Page 25 of Bloody Knuckles

Reality crashes back as the warehouse door creaks. I step back quickly, putting distance between us as Aoife adjusts her clothing with shaking hands.

Connor enters, carefully neutral as he assesses the scene—the body, the blood, our disheveled state.

"Clean-up team is five minutes out," he reports. "And Mr. Gallagher has responded to our demands."

Compartmentalization snaps back into place. Business first. Always.

"His answer?"

"Rejected everything on it, but offered monetary compensation for the shipment. And—" Connor hesitates, "—a counterproposal. He wants a meeting. You and him, neutral ground."

Interesting. Patrick Gallagher, legendary for refusing to negotiate directly, now requests a face-to-face. The game shifts again.

"Arrange it," I tell Connor. "And return Miss Gallagher to her accommodations."

Connor nods, moving toward Aoife. She allows herself to be guided toward the door, but pauses on the threshold.

"Your brother was wrong," she says quietly. "About you becoming your father. And my father, will try to kill you."

"You don't know my father."

"I know sons who become their fathers," she responds. "And sons who define themselves by opposing them. You're the latter, not the former."

With that, she disappears through the door, leaving me alone with my brother's body and her unsettling insights.

I run blood-stained hands through my hair, exhaling slowly. Tonight, changed things I didn't realize needed to change. Finn's betrayal. Patrick's unexpected response. And Aoife—seeing through the armor I thought impenetrable.

The cleanup team will erase all physical evidence of tonight's events. But nothing will erase what happened between Aoife and me against that column. Nothing will erase the knowledge that she witnessed not just my brutality, but the cost of it. Not just the monster, but the man.

And that makes her more dangerous than anyone.

CHAPTER8

AOIFE

FLAMES & FAITH

The penthouse feels different after witnessing Finn's execution. Cormac's security doubled overnight—two guards at the door, hourly check-ins, cameras repositioned so there are no blind spots. My failed escape attempt and his brother's betrayal have made him paranoid.

But his precautions have one fatal flaw: they focus on keeping me in, not keeping others out.

The priest arrives at precisely ten o'clock. Connor escorts him into the living room where I wait, dressed in the modest black dress Cormac provided after I "accidentally" damaged my other clothes.

"Father Donohue," Connor announces. "Twenty minutes."

The priest nods, clutching his Bible to his chest. His collar sits slightly crooked, a sign of haste or nerves. Late fifties, thinning gray hair, and soft hands that have never known violence.

Perfect.

Connor leaves us alone—Cormac's standing order for my weekly spiritual counsel. A courtesy he grants me despite our circumstances. The only visitor I'm allowed besides himself.

"Miss Gallagher," Father Donohue greets me, his voice carrying the soft lilt of Galway. "How are you faring this week?"

I wait until the door clicks shut. "Better than expected, Father. Did you bring what I requested?"

He shifts uncomfortably. "Miss Gallagher, I'm not certain this is appropriate. Using confession as?—"

"Five thousand euros." I cut him off, gesturing to the envelope on the coffee table. "For your parish feeding scheme. No questions asked."

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