9. Ruairí #2
"What's left are a few shell companies barely keeping up the illusion of legitimacy, but behind them, the real weight sits in what never got shut down—Wexford, where someone's still funneling containers under Donnelly licenses, and Red Moss, which was supposed to be off the books for good, is suddenly showing up again in supply logs routed through the old network. "
Her eyes soften for a moment, enough to make me feel a stab of regret.
It must be damning, knowing that she had no chance from the start.
I did not marry her out of sentiment, nor out of some loyalty to a dead man's bloodline, but because the Italians were circling for control of the southern routes and the O'Duinns had already begun pressing into Wexford with enough quiet aggression to suggest they thought no one would stop them.
They weren't after Keira herself.
They were after what was still embedded in the Donnelly legacy—dormant smuggling routes, ghost account numbers, and old offshore clearances that had never been fully shut down.
Red Moss was part of it, yes, but not the whole.
They wanted the shell companies, the pre-cleared docks, the port permissions still valid in Wexford and Waterford, the informal pacts with customs officers and the discreet airstrip her father once used when things got too hot in Dublin.
What she didn't know—what I didn't know until recently—was that even after the Donnellys fell, no one fully cleaned up the mess.
Some of those assets were still alive on paper, waiting for someone with just enough legitimacy to reclaim them.
The Italians tried first, pushing through an old contact in Cork.
The O'Duinns came next, testing the waters through Boyle and a former Donnelly driver.
But neither could fully claim the system because the paperwork, the name, the bloodline—it all ran through her.
So I married her to shut the door, to hold the rights myself, and to make it clear that whatever was left of the Donnelly empire was no longer unclaimed.
I made her survival profitable because the only thing more valuable than a dead rival is a living one you can use.
Of course, falling in love wasn't part of the game.
Keira says nothing.
She traces a finger along the edge of the paper, then looks out the window, where the trees have lost most of their leaves and the sky is already threatening rain.
I wait, but she doesn't ask the next question.
I say, "You were never the target."
She turns, meets my gaze.
"Then what was?"
"Structure. The Donnelly name was a pipeline—no, a brand. We needed it for the take. If I went straight at the Italians, they'd circle wagons."
She raises a brow.
"So I'm a logo now."
I almost smile.
"No. A front. But a good one."
Keira closes the book, sets it on the table.
Her movements are slow, careful, as if she's trying not to break anything.
"How long do you expect me to pretend I'm not a hostage? "
"I don't expect you to pretend at all. The old world is dead. I need someone who remembers what it cost."
She stands.
The light shifts, catches her face, and for a second I see something like pity, but it’s gone before it registers.
"You could have told me sooner," she says.
She leaves the room without looking back.
The echo of her footsteps is softer than the wind at the window.
I stand for a while, watching the clouds roll in, watching the way the gold drains out of the world and leaves everything flat and gray.
I finish the whiskey in a single swallow, then set the glass in the sink and listen to the silence as it settles over the house.
I think of Boyle, his voice thin and desperate as he tried to explain himself.
I think of Keira, the way she held her composure like it was the last weapon she had left. I think of the city and all the men who died believing they could change it.
The window rattles in the frame.
Outside, the first drops of rain hit the glass and slide down in thin, perfect lines.
The truth is, there is no new world.
There's only the same story played out with different names, different logos, different debts.
I wonder if she understands that already or if she'll need to learn it the hard way.
Either way, it's coming.
The walk back to my wing is longer than I remember.
Every step echoes off the stone, and the house gives nothing back.
The staff are ghosts, doors closed, no sound from the kitchens or the upstairs landing.
The whole place feels like a stage after the curtain falls, set still there, lights down, audience gone.
I like it this way.
In the office, I flick the overhead switch and let the room fall dark.
The desk lamp stays off.
Only the faint electric glow of the phone lights my face as I scroll through the latest port entries, eyes adjusting to the contrast of blue against black.
I find the line I'm looking for and press the contact, holding the phone to my ear as I sink into the chair.
It rings twice before a pause and then static crackles, followed by a hoarse voice.
"Nothing yet," he says, skipping any preamble.
"Manifest's still sitting in the queue, but no scan, no crate, no eyes. If it's in play, it hasn't moved."
I rub at the bridge of my nose, feeling the tension gather there like smoke.
"You're certain?"
There's a long pause.
Then, dry as sandpaper, "I'm paid to be."
I open the spreadsheet on my laptop with one hand while holding the call with the other.
The document is clean, save for one line that keeps coming back.
The shell company is registered out of Wexford, a fake agri-export firm folded into Crowley logistics just under two weeks ago, too fresh for a proper audit and buried among names that should have raised every internal flag.
It didn't.
That alone tells me someone wanted it invisible.
The company name— Deegan Bros .—crawls across the screen, and I stare at it, remembering Keira's father had a fondness for naming ghosts after family men.
"The invoice lists twenty metric tons of beans," I murmur, mostly to myself.
"But the item code is off by two decimals."
"You checked it?"
"I did the math twice."
"And?"
"That's a gap of at least fifty kilos. Too small for an accident, too large to miss."
He breathes out, slow and bitter.
"Then it's drugs."
I ask, "Who's the buyer?"
"Could be Italian," he says finally.
"Could be O'Duinn. Could be Donnelly debt still running its legs. Or it could be you."
I almost laugh, but it doesn't make it past my throat.
"If it were me, I wouldn't be on the phone."
He doesn't apologize, which is why I still use him.
I let the silence thicken between us before I speak again.
"Track the container," I say.
"Pull timestamps. If anything changes, you call me first. If someone touches it, flag it. Do not intercept unless I say."
Another drag.
Another pause.
"If I get clipped watching a crate that doesn't exist?—"
"You won't," I cut in, voice flat.
"They're not ready to get loud. Not yet."
He exhales, and the line clicks dead.
I set the phone face-down on the desk and watch its glow fade to nothing, the room sinking deeper into shadow until only the pressure behind my eyes reminds me I haven't blinked in too long.
With a grunt, I rise and head to the window, still shut.
The lights on the estate perimeter flicker as the wind picks up outside.
The trees in the garden whip back and forth, bare branches rattling against the security glass.
I stand and watch the weather roll in, the cold front sweeping down from the north, the clouds dragging their bellies over the city.
I stare at the glass until my reflection disappears, until all I can see is the night, the lights on the road, and the constant, beautiful risk of being alive in a world that wants you dead.