The wire sings. Padraig Keane chokes. I force him to turn, using his body like a shield, dragging him so he’s facing the two men flanking the doors.
“Careful,” I murmur into his ear, calm as prayer. “You’ll tear it if you struggle.”
His hands fly up, clawing uselessly at the string. His boots scrape against the stone as panic finally cracks through his bravado. Behind him, his men react. Two guns come up. Two sharp inhales.
Padraig coughs out a laugh—wet, strained, still smug even as his face darkens. “See?” he rasps. “Three of us. Two of you.”
I tighten the string just enough to steal the rest of his breath. Finn steps in beside me—silent, lethal, exactly where he needs to be. I don’t look at him. I don’t have to. His presence is iron at my side, steady and unflinching.
Padraig laughs again, thin and desperate, convinced numbers still matter. The chapel goes still. Candles flicker. Stone remembers. And I hold him there—wire cutting into skin, his two men frozen with their guns raised, waiting.
“Funny thing,” I say quietly, the wire biting deeper as Padraig’s breath starts to hitch, “about men like you.” I lean closer, my mouth just beside his ear, my voice meant for him—but I don’t bother lowering it. “You always underestimate the woman standing in front of you.”
His pulse jumps beneath the string.
“My brother did everything right,” I continue, calm as confession. “He stood between me and the blade. Betweenme and the bullet. Between me and men who thought I wasexpendable.”
Padraig makes a choking sound that might be a scoff.
“And still,” I murmur, tightening my grip, “you all keep making the same mistake.”
One of his men panics. The gun comes up too fast. Too eager. Too stupid. I move without thinking—yanking Padraig back hard, twisting him fully into my body as the shot cracks through the chapel. The bullet punches into Padraig’s shoulder instead. He screams. Blood sprays hot across my knuckles, across the front of my dress, across the stone that has already seen worse.
“Don’t,” Finn says, voice like iron slamming shut. The second man freezes, gun shaking in his hands. “Don’t fire again unless you’re ready to watch your boss die in front of you.”
Padraig wheezes, the laugh tearing out of him even as blood pours down his arm. “They’ll kill you,” he gasps, voice breaking now, panic finally winning. “Both of you. Before I bleed out.”
I feel Finn shift beside me—steady, lethal, unmoved. And I laugh. Soft. Genuine. Almost amused. I lean closer, the string cutting deeper into his throat as he struggles to breathe.
“Is mise an bhás a shiúil chugat,” I whisper in Irish.I am the death that walked to you.
Padraig chokes out a laugh that’s more blood than breath. “You can’t,” he rasps. “You won’t. You touch me and my family will burn Belfast to the ground.”
I smile.
“That’s the thing about families,” I say softly. “They always think they’re untouchable.”
Footsteps echo behind us. Measured. Familiar. I don’t turn. I don’t need to. My da steps out from the shadows at the back of the chapel, coat dark, eyes colder than the stone beneath our feet. A gun rests easy in his hand—no tremor, no hurry. Padraig’s eyes go wide.
I tilt my head, almost thoughtful. “Oh,” I say lightly. “Would you look at that.”
Finn shifts closer to my side, gun steady. My da raises his.
“Three,” I murmur, tightening the string just enough to make Padraig gasp, “and three.”
The panic finally hits him. Real. Unmistakable. And delicious. My father steps fully into the light, the chapel candles catching the silver at his temples. He doesn’t look at me first. He looks at Padraig.
“Is mise an bhás a shiúil chugat,” I whisper in Irish.I am the death that walked to you.
Padraig chokes out a laugh that’s more blood than breath. “You can’t,” he rasps. “You won’t. You touch me and my family will burn Belfast to the ground.”
“You lied,” he says mildly. Not loud. Not angry. The kind of voice that has already decided how this ends. “About the sale. About the signatures. About whose blood gave you the right to stand on Malloy land.”
Padraig swallows against the string at his throat. It makes a thin, pathetic sound.
“The Thorns of Belfast don’t sell,” my father continues. “We bury. We defend. We outlast.” His gaze flicks briefly to Finn—acknowledgment, respect—then back to Padraig. “And we don’t take kindly to men who think ink on paper means more than bones in the ground.”
He finally looks at me then. Not with worry. Not with regret. With pride.
