His hand curls—careful, protective, furious. Finn’s hands slide more firmly to my hips. And Padraig Keane realizes—far too late—that he has misjudged every single thing in this room.
Padraig takes a step closer. Just one. Stone scrapes under his boot, loud in the chapel’s hollow chest. The sound carries. So does intent. Two more figures peel out of the shadows behind him—men I clock instantly by posture alone. Shoulders too tight. Hands too near their coats. Not tourists. Not mourners. Keane dogs, thinking numbers still mean something here.
Finn moves before my pulse can spike. Metal whispers. The gun comes up smooth and inevitable in his hand, barrel steady, eyes colder than the stone saints watching from their broken alcoves. He doesn’t aim wildly. He doesn’t rush. He simply points.
“Stop,” he says.
One word. Belfast sharp. Final. Padraig freezes mid-step, bravado stalling in his throat. His men hesitate—just a fraction too long. The violin string is still warm around my fingers.
Padraig laughs. It’s thin. Brittle. The sound of a man who’s rehearsed this speech in his head for years and finally gets an audience.
“Do ye know how long I’ve waited for this?” he says, pacing now, slow circles on the chapel floor like he owns it. “Two wee heirs playin’ Romeo and Juliet in a ruin. Thought yous were untouchable. Thought love made ye clever.”
Finn doesn’t lower the gun. I don’t move. Padraig keeps talking anyway—because men like him always do.
