Page 10 of The Captive
I pondered the offer. Beatrice had access to both O'Brien and potentially Flanagan intelligence. Word was that Patrick O'Brien was notoriously careless with information around various people, including his trophy wife, believing her too dense and drugged to pose any danger.
I typed coordinates for an abandoned church—neutral ground with multiple exit points I'd already mapped.
As I waited for confirmation, my attention turned to the third cabinet. This one required both a key and fingerprint authentication. Inside lay a single item—my father's prized heirloom, a knife that was now mine. I’d coveted it so. The handle was inlaid with obsidian and ivory, studded with a few emeralds, the exquisitely crafted blade inscribed with our family motto:Dílseacht agus Neart.Loyalty and Strength.
This blade had opened the veins of men who had betrayed my father. Its metal had no doubt tasted Flanagan blood before.
"Power isn't about who has the most guns, Aoife," my father had said when he showed me the knife at sixteen. "It's about who knows where to place the blade."
I lifted it, testing its familiar weight. The last time I'd held it was about a month before the Flanagan attack, when my father had pressed it into my hands when I visited.
"If anything happens to me, remember what matters. Not vengeance, but survival.Dílseacht agus Neart.The O'Malleys endure."
I'd nodded, while knowing I’d made contingency plans. I'd memorized every supplier, every distribution route, every weakpoint in rival organizations. I was ready to take the reins and he knew it, whether he’d have chosen this or not.
I messaged Beatrice. My phone vibrated moments later with her confirmation.
I slid the knife into its sheath and secured it beneath my coat. The cold steel against my ribs was comforting—a reminder of the tenets I’d live by.
"Miss O'Malley?" Barrett called from above. "Vehicle approaching."
I closed the cabinets and ascended, the vault sealing behind me.
"Let them come," I said, meeting Barrett's concerned gaze. "The Flanagans think they've exterminated us. That makes us ghosts—and what's more dangerous than something that's already dead?"
The abandoned church stood at the intersection of three territories. Its stone walls were weathered but solid, much like the families that had fought over this land for generations. I arrived thirty minutes early, my standard practice for any meeting, especially with someone rumoured to be unstable.
"Sweep it again," I instructed Barrett as we pulled up.
His disapproval was evident in the tight line of his mouth. "Your father would never have agreed to this meeting like this."
"My father is dead," I replied, the words cutting like glass in my throat. "And his methods died with him."
"Connor O'Malley built an empire?—"
"An empire that burned to ash because he couldn't adapt. Because he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants," I said bluntly. I met his gaze. "I won't make the same mistake, obviously."
I felt the knife's weight against my skin as I entered through the side door, my footsteps echoing on worn stone. The desecrated church had been stripped of religious iconography,leaving only empty alcoves and skeletal remains of pews. Perfect for a conversation meant to leave no witnesses.
I positioned myself where I could see both entrances while keeping a column at my back. Ten minutes passed before the main doors opened, admitting a slender blonde woman in a designer coat.
Beatrice O'Brien moved with deliberate grace, her appearance meticulously maintained—perfectly styled hair, impeccable makeup, clothing that showcased wealth while concealing what lay beneath. Yet something about her energy seemed barely contained, like electricity arcing beneath her skin.
"Aoife O'Malley," she said, her voice carrying the polished inflection of someone accustomed to being heard in crowded rooms. "You're even more striking than your photographs suggest. Your father hid you well."
I offered a calculated smile. "Mrs. O'Brien. You mentioned information about the Flanagans."
"So formal." She approached, stopping at a respectful distance. Up close, I noticed the slight tremor in her hands. Her pupils were dilated despite the dim light—either fear or something chemical. "We're practically sisters-in-law by proxy, aren't we? My sister married the man who killed your father."
"I wasn't aware we were here to discuss family connections," I said coolly.
She laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Aren't we? That's all this business is—family and blood. The ties that bind and strangle."
Behind her composure lurked something volatile—a dangerous instability carefully masked by her designer exterior. Her eyes were too bright, her movements too precisely controlled, like a cobra coiled to strike.
"Call me Beatrice. After all, we share common enemies."
"Do we?" I studied her. Beneath the expensive perfume and cosmetics, I detected something equally fragile and treacherous—crystal shattered into glittering, razor-edged fragments.
