Claiming Her Hound

The lace on Róisín’s wedding gown was giving her fits, and the only thing standing between her and a full-blown meltdown was a half-drunk mimosa and the calm, deliberate tug of my hands at the zipper.

“Rose,” I said, patient as a nun and sharp as a dagger, “if you keep twisting like that, I swear to God I’ll sew you into the damn thing.”

She let out a breath that trembled with nerves and fear, finally standing still in front of the full-length mirror as I smoothed the delicate ivory fabric over her hips. The reflection showed two versions of the same bloodline—Róisín glowing and demure with strawberry-blond curls pinned back like a fairytale bride, and me, untamed auburn waves spilling over one shoulder, freckles dancing across my nose like tiny warpaint.

“You’re sure he’ll show up?” she asked softly, as if Andy—sweet, stable, decidedly-not-mafia Andy—might suddenly realize he was marrying into something far messier than he’d signed up for.

I met her gaze in the mirror, my hands stilling at her waist. “He loves you,” I said simply. “And he doesn’t scare easy. You forget, I’ve seen him try to argue with Tish about her meatloaf recipe. The man’s got backbone.”

That earned a small laugh, the kind that only bubbled up when your heart was still halfway lodged in your throat. Her brown eyes shimmered with emotion, not fear. That part was settled.

I turned to the vanity, dabbing gloss onto my lips with practiced flicks. Around us, the room was scattered with peach and green bouquets, curling irons cooling like abandoned weapons, and flutes of champagne sweating condensation. The bridesmaids had long since disappeared to double-check the ballroom setup and reception playlist, leaving just the two of us in the eye of the storm.

“You remember when we were kids,” Róisín said, sitting gingerly on the velvet bench behind me, “and I told you I wanted to marry a baker?”

I smirked, arching a brow in the mirror. “You said you wanted someone who made muffins but could also fix a car. Andy can barely toast a bagel, love.”

“I upgraded to practical.”

“You upgraded to boring,” I teased, then relented, my smile turning softer. “But he’s good. And kind. And he looks at you like you’re the only person on the planet. That’s what matters most.”

For a beat, there was silence—just the muted hum of a string quartet warming up somewhere in the garden and the distant shuffle of well-dressed guests arriving like clockwork.

“I still don’t understand how you stayed out of it all,” I said, my voice lower now, thoughtful. “How you and Finn got to be the shiny, untouched ones.”

“You kept us out of it,” she replied, no hesitation in her voice. “You and Aidan. You made sure I got to have a normal life. Because of you, I was able to get away from all of it and be a normal girl.”

Normal. That was the dream, wasn’t it?

And yet, here I stood, still part of the shadows. Not quite in, not quite out. Aidan might wear the crown now, but I was still the blade tucked beneath the throne. The one who kept deals quiet, friendships alive. Especially the one with Bianca—my ghost of a best friend, hidden in firewalls and VPNs, half Italian princess, half digital menace.

Bianca would’ve hated the beige bridesmaids’ dresses.

Róisín reached out, brushing my wrist with featherlight fingers. “You could have this too, you know. Love. Marriage. Something more than late-night strategy calls and backdoor negotiations.”

“I have what I want,” I said, too fast.

Her look said she didn’t buy it. But she didn’t press. She let me keep my lies.

She let out another nervous sigh. “Do you think Mam would’ve liked Andy?”

My heart gave a quiet lurch.

“She would’ve loved him,” I said. “Especially when he tried to impress her by reciting poetry and dropped your name three stanzas in.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“She would’ve reminded you every day of your life.”

We smiled in tandem, the air between us suddenly heavier with the memory of a mother who’d been both steel and shelter. Gone eight years now, and yet still the strongest presence in the room.

“She’d be proud,” I added, my voice softening. “Of you. Of this.”

Róisín nodded quickly, pressing a tissue to the corner of her eye. “Don’t say that. I’ll cry and the makeup artist already warned me not to ruin her masterpiece.”

“She said that while threatening to hunt down your soul if you smudged your eyeliner,” I corrected. “Her words, not mine.”

We laughed again, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings of the private suite.

I turned away, reaching for a stray bobby pin and stabbing it into my hair with more force than necessary. “Besides, there’s a Russian wildcard nosing around our borders, and I’m not about to leave Aidan to handle that mess alone.”

“The Hound,” Róisín said, wrinkling her nose. “Terrifying name. Sounds like he eats his enemies for breakfast.”

