You barely have time to lock the door behind you before it crashes open, splintering against the wall. You spin around, your heart in your throat, and there he is. Broad shoulders framed in the doorway, his green eyes sharp as broken glass. The air shifts, heavy and dangerous, as his gaze lands on you.

“Where’s yer da?” he says, his voice low, rough, and undeniably Irish. It’s not a question—it’s a demand.

You don’t answer. You can’t. All you can think is this is it. The name Malachy Byrne has hung over your head like a curse for years, whispered by your mother in half-drunk warnings. “If he finds ye, run,” she’d said. But you can’t run now. Not with his men filling the room behind him like shadows.

“Cat got yer tongue, girl?” His lips curl into a humorless smirk. “Or are ye just daft, thinkin’ ye can hide somethin’ from me?”

“I don’t know where he is,” you manage, your voice steadier than you expect.

Malachy steps into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t need to. He knows he’s already won. “Ye expect me to believe that? Yer da owes me more than coin. He owes me blood. And I think ye know it.”

Your hands ball into fists. “I haven’t seen him in years. He left us. Left me.”

He pauses, his eyes calculating. “Aye, that sounds like the bastard. But that doesn’t change what he’s done. And now ye’re his collateral.”

“I’m not a pawn in your game,” you snap, though your knees feel weak.

Malachy chuckles, low and humorless. “Oh, girl. Ye’ve been a pawn long before ye knew my name. Now, be a good lass and come along. This’ll go easier if ye don’t make me drag ye.”

You don’t move. “And if I don’t?”

His eyes harden. “If ye don’t, I’ll find a way to make ye useful, one way or another.”