Page 34 of Bloody Knuckles

The long tables arranged in the central hall bear the weight of an extravagant meal. I guide Aoife to the head table, seating her at my right—the position of highest honor. Another calculated insult to my uncle, who typically occupies that space.

He takes a seat farther down, fury simmering beneath his congenial façade. Throughout the first course, Aoife carries conversation with surprising grace, deflecting personal questions while charming the wives of key associates.

"Your Italian is impressive," remarks Giovanni Russo, our connection to the Sicilian families. "Where did you study?"

"Florence, for a summer," Aoife replies in perfect Italian. "Though my accent is regrettably Roman."

Russo laughs delightedly, launching into a story about regional rivalries that captivates the table. I place my hand on her thigh beneath the tablecloth, squeezing appreciatively.

She leans close, lips brushing my ear. "Your uncle hasn't moved in five minutes. I fear he might spontaneously combust."

"Let him burn," I murmur, sliding my hand higher, feeling her muscles tense beneath silk. "You're exceeding expectations."

"Don't sound so surprised." Her hand covers mine, stilling its ascent. "I was raised in this world, same as you. I know how to play the part, and read the room."

The reminder sends an unexpected pang through me. For days I've lost myself in her body, momentarily forgetting the generations of blood between our families. The sins of fathers visited upon children.

Seamus rises after the main course, tapping his glass for attention. Protocol dictates I speak first at these gatherings, another deliberate challenge.

"Friends, family," he begins, voice carrying through the vaulted space. "Before we proceed to business matters, I'd like to address the elephant in the room."

Silence falls. Beside me, Aoife straightens imperceptibly.

"The Donovan family has maintained power in Dublin through strength, yes, but also through consistency of purpose." Seamus gestures expansively. "We've survived because our enemies understand our code. Cross us, pay the price. Loyalty above all."

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the gathering.

"Yet tonight, we find ourselves in unprecedented territory." He directs his words toward Aoife. "A Gallagher sits at our table. Not in chains, but in silk. Not as penalty, but as guest."

"Your point, Uncle?" I interject, voice dangerously soft.

"My point, nephew, is that mixed messages create vulnerability." He sets down his glass. "The Gallaghers stole our shipment. Killed our men. And now their princess dines at your right hand? What message does this send?"

I make to stand, but Aoife's hand on my arm stops me. To my surprise, she rises instead, commanding attention with regal posture.

"Mr. Donovan," she addresses Seamus directly, "your concern for family messaging is admirable. Perhaps I might offer perspective that clarifies rather than confuses?"

Seamus pauses, wrong-footed by her intervention. "By all means, Miss Gallagher. Enlighten us."

"My presence here serves multiple purposes," she begins, voice carrying confidently. "First, it demonstrates the complete dominance your nephew holds over the situation. I am here because he wills it, neither more nor less."

Approving nods from several associates.

"Second, it signals evolution rather than capitulation." She gestures to the historic prison around us. "These walls once held revolutionaries fighting against empire. Men who understood that sometimes, to preserve what matters, things must change while principles remain constant."

She lifts her glass. "The Donovan principles—strength, loyalty, consequence—remain unchanged. What's changed is the recognition that old wars sometimes require new weapons."

"Pretty words from a hostage," Seamus counters. "But actions speak louder. My nephew keeps you in luxury rather than leverage. Parades you at family functions rather than using you to crush your father."

"And you believe that demonstrates weakness?" Aoife laughs, the sound echoing off stone walls. "Mr. Donovan, forgive my directness, but that perspective betrays an outdated understanding of power. You’re old, and old me, living by old rules, go extinct."

Tension crackles through the room. No one speaks to Seamus Donovan this way, especially not an enemy's daughter.

"Your nephew didn't bring me here for your approval," she continues. "He brought me to show that he controls every aspect of this situation—including me."

Her hand drops to my shoulder, a possessive gesture that sends heat through my veins.

"The true measure of power isn't how severely you punish enemies, but how thoroughly you convert them to your purpose." Her smile could cut glass. "Ask yourself, which takes greater mastery? Keeping me locked away? Or having me willingly stand beside Dublin's most feared man, serving his interests above my family's? Keep your enemies close?"

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