“Probably does,” I muttered. “With vodka and regret.”

We laughed, the kind of laugh that lightened rooms and momentarily erased histories carved in blood and duty.

Then came a soft knock—three sharp taps against the heavy oak door.

Finn’s voice, muffled but distinct, called through. “Ten minutes to showtime. You two decent?”

Róisín stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress. “Do I look like a bride?”

“You look like Rose,” I said quietly. “Like the best version of her.”

Just then, my phone buzzed once in my purse. I didn’t flinch, didn’t even reach for it at first. The specific vibration—short, pause, long—meant it wasn’t family.

It was Bianca.

Róisín noticed my shift and arched a brow. “Business?”

“Nothing important,” I said lightly, standing and walking over to the window before I opened the message.

B: We’ve got a digital rat. Tried to ping the venue’s internal network from an outside tower five minutes ago.

B: Traced to a burner. Masked IP bounces off Moscow. Guess who.

I didn’t bother replying right away. Instead, I stared out at the garden where chairs were being aligned and candles lit. Where Andy would soon be waiting to marry my baby sister. The day was supposed to be untouched. Safe. Clean.

But of course the Bratva couldn’t leave well enough alone.

Not when I was involved.

Another message popped through.

B: Don’t panic. They didn’t breach. I burned the signal and looped their surveillance back to fake prep footage. As far as they know, Ro’s still practicing her vows in her PJs.

M: You’re a goddess.

B: Obviously. But seriously, Mai… this wasn’t a poke. It was a test. They wanted to see who was watching the watchers.

My hand curled tighter around the phone. It wasn’t a threat—but it was a message.

“I’m stepping out for a second,” I said to Róisín, who was now fixing her veil with surprisingly steady hands. “Finn’s outside. He’ll walk you down when it’s time.”

“Everything okay?” she asked.

I smiled easily. “Always.”

Outside the suite, I found the nearest private hall and ducked into one of the empty prep rooms. I pulled out my phone again and hit the encrypted call link.

“Hi,” Bianca answered almost instantly, voice smooth as silk and sharp as glass. “You gonna yell at me for not calling sooner?”

“I’m gonna yell at you for letting me think today was going to be boring.”

“Sweetheart,” she said, with a wicked little lilt, “I told you I’d take care of security. I didn’t promise it’d be dull.”

I smiled despite myself. “They really tried to breach?”

“Just a network scan. Passive surveillance—nasty, but subtle. Enough to see how sophisticated our setup was. If I hadn’t re-routed them through a sandbox with mirrored footage, they might’ve caught a glimpse of your favorite lipstick.”

“I knew letting you handle the surveillance grid was the right move.”

“You mean better than trusting one of your family’s tech guys who still thinks incognito mode makes you invisible?” Bianca snorted. “Yeah. I’m not exactly impressed with your internal cybersecurity, by the way.”

“I’ll pass that along to Aidan. In a sweet little birthday card with a picture of your middle finger.” Knowing full well that any time Bianca is mentioned, Aidan becomes full of jitters and strangled sentences.

“Thoughtful,” she murmured, but then her tone softened. “Mai… I think this was from the Hound. Or someone close to him.”

My stomach tightened. “You sure?”

“They used a signature beacon I’ve seen in a few Bratva ops—spaced pings, strategic bounce points. Whoever it was, they were trained. Not freelance.”

“So what’s the play?”

“I keep scanning. You keep your smile on. And if anyone even blinks wrong during that ceremony, I’ll crash the goddamn wedding feed with a Trojan so loud they’ll think the devil himself RSVP’d.”

I exhaled slowly, the only release of tension I’d allow myself. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” Bianca agreed smugly. “But I’m here anyway. Go enjoy the flowers and the family and the free booze. I’ve got your back.”

I ended the call and slipped the phone back into my clutch, my fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. The moment had shifted—but the day wasn’t ruined.

Not yet.

I returned to the suite in time to find Finn adjusting his tie while Róisín smoothed her skirt and practiced not tripping on the aisle runner. The music was beginning to drift up from the terrace. A hum. A pulse.

I crossed the room, caught her hands.

“Are you ready?” I asked, looking for the answer in her eyes—and when I found it, I gave her arm a squeeze, signaled to Finn, and turned toward the mirrored door.

Róisín’s smile turned into a beam. “Okay, I’m ready.”