Laughter rippled through the crowd—genuine, relieved. The consolidation had been bloody, yes, but it had also brought stability. Predictability. Profit.
Others followed. Glasses lifted. Toasts made. Alliances reinforced.
Cillian Malloy approached slowly, drink in hand, looking like a man approaching a fire he'd accidentally started. "You played beautifully,a stór."
"Thank you, Da." Her voice was neutral. Polite. The way you'd speak to a business associate, not a father.
He nodded. Understood the distance. Earned it. "Your brother would've been proud."
Something flickered in her eyes. "Aye. He would've."
Cillian left it at that. Wise enough not to push. Wise enough to know his daughter's mercy had limits and he'd used most of them up.
Finn's hand found the small of her back. Grounding. Present. Always there.
Siobhan O'Callaghan appeared next, lips pursed, eyes sharp. "You've done well," she said to Róisín. Not warm. But genuine. "Better than I expected."
"Thank you, Siobhan." Róisín's smile was sharp as a knife. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It is one." The older woman glanced at Finn. "Your father's a fool for missing this."
"Aye," Finn agreed easily. "He is."
Siobhan's gaze returned to Róisín. "Cormac will come around. Or he won't. Either way, you've got the family's support. The ones that matter, anyway."
"Appreciated," Róisín said.
"Welcome to the family, girl. Properly this time."
It was as close to a blessing as the woman would give. Róisín accepted it with a nod.
The reception continued. Drinks flowed. Conversations happened—some genuine, most strategic. Belfast's underworld did what it did best: adapted, negotiated, survived.
Declan worked the room like the professional he was—shaking hands, making promises, ensuring everyone understood the new order. He caught Finn's eye once, jerked his chin toward a group in the corner that looked nervous. Finn nodded. They'd deal with it later. Tonight was about showing unity. Tomorrow was for handling problems.
By midnight, the crowd had thinned. The important conversations had been had. The alliances had been reaffirmed. The empire had been reminded who ruled it.
Róisín stood on the balcony overlooking the River Lagan, champagne forgotten in her hand, watching the city lights reflect on dark water. Belfast stretched out before her—scarred, beautiful, brutal, hers.
Finn joined her, sliding an arm around her waist. "What are you thinking?"
"That we did it." She leaned into him. "We actually did it."
"Aye." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "We did."
"They said we'd destroy each other."
"We did," he agreed. "And then we rebuilt."
She turned in his arms, looped hers around his neck. "Think it'll last?"
"The peace?" He considered. "Aye. Long as we're the ones enforcing it."
"That's not peace, Finn. That's fear."
"In Belfast?" He grinned. "Same thing, love."
She laughed, shook her head. "We're terrible people."
