Page 29 of Bloody Knuckles

"Until the O'Connell Street shipment," Cormac says. "Where my men died."

"Liam's unilateral decision. It angered Finn, apparently. Changed the dynamic between them."

"And my taking you?"

"Unexpected. It disrupted their balance. Things were already heading south."

Cormac absorbs this information in silence. His hand rests on the seat between us, knuckles still scabbed from Finn's beating.

"You risked everything for this information," he says finally. "Why not just tell me your suspicions?"

"Would you have believed me? Or assumed I was manipulating you?"

His silence confirms my suspicions.

"Besides," I continue, "I needed proof before confronting my father. Murphy gave me that."

"Murphy is dead."

"But his phone isn't." I pull the device from my pocket. "Took it while checking his pulse. Everything's here—texts, voice memos, account numbers."

Cormac's hand closes around mine, taking the phone. "Clever girl."

"You should be thanking me," I say. "I've handed you the architect behind your brother's betrayal."

"After drugging my security chief, stealing his weapon, and nearly getting yourself killed. Oh, and causing a shoot-out in church, the one place gangster usually fucking behave." His voice drops lower. "Gratitude isn't what I'm feeling right now, princess."

The Range Rover turns down an unfamiliar street, away from the city center.

"Where are we going?" I ask, suddenly aware we're not heading to the penthouse.

"Somewhere safer. The Cassidys know you've escaped. They'll be watching your penthouse now."

We drive in tense silence through Dublin suburbs until reaching a private gate nestled between ancient oak trees. A modernist structure emerges from manicured grounds—glass and stone merging with the natural landscape.

"Your house?" I ask as Declan stops at the entrance.

"One of them." Cormac's hand finds the small of my back as he guides me inside. "Declan, secure the perimeter. No visitors."

The interior matches Cormac's aesthetic—minimalist luxury, nothing fancy. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Dublin Mountains, the city spread below like a carpet of lights as evening approaches.

"Your temporary accommodation," Cormac says, closing the door behind us. "Until I decide what to do with you."

"With me? Or with the information I gave you?"

"Both." He removes his suit jacket, tossing it aside to reveal a crimson-stained shirt beneath. Not his blood—one of the Cassidy men.

The adrenaline that carried me through the cathedral finally ebbs, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My bare feet ache from running across stone floors. My clothes covered in smudges of Murphy's blood where I knelt beside him.

"You could have been killed," Cormac says, breaking the silence. His voice laced with something beyond anger—concern disguised as an accusation.

"So could you, coming after me."

"I didn't come after you," he corrects. "I came before you. I was already there, watching the cathedral, waiting to see who Murphy met."

The realization hits me. "You knew about him. He was in your book."

"I suspected. After Finn, I had everyone connected to him under surveillance." He moves toward a bar cart, pouring two fingers of whiskey. "I didn't expect you to be his contact."

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