We move. Cat keeps one arm around Siobhan, the other on the gun at her hip. I lead them through a slit in the wall a forklift chewed through years ago and out into the icy rain.
Behind us, dying men groan and a warehouse bleeds. In front of us, the car waits with the engine running and the heater on like I planned it that way.
Siobhan slides into the backseat between Cat and a med blanket Leo appears with. She looks small there, not more than a child. With Cat’s eyes and… No, don’t go there. I slam the door, round the hood, and drop into the passenger’s seat beside Leo.
“Any sight of Tiernan?” Cat asks, voice low.
“Not here. He sent his lieutenants to do his dirty work. He’ll hate that he missed out onme.”
“Good.”
We pull out without lights. In the rearview Siobhan’s eyes flutter, then fix on Cat, then close like she knows she’s safe in her sister’s hands. Cat strokes her hair, gentle in a way I haven’t seen in four years.
The silence grows teeth again. I press my head back and let the ache behind my ribs remind me what we’ve won and what I’ve lost and what I still don’t know how to ask for.
We’re alive. Cat’s sister is breathing. Tiernan will come. Donal will wake in twelve hours angry as the sea.
And the woman sitting behind me, the one who branded a flower and a name over her heart and then told me she cut out our future, stares out at a city that made her. I don’t know if I want to hold her or haunt her.
For now, I close my eyes and just breathe.
CHAPTER 33
A FRIEND
Caitríona
We keep the windows dark as the car slips off the motorway and into a quiet London neighborhood that looks like it was built to mind its business. Terraced houses stand in sober rows, hedges trimmed with precision. It’s the kind of street where nothing bad happens because everyone’s decided it won’t.
It seems perfect.
“End of the cul-de-sac.” I point through the windshield as Matteo steers through the silence. “It’s the one with the blue door.”
He eases to the curb. Our second car, driven by Leo, idles half a block back. His voice crackles indistinctly across the mic in Matteo’s ear. We flew to London with only Matteo’s most trusted guard, picking up a few locals on the way. The smaller the crew the better when it comes to Siobhan.
Matteo cracks the door, and an icy chill seeps in. London’s cold is a different breed. It’s polite until it gets into your bones. He comes around the car and opens the door, flashes of the cocky gentleman I once knew surging to the surface.
“You ready?” he asks.
Siobhan is asleep, her head against the opposite window. I hate to wake her. The exhaustion is carved into the dark shadows across her face.
As if he’s read my mind, he glances between us. “I’ll carry her.” He slides into the backseat, lifts my sister effortlessly and cradles her against his chest. A part of me cracks wide open.
But I bury it down and trail behind him toward the quiet row house. The blue door opens before we lift the brass knocker. Saoirse stands there in an oversized jumper and bare feet, hair in a topknot, and eyes as sharp as the knives she hides in the kitchen. She’s not quite family; she’s my estranged great-aunt’s best friend. Her gaze skates over me, then lands on Siobhan and softens.
“Inside, all of you,” she mutters, ushering us in. To Matteo and Leo, she flicks two fingers toward the hallway. “No shoes. This is England.”
The house is warm and smells like detergent and cinnamon. Siobhan’s lids flutter open as we cross the threshold. She eyes Matteo who’s still holding her, then me and I give her a reassuring smile. She keeps it together like a champion as Matteo releases her and Saoirse folds her into a hug that almost undoes me.
“Guest room,” Saoirse whispers. “The shower’s hot, and there are clean clothes on the bed. You’ll stay hidden until necessary. My neighbors think I’m boring so let’s keep it that way.”
“Thank you,” Siobhan manages.
“I’ll be right back.” I tick my chin at Saoirse.
She nods, understanding flashing, then I lead my sister down the hallway. When we reach the guest bedroom, Siobhan pauses at the door, glancing back down the corridor. Matteo standsin the foyer, muscles tense, something I can read even at a distance. “Who is he, Cait?”
“A friend,” I repeat.
