Lorenzo #2
Daithí nods slowly. "He knows something."
"He knows a lot."
"And if he doesn't want to tell us?" Daithí questions.
A smile pulls at my mouth. "Then we'll persuade him."
Daithí gets to his feet. "When?"
I stand. "Now."
The car is waiting outside for us. Marco is behind the wheel, ready as always. I slide into the back seat, and Daithí gets in beside me. Marco pulls out of the drive.
I look down at my phone, at the picture of Quinn smiling in the garden a few weeks ago.
And suddenly all I can think about is how close we came to missing it.
The messages, the threats, and the way Daire kept trying to get inside her head.
For weeks I thought it was jealousy and bitterness, from a woman lashing out because she didn't get what she wanted.
Now I know better. Daire wasn't just a jealous sister.
She was useful and connected. She was placed exactly where she needed to be.
And Quinn... My jaw tightens. Quinn wasn't the target because Daire hated her.
Quinn was the target because she was a problem.
After all, my wife notices things and pays attention.
The messages Daire sent Quinn weren't random.
They were designed to wear her down, to make her doubt herself, to make her feel smaller, and less likely to trust her instincts.
Daire knew exactly what she was doing. And if I'm right...If Frederick knew about those messages... Then, threatening my wife was part of this operation.
I look down at my phone again, at Quinn's name sitting at the top of my messages, and for the first time today, I find myself hoping Tony Geraghty is smart enough to start talking.
I call Quinn, it rings twice. "Hi," she says.
"Hi," I say back, knowing damn well Daithí is listening to my conversation, the nosey fuck.
"Everything alright?"
"Yes," I say. "I wanted to hear your voice."
"Lorenzo," she whispers, it’s the same tone she uses when I’m kissing her. My cock starts to thicken at the sound. "How was the meeting?"
"Long and productive."
"Is that good?"
"It means we're closer."
"Good. Are you coming home?" I can hear the hope in her voice.
"Later. There's something I need to do first."
"Be careful," she whispers, this time, fear is laced in her words.
"Always," I say.
"Lorenzo."
"Quinn," I mimic her tone.
"I mean it."
"I know," I say. "I'll be home by dinner." I hang up and rest my head against the headrest.
I hate that she’s scared, but that’s why I’m doing this. To ensure that she’s not harmed.
Tony Geraghty lives in a house in South Boston.
It’s a nice house, on a quiet street. Marco pulls up outside, and for a moment, nobody moves.
I look at the house. Beside me, Daithí is staring at the house too.
His expression gives nothing away, but I know him well enough now.
He's thinking about the betrayal of the man he trusted along with all the shit he did to his own daughter.
I open the door and Daithí follows suit. Neither of us says a word as we walk to the front door. I knock, and thirty seconds later, the door opens.
Tony Geraghty looks between the two of us and I see the fear seep into his eyes, but also, resignation. Did he know we were coming? Or did he know this day was coming?
"Lorenzo," he greets.
"Tony."
His gaze slides to Daithí, but Daithí doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to, the tension in the doorway is enough. Tony looks past us, checking the street. "I don't want trouble."
"No," I say evenly. "You just caused it." His jaw tightens, and I take a step forward. "We need to talk."
For a moment, I think he might refuse, but his shoulders sag slightly, and the fight leaves before it ever really starts. He steps back from the door. "Come in." And just like that, the worst conversation of Tony Geraghty's life begins.
Tony