Page 29

Once everything’s in order, I leave the shooting range and head to my room.

The familiar weight of the folded paper in my bedside drawer is a comfort I’ve clung to for years.Sitting on the edge of my bed, I carefully unfold it.The creases are worn, the ink slightly faded, but the words are still as clear as the day we wrote them.

We were seven years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the old treehouse in the back garden.The summer air was thick with the smell of grass and sunshine.Ruairi was already trying to boss me around, even then.

“Da says I’ll run the Syndicate one day,” Ruairi declares, puffing out his chest in the way he always did when he wanted to sound important.

“You mean we’ll run the Syndicate,” I correct, crossing my arms.

His mouth pulls into a small frown, and he scrunches his nose but, after a moment, gives a quick nod.“Fine.We’ll run the Syndicate.”

“Together,” I add.

“Together,” he agrees.

I grab a scrap of paper from the small desk in the corner, and with my tongue sticking out in concentration, scrawl the words:

We promise to run the Quigley Syndicate together, side by side.

I push the paper toward him.“Sign it.”

“Wait,” he says, flashing a small pocketknife he isn’t supposed to have.“If we’re making promises, it has to be real.”

I don’t hesitate, holding out my hand as he makes a tiny slice on the tip of my finger.The sting is sharp but quick, and after he does the same to his finger, we press them to the page, smearing tiny drops of blood over our signatures.

“There,” he says, grinning.“Now it’s official.”

I smile back, tucking the paper into my pocket like it’s the most important thing in the world.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me back to the present.I refold the note carefully, slipping it into my pocket.

This isn’t just a childhood promise.It’s a pact we made together.And it’s time for my brother to keep his end of it.

Standing, I square my shoulders and head toward Ruairi’s office.

Stepping inside, it’s just as I remember it.Dark wood, shelves lined with books.The faint scent of our father’s cologne lingers in the air.Ruairi sits behind the desk, motioning for me to take the chair opposite him.

“What’s on your mind?”he asks, leaning back slightly.

I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing the worn paper.My stomach knots as I pull it out, but I force myself to stay composed.

“I want to take my place beside you,” I say firmly, meeting his gaze.

He groans, rolling his eyes.“Not this again.”

The dismissal stings, and I sit up straighter.“Yes, this again.I’ve spent years preparing for this.While I was traveling, I wasn’t just sightseeing—I was training.I’ve studied Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Muay Thai.I’ve learned how to shoot, as you’ve seen for yourself.”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I’ve been working for this,” I continue, my voice rising.“I’m not asking to jump into something big.Let me start small.Anything.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward.“No.It’s not happening.”

Anger flares in my chest.“Why not?”

“The Syndicate isn’t a game, and it’s no place for a girl.”

My hands ball into fists at his words, the condescension igniting every ounce of frustration I’ve been holding back.“You’re unbelievable,” I snap.“You’re so stuck in your own head you can’t see past this archaic, sexist bullshit.”