Page 35 of Bloody Knuckles

Silence falls over the gathering. Even Seamus seems momentarily stunned by her audacity and the undeniable logic of her argument.

I rise then, sliding my arm around her waist. "Well articulated, as always." Turning to the assembly, I add, "My uncle raises valid concerns about messages. Let me clarify mine: The Donovan’s adapt without compromising. We evolve without weakening. And we recognize valuable assets regardless of their origin."

My fingers tighten possessively on her hip. "Miss Gallagher serves my purpose. Anyone questioning that arrangement questionsmyjudgment. Does anyone here wish to do that?"

The challenge hangs in the air. One by one, heads shake. Even Seamus recognizes when he has lost.

"No disrespect intended, nephew," he concedes grudgingly. "Family concerns only."

"Your concern is noted." I raise my glass. "To family—and its growth through new alliances."

The toast resonates through the hall, glasses raised. Beneath the surface cordiality, new lines have been drawn. My authority publicly challenged and publicly reaffirmed, with Aoife as both the catalyst and resolution.

The gathering transitions to business discussions after dinner. I circulate with Aoife, noting how Giovanni Russo and several other key allies seek her out for conversation. Her knowledge of international markets and shipping regulations—courtesy of her family connections—impresses them.

"Your companion is remarkable," Russo tells me privately. "A valuable acquisition indeed."

"More than you know," I reply, sensing her magnetic presence across the room.

My uncle corners her near a display of prison artifacts. His body language radiates aggression despite his plastered smile. Instinct propels me forward, but Declan's hand on my arm stops me.

"Wait," he murmurs. "Let her handle it."

Sure enough, within minutes, my uncle's posture shifts from intimidating to defensive. Aoife speaks animatedly, gesturing to various business associates as she makes some point. By the time I reach them, Seamus appears thoroughly unsettled.

"Cormac," he acknowledges stiffly. "Your... guest was sharing fascinating insights about our Antwerp operation."

"Was she?" I slide my hand to the small of Aoife's back. "And what insights were those?"

"Merely that changing patterns in Belgian customs enforcement might create a vulnerability in your current routing," she supplies smoothly. "Nothing that Mr. Russo hadn't already noticed I’m sure."

Seamus's jaw tightens. "Apparently, Gallagher intelligence extends much further than we realized."

"Indeed." I glance between them. "I trust my uncle has been a good host?"

"Remarkably so," Aoife responds. "He was just explaining the Donovan family succession. Fascinating history."

The barb lands precisely. Seamus has lobbied for years against my leadership, arguing traditional succession should favor his branch over my father's. The fight has already cost him significant standing among our associates.

"Ancient history," he mutters. "If you'll excuse me."

As he retreats, Aoife leans against me slightly. "Your uncle suggested I might serve Donovan interests better under his...protection. Apparently, your judgment regarding Gallaghers is compromised by your father's obsession with mine."

Cold fury surges through me. "Did he now?"

"He also implied that certain associates might question your decision-making since Finn's death." Her voice remains casual, though her body tenses against mine. "Grief apparently clouds rational thought."

"Seamus always did mistake kindness for weakness," I murmur, tracking my uncle's movement toward a circle of older associates. "He won't make another attempt tonight, but this isn't finished."

"Is it ever, with family?" She accepts a champagne flute from a passing server. "Your colleagues seem divided on my being here. The younger contingent—impressed. The old guard—horrified. You are challenging tradition."

"As expected." I guide her toward a quieter alcove, once a prison cell now converted to a display area. "You handled Seamus brilliantly."

"Men like him are predictable," she says, tracing a finger along a centuries-old carving in the wall. "They mistake youth for inexperience, femininity for weakness. Thay truly believe they’re invincible, and that we all should worship them. I bet he has small wrinkle-dick."

"And what mistake am I making with you, Aoife?" I ask, boxing her against the stone wall, my body shielding her from the main gathering.

Her pulse jumps at her throat. "Assuming you're in control of this situation."

---