Page 57 of When Kings Rise

When Niamh ends the call, her eyes meet mine, holding a storm within them. “It was Rian,” she says, her voice a mix of hope and dread. “He thinks he has the identity of the woman.”

A chill runs down my spine, and the delicious aromas around me suddenly don’t register. The weight of our investigation crashes into me with renewed force. We're not just playing a game of affection and intrigue; we're knee-deep in a conspiracy, a murder. The realization makes my earlier worries seem naive, a fool's errand of trying to compartmentalize my life into manageable, unthreatening pieces.

I watch as the last of the chocolates are tucked into the box, the ribbon tied with a flourish that now feels grotesquely out of place. Turning to Niamh, I muster a faint smile; the question about the chocolate feels hollow. “Do you... want your chocolate?” My voice is barely above a whisper, laced with a sudden lack of appetite that mirrors my inner turmoil.

Niamh shakes her head, her gaze distant. “Not hungry,” she murmurs, and I can see the gears turning behind her eyes, processing the call with Rian, the implications of what he's discovered.

We leave the shop, the box of chocolates in my hand feeling like a leaden weight. Neither of us has the heart to indulge in them, not with the shadow of the murder looming over us. As we walk, the streets seem less vibrant, the laughter and chatter around us a discordant soundtrack to the grim reality we're entangled in. The sweet anticipation of enjoying our treats evaporates, replaced by a cold determination to face whatever comes next.

Rian's apartment feels like a storm's epicenter as we step inside. He dashes back to his cluttered table in a whirlwind of papers without a word of greeting. His excitement is palpable, infectious even, but I'm rooted to the spot, a sense of dread building within me.

“It wasn't easy,” Rian starts, his words tumbling out as fast as he moves, shuffling through the documents with frenzied precision. “I've been at this non-stop since you described the composite sketch. And you won't believe where I finally found her identity—a paparazzi blog, of all places.”

Niamh and I exchange a look. The absurdity of the situation is not lost on us, yet the gravity of what Rian says anchors us to the moment. He slides a photograph across the table toward us, his fingers trembling slightly with the weight of his discovery.

The woman in the photo turns, her gaze caught by the camera as if she knew this moment was coming. She's beautiful, undeniably so, with an elegance that seems at odds with her fate. Her hair, styled perfectly, frames her face, and the black dress under her peacoat speaks of a night out, perhaps one filled with laughter and life—so starkly different from how her story ended.

Looking at her, alive and vibrant, sends a chill through me, a visceral reaction as the memory of the bruising around her neck flashes in my mind. It's a stark reminder of the brutality she faced, a contrast so jarring against the glamorous image before us. My stomach turns, the injustice of her death a heavy, suffocating blanket.

“She looks...” Niamh starts, her voice trailing off, lost in the same morass of emotions that I'm drowning in.

“Like she didn't deserve what happened to her,” I finish for her, my voice barely a whisper. The room feels smaller somehow, the walls closing in as the reality of what we're dealing with settles heavily on my shoulders. We're not just hunting shadows; we're seeking justice for a woman who had her life cruelly snatched away.

“Her name is Sofia Hughes,” Rian announces, the solemnity in his tone contrasting sharply with his earlier excitement. My gaze shifts back to the photo, to Sofia's image, and I don't doubt him for a second. The resemblance to the body we saw, to the sketch the coroner had, is undeniable. The article he's referring to paints a picture of a woman caught in a dangerous liaison—a freelance journalist rumored to be entangled with someone high up in the government.

“A cover-up for an affair,” I murmur, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “But murder... It seems so drastic.”

Niamh is quiet for a moment; her thoughts are obviously elsewhere. Then, hesitantly, she asks, “Is Sofia's family looking for her?” Her voice is tinged with a personal anguish that doesn't escape me. I know she's thinking of her own sister, the fear of something happening to her lurking in the back of her mind.

Rian doesn't miss a beat, pulling up a social media post on his laptop. It's a plea from Sofia's sister, Nessa, asking about Sofia's whereabouts. The post is accompanied by a photo of Sofia and Nessa together, laughing as they share ice cream. Their joy is palpable, their smiles bright, yet now, knowing Sofia's fate, those smiles haunt me.

“Sofia has a family,” I state, the realization hitting me with full force. These are not just names and faces in a case file. These are real people torn apart by tragedy, their lives irrevocably altered. Niamh and I lock eyes, a silent agreement passing between us. We have to find them.

Seeing Sofia's smile and thinking of Nessa's unanswered questions solidifies my resolve. This is more than just solving a crime; it's about bringing peace to a family shattered by loss.

“We'll find them,” Niamh says, her determination mirroring my own. “For Sofia.”

For a moment, the room is filled with an unspoken vow, a commitment to this cause that goes beyond curiosity or the thrill of the hunt. We're bound by a sense of justice, a need to right a wrong that's all too common in a world that often turns a blind eye to the pain of others. Sofia's story is a tragic reminder of that, but in her memory, we find our mission.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Diarmuid

THE WORLD OUTSIDE the car window blurs into a palette of greens and grays as I navigate the now familiar road toward Amira's house. My attempts to reach her have been met with silence, her deliberate avoidance echoing louder than any words she might have hurled my way. It frustrates me, angers me, even. My life is busy enough as it is and chasing after Amira's dramatics is a complication I can ill afford.

Wolf knows—or at least, I think he does. That revelation alone carries the weight of a looming confrontation, a debt between us that's yet to be settled. Part of me had expected him to come at me guns blazing, quite literally, given the chance. But this version of Wolf, one that's cold, calculating, and ominously patient, is unfamiliar. It's unsettling, not knowing what to expect from him now. This isn't the man I once understood, and that unpredictability adds an edge to my already frayed nerves.

As I turn into the driveway, the extensive stretch of it reminds me of Amira’s family’s involvement with the Hands of the Kings. Out of the three Brides, Amira's family undoubtedly boasts the most expansive property, a fact that traces back to a time when her father, John Reardon, had ambitions aligned with those of the O’Sullivans. He was supposed to initiate the same gun trade I find myself entrenched in now. However, fate had a cruel twist in store when John, in assembling his crew, unwittingly welcomed an undercover Interpol agent into their midst.

The fallout was nearly catastrophic, threatening not just the O’Sullivans but the Hand of Kings itself. In the aftermath, Michael Reardon, the eldest son, became collateral, a hostage in a game of power and retaliation. Andrew O’Sullivan, driven by a thirst for vengeance against John, saw no solution other than death. But Victor, ever the strategist, saw potential where others saw only ruin. Thus, the Reardons were thrust into our world via a transaction of blood for loyalty, but they never received the same standing as my brothers and me.

My hand tightens on the steering wheel, the car’s steady hum a contrast to the storm brewing within me.

I park in front of the house; the familiar is now a grim marker of what awaits. The front door, slightly ajar, sends a shiver down my spine. With a cautious push, I open it wider and draw my gun, the weight of it in my hand a cold comfort.

The first thing that hits me is the state of the foyer. It's a mess, a shadow of its former glory. This house, with its sprawling estate close to the shore, was designed to breathe in the fresh sea air, to stand as a testament to the Reardon’s wealth and taste. Now, it's suffocating under a layer of neglect. The air is stale, thick with the scent of decay.

As I move silently through the darkened corridors, a sliver of light from the kitchen beckons. What I find there stops me in my tracks. The kitchen is in ruins. Empty bottles clutter the countertops and floor, a silent testimony to despair or madness. The sink overflows, water spilling over the broken tiles, seeping into the grout like open wounds. The destruction is complete, a cabinet door hanging off its hinges like a final, desperate cry.

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