"The Flanagans did a number on you. And they gave me to Patrick O'Brien like a peace offering." Something flickered across her face. "We both have reasons to want them to suffer."
"I prefer to think of it as restoring balance," I said. "Justice has its place in our world."
"Justice." She tested the word like a foreign delicacy. "Is that what you tell yourself? That this isn't about the way your heart pounds when you imagine them bleed?"
Her perception was uncomfortably acute.
"You don't know me, Mrs. O'Brien."
"Don't I?" She stepped closer, her perfume—expensive with undertones of vanilla and amber—enveloping us. "I know what it's like to be underestimated. To be seen as decorative rather than a woman of substance. The perfect daughter. The beautiful wife. Roles we play while we wait for our moment."
She wasn't entirely wrong. From childhood, I'd been groomed to appear harmless—sent to the finest schools, taught to move in aristocratic circles, to speak multiple languages, to appear cultured and refined. All while my father had his own plans. At first I’d been nothing but a means to an end. A puppet.
"You said you had information about Alexander Moore," I redirected.
She opened a slim leather portfolio, removing photographs and documents with gloved hands. "Alexander Moore. Ronan Flanagan's right hand. The one who planned the explosion that killed your father and destroyed your home."
I examined the materials, keeping my expression neutral despite my surprise. The documentation was detailed—surveillance photos of Alexander at the O'Malley estate days before the attack, blueprints with explosive placement markedin precise handwriting, supply requisitions for materials used in the detonation.
"These could be fabricated," I said, testing her reaction.
Her eyes flashed with something dangerous—a glimpse of something revealing a depth of obsession that made me instinctively reach for my knife.
"I don't need to fabricate evidence against Alexander Moore." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "He has enough real sins to answer for."
"Alexander is an arsehole with brains," she continued, her voice taking on an almost reverent quality. "He designed the operation while Ronan signed off on everything. Without Alexander, your father would still be alive."
As she spoke, her sleeve rode up, revealing a pattern of bruises and rope burns encircling her wrist. She noticed my gaze and quickly adjusted her cuff.
"Patrick's work?" I asked bluntly.
Her smile became razor-thin. "My husband believes a wife should know her place. Much like your father's world—men who think power means controlling women's bodies."
"My father never raised a hand to any woman," I defended automatically. Well, I wasn’t sure if that was true, but that’s what he’d often stressed.
"No?" She tilted her head, unnervingly birdlike. "Yet he raised you to take his place in a world built on violence." She gestured to my concealed knife. "Taught you to kill while maintaining your manicure."
"You know nothing about my relationship with my father," I said coldly.
"I know he kept you hidden away, like a secret weapon. He had to have expected you to marry strategically while secretly running his empire." Her gaze was perceptive. "Tell me, Aoife,did he ever ask what you wanted? Or were you just another asset to be deployed in the O’Malley name?"
The questions struck too close to home—the same ones that had haunted me during sleepless nights.
"What do you want in exchange for this information?" I asked, redirecting the conversation to its original purpose.
"Access," she replied simply. "I can provide O'Brien shipping routes, security protocols, and financial details. All I ask is your help in eliminating Alexander Moore."
I calculated rapidly. Beatrice's fixation on Alexander seemed personal, almost obsessive. Yet the access she offered to O'Brien operations was valuable.
"Why Alexander specifically?" I pressed. "Ronan Flanagan gave the orders."
Something flashed in her eyes—a momentary intensity that bordered on mania before being carefully suppressed.
"Ronan is in London, surrounded by security. Alexander is here, vulnerable, overconfident. And he does all the work." She leaned forward, her control slipping just enough to reveal a hint of madness. "He's the architect of your family's destruction and the keeper of Flanagan operations in England. Without him, that family would crumble."
Her logic was sound, even if her energy wasn't. I noticed her nails digging into her palms as she spoke of Alexander, leaving crescent-shaped marks. Whatever connection existed between them went beyond professional rivalry.
"Let me be clear, Mrs. O'Brien," I said firmly. "I don't trust you. I suspect your motives regarding Alexander Moore are way too personal. But that doesn't mean we can't be useful to each other."
