Page 8 of Dublin Charmer

The sounds of chaos continue downstairs: glass breaking, more shouting, another burst of gunfire. I check the hallway through a crack in the open door and then give Ginny a nod. “Ready?”

Her face is pale, but she squares her shoulders and nods.

I pull the door open, and we step into the corridor, leaving behind the rumpled bedspread and the body of the man who dared interrupt us.

Christ, it already feels like that moment belongs to another lifetime.

CHAPTER THREE

Finn

We move toward the grand staircase, the opulent Christmas decorations now a grotesque mockery of celebration. Crystal ornaments glitter beneath the emergency lights as shouts echo up from below. The violence feels obscene against the backdrop of such beauty—like someone taking a knife to a masterpiece painting.

Blood spatters across white marble. Bullet holes in antique woodwork. Our family’s annual tradition desecrated.

I spot three of Gravely’s men at the bottom of the stairs, backs to us as they guard the entrance to the ballroom. They’re dressed in black tactical gear, completely out of place among the evening gowns and tuxedos scattered across the floor.

Ginny taps my shoulder and signals with her fingers: three targets. She’ll take them.

I dip my chin in understanding and allow her to pass.

She steps out onto the staircase, gun raised. The first shot cracks through the air before they even register our presence. One man drops, then another as she descends with terrifyingprecision. The third man spins, raising his weapon, but Ginny’s already firing—a clean shot through his throat.

“Jesus,” I whisper, following her down.

“Technically, no, though I’m not opposed to being worshipped as a goddess.” Her voice is steady despite the chaos, and I marvel at her.

She is definitely her father’s daughter.

When we make it to the main floor, I crouch beside the last man she dropped and grab his semi-automatic. The weight feels foreign in my hands—I’m more comfortable with keyboards than triggers—but tonight calls for adaptability.

“Stay tight to the walls. Head on a swivel, aye?”

She nods. “Aye, I’m good.”

We press close to the wall, inching toward the ballroom. The sound of gunfire comes in sporadic bursts now. Someone’s crying—a woman. I search the disaster zone of the corridor, praying not to see any of the wives.

Even the idea of it makes me sick to my stomach.

I follow the hushed whimpering into the parlor and train my gun toward the shadowed corner. My finger relaxes on the trigger when I recognize the couple hiding there—James Donovan, one of our biggest legitimate business partners, and his wife, Elise.

They’re huddled behind a velvet chaise lounge, her evening gown torn at the shoulder, his face streaked with someone else’s blood.

“Mr. Donovan,” I whisper, lowering my weapon. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but they’re killing everyone,” Elise chokes out. “Several of the guests and the catering staff…”

Fucking hell.They aren’t just after us—they’re here for a massacre.

“There’s a service door behind that tapestry.” Ginny points to the far wall. “I saw them use it during the setup this afternoon.”

I check that we’re still undetected and urge them to move. Ginny covers us as I lead the way and flip back the heavy tapestry. Opening the narrow wooden door behind, I glance down the steps to the basement. “Find somewhere to hide and stay quiet until one of us comes for you.”

They disappear into the dark stairwell, and I close the door behind them. One minor victory in this nightmare.

“Ballroom?” Ginny whispers, checking her ammunition.

“Aye.” That’s where we left everyone we love.