“Blood traitors,” he sneers, eyes flicking between us. “Both of you. Too soft for your own names. Your families were rotting from the inside, and neither of ye had the stomach to do what needed done.”
He steps closer.Closer.
“I planned it before ye ever kissed in here,” he continues, voice warming to its cruelty. “Before the violin. Before the vows. Two weak links tied together—so I cut the chain.”
My jaw tightens. His men stay planted by the doors, hands near their coats, watching Finn’s gun like it might blink. Padraig stops just short of arm’s length.
“You should’ve died together,” he says quietly. “That night. Chapel floor. Blood everywhere. Would’ve been poetic.”
He smiles at me. And I understand something with terrifying clarity: He thinks this is still a story about him. The violin string digs into my palm. Finn’s finger tightens on the trigger. The chapel waits.
Padraig keeps talking because he thinks words are still his weapon.
“Yer brother,” he sneers, circling again, voice echoing off the stone. “Thought he was some kind of feckin’ hero. Jumpin’ in front of bullets like the saints would clap for him.”
Something cold settles behind my ribs.
I smile anyway.
“Aye?” I say softly. “And how’d that work out for him?”
Finn’s gun doesn’t waver, but I feel the tension roll off him—feel him clock the shift in me. He knows this tone. The polite one. The dangerous one.
Padraig laughs again, louder now. “Worked perfect. He dies. You blame your pretty little lover there. You stab him. Families fracture. Chaos. And while ye were busy tearing each other apart—”
He spreads his hands. “We took land. Routes. Influence. Bit by bit. Malloys bleeding from the inside, none the wiser.”
I tilt my head, encouraging. “Go on.”
His eyes gleam. He thinks he’s winning.
“Your da?” he scoffs. “Useless. Always was. Thought he was playin’ kings when he was just another piece on the board.”
I let out a small, breathy laugh. “Careful, Padraig. You’re sayin’ awful brave things for a man standing in a church with a gun pointed at him.”
He leans closer, teeth bared. “What—ye going to play another tune for me, love? Cry for your brother?”
I take one slow step back. And that’s when I see him. Through the broken side window. A flicker of movement in the dark. A familiar silhouette slipping along the outer wall of the chapel, keeping low, thinking himself clever. My Da. My pulse doesn’t spike. It steadies.
Padraig keeps running his mouth, oblivious. “Truth is, you were never the target,” he says. “Collateral damage. Both of ye. The real prize was power.”
I meet his eyes and smile like I’m enjoying this far too much.
“Aye,” I murmur. “Funny thing about power.”
Finn shifts minutely beside me. Not enough to draw notice. Enough to be ready. I tighten the violin string around my fingers.
“Sometimes,” I say gently, “it waits until everyone who thinks they’ve won is standing in the same place.”
Padraig frowns. Just slightly. Outside, my father edges closer to the rear doors. Inside, Padraig Keane keeps talking. And I let him.
Padraig’s mouth keeps moving. Marriage. Alliance. How neat it all looks on paper. How the Malloy girl finally learned her place once a ring was slipped on her finger. How soft I’ve gone. How predictable.
He steps closer. Then closer still. Close enough that I can smell the smoke on him. Close enough that he thinks this chapel still belongs to him.
That’s his mistake.
I move. Fast. Clean. No warning. My hand fists in the front of his coat and Ihaulhim back, twisting hard so his spine slams into my chest. The violin string comes up and around in one smooth, practiced motion, sliding beneath his jaw. I cross my wrists and pull.
