The Byrne Syndicate, on the other hand, grew from dockside workers who smuggled whatever moved through the ports. They built power through the unions and port foremen. They controlled cranes, shipping schedules, and off-the-record docks long before anyone else understood the value. When the old leader died, his son tried to keep it together, but the true shift happened five years ago when Cillian Byrne took over.
Cillian lost his fiancée in a car bombing that targeted him. The blast killed her instantly. He survived. Since then, he’s been colder, angrier, and more selective about who stands near him. His grief turned into discipline, and discipline turned into growth. He cut out heroin suppliers. He pushed into high-value pharmaceuticals. He doubled his revenue through efficient transport agreements.
The docks answer to him now, and that scares every established family in Dublin.
“Ireland’s criminal landscape isn’t simple,” my father continues. “Old IRA money still moves quietly through shell companies. Foreign suppliers compete for access. British intelligence meddles when it suits them. The Gardaí crack down when the papers demand it, then ease off when politicians make calls.”
He’s survived three decades of this because he understands one rule. A threat ignored becomes a takeover.
“What’s the timeline?” I ask.
“Immediate. You start Monday. Byrne’s HR director will call you within the hour. You’ll accept. You’ll appear eager. You’ll present yourself as someone who wants a clean corporate future.”
“And once I’m inside?”
“You’ll get close to Cillian Byrne. He trusts no one, but he respects competence. He values precision. You’ll give him both.”
I wait. I know there’s more. My father doesn’t bring me into a room alone unless the task has weight.
He steps closer.
“You won’t fail this,” he says.
“I won’t.”
His voice drops. “You remember what his family did to your mother.”
My stomach pulls tight, the way it always does when he brings her up. I was thirteen when the overdose happened, when I stood beside a closed casket and my father put a hand on myshoulder and said, “That’s what the Byrnes leave behind. That’s what they took from us.”
He never lets the story fade. He repeats it whenever he wants to remind me that pain has a source and duty has a direction. “They killed her. And they walked away without consequence,” he says.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“You shouldn’t.” His voice stays even. “You were old enough to understand loss. You’re old enough now to answer it.”
In this family, grief doesn’t weaken you. It shapes you into a weapon. “I know what I owe,” I say.
My father steps closer. He doesn’t touch me. Contact is something he reserves for moments he wants to brand into memory, and this isn’t one of them. “The Byrnes want to expand,” he says. “They’re pushing into Europe and aligning with Spanish suppliers. In all likelihood, they plan to cut us out of routes we’ve controlled since before you were born.”
I nod. “You’ll stop that,” he finishes. “From the inside.”
He turns away, conversation over. I stand there a moment longer, waiting to see if he’ll add anything, but he reaches for his whiskey, which means I’m dismissed.
I walk out of the study and close the door behind me.
Duty waits for me on Monday. A new name, history, and mission.
My last weekend as Saoirse O’Callaghan has just begun.
The O’Callaghan family has its own way of blowing off steam. Alcohol. Crowded rooms. Loud music. Fast nights that push the next day far away. We aren’t the kind of family that hidesindoors. We own pubs, nightclubs, private lounges, and half the security teams that guard them.
So when Aoife texts,We’re going out tonighta few minutes later, it isn’t optional.
I get ready and meet Aoife and Niamh outside Riot Room, a warehouse club in the Liberties known for strong drinks, loud sets, and a back corridor where deals happen under the cameras no one admits exist. It isn’t officially ours, but the owners owe my father enough favors to keep us safe.
“You look like you’re about to be drafted into the army,” Aoife says as we walk in.
“That’s not far from the truth.”
