Crime dropped. Not because Belfast had gone soft, but because the independent operators—the reckless ones, the sloppy ones, the ones who drew too much police attention—got dealt with swiftly. Róisín and Finn ran their empire like a business, not a war zone. Profits went up. Body counts went down. The PSNI didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified.
They settled on both.
The stage lights dimmed.
Róisín walked out into the spotlight alone, violin in hand, and the room went silent. Not the polite silence of a concert hall. The wary silence of people watching a predator decide if it's hungry.
She stood center stage. Lifted the violin. Positioned the bow.
And played.
The melody started soft. Mournful. A lament for what was lost. For Ciaran. For the chapel. For the children they'd been before Belfast demanded they become something harder. The notes climbed and twisted, aching and beautiful, and more than a few men in that audience shifted uncomfortably.
Then it changed.
The tempo picked up. The melody sharpened. What had been grief became fury. What had been sorrow became strength. Her bow moved faster, striking strings with controlled violence, and the music filled the hall like a declaration of war that had already been won.
This was not a performance.
This was a reminder.
Finn watched from the wings, arms crossed, completely still. Declan stood beside him, equally silent, equally aware they were witnessing something important. Something that would be talked about in Belfast for years to come.
Finn had heard her play a thousand times—in their bedroom, in empty rooms, in moments when she thought no one was listening. But this was different. This was public. This was Róisín Malloy telling Belfast exactly who she was and daring anyone to question it.
No one did.
When the final note faded, the silence lasted three full seconds. Then the applause started. Loud. Genuine. Respectful. The kind of applause you gave to power, not just talent.
She lowered the violin. Didn't bow. Didn't smile. Just stood there, letting them see her—the girl who survived, the woman who conquered, the queen who would burn it all down before she let anyone take it from her again.
Backstage, she handed the violin to Finn without a word. He took it carefully, set it in its case, and pulled her against him.
"How'd it feel?" he murmured into her hair.
"Like reclaiming something stolen."
"Good."
She pulled back, looked up at him. "They're waiting."
"Let them wait."
"Finn—"
He kissed her. Slow. Thorough. The kind of kiss that saidminewithout needing words. When he pulled back, her lips were flushed and her eyes had that dangerous glint he loved.
Declan cleared his throat from the doorway. "Hate to interrupt, boss, but you've got about two hundred people out there expecting to see you both."
Finn didn't look away from Róisín. "They can wait a bit longer."
"Finn," Róisín said, but she was smiling. That real smile. The one just for him.
"Fine." He grabbed her hand. "Come on, your majesty. We've got an empire to run."
They walked out together. Through the backstage corridors. Past the dressing rooms. Into the reception hall where Belfast's underworld waited with champagne and careful smiles.
Declan raised his glass first. "To the happy couple. And to not getting shot at board meetings anymore."
