Page 2 of Bloody Knuckles

"This isn't just revenge." I trace the rim of my glass. "The Gallaghers need to understand their position. They cross us, they pay with what they value most. I happen to know what that is."

"And what does Aoife Gallagher mean to you? Revenge? It’s a bit psycho, even for you."

The question hangs between us. What indeed? I've seen her from afar—vibrant red hair, emerald eyes filled with fire. At charity galas where our criminal worlds pretend we’re civilized. In photographs from surveillance. A woman raised in privilege yet rumored to possess a rebellious streak that drives her father to day-drink.

"She's leverage," I reply, but the words taste like a half truth.

Finn's stare cuts deep. "This fixation with her?—"

"Enough." My palm slams against oak, sending tremors through the desk. "This is how I want to do this, and I am in charge."

My brother retreats a step. He knows better than to push when my temper flares. "The men are ready. Just... consider the aftermath."

After he leaves, I examine my battered hands. My reflection stares back from the window—hard eyes, jaw clenched tight. Father's training never included mercy. Mercy gets you killed in Dublin's underworld.

I pull out my phone, scrolling through surveillance photos. Aoife Gallagher entering a club last month. Aoife arguing with her father outside their estate. Aoife laughing with friends, unaware of how close I am, that I have been watching all along.

My thumb pauses on a particular image. Her profile caught in dusk light, that Celtic pendant glinting at her throat. Something about her expression—defiance mixed with vulnerability—triggers an unfamiliar sensation in my chest.

I delete the photo. Sentiment is weakness.

The phone buzzes with a message from Declan.

Target located. Going for it?

Anticipation courses through me. I've wanted this confrontation for months. Years, perhaps. The Gallaghers crossing lines they shouldn't. Liam thinking his family untouchable. Their princess about to learn what happens when you're born to the wrong family.

My knuckles throb as I type a response.

Alive! Do not hurt her, I can’t use broken leverage.

Strange, that instruction. Practicality, I tell myself. Damaged goods lose value as bargaining chips. Yet the thought of marks on her skin—marks not placed by my hand—ignites something possessive and primal.

I drain my whiskey, embracing the burn. Whatever happens next will reshape Dublin's criminal underworld. The Donovan’s will reclaim what's ours. And Aoife Gallagher will pay for her family's sins.

Perhaps she'll fight.I hope she does. Breaking her spirit will br all the more satisfying for me.

The clock strikes midnight. By dawn, she'll be mine to control, to threaten, to use as I see fit. The thought brings a calmness I rarely experience. My father taught me to channel rage into action, turn emotion into weapon.

No room for mistakes. No space for mercy.

CHAPTER2

AOIFE

REBELLION & ROOTS

Islip into The Fiddler's Hearth through the back entrance, the music pulling me in like a current. The pub sits deep in Donovan territory, which makes coming here a death wish, but the risk sends a thrill up my spine. My name—Aoife Gallagher—might as well be painted on my forehead with a target. Still, tonight I need an escape from the suffocating walls of my family's estate.

The ancient wooden floor creaks beneath my boots as I navigate past clusters of smokers. A traditional music session fills the cramped space—bodhrán drum setting a heartbeat as a silver-haired man coaxes notes from a fiddle that make my skin prickle. I tuck my copper hair deeper under my hood, keeping my face down.

"What can I get you?" The barman gives me a once-over, distrust written across his weathered face.

"Jameson. Neat." I slide a few euros across the sticky counter, angling away before he can put a name to my face.

The whiskey burns a path down my throat, warming my insides. I claim a corner spot, positioning myself with a full view of both exits—a survival tactic hammered into me since I could walk.

The musicians huddle together, instruments catching the pub's muted copper tones. Their music starts as a lament before building to a frenetic pace that sends electricity through my veins. For these stolen moments, I can pretend I'm not Patrick Gallagher's daughter, not the heiress to Dublin's most notorious crime family.

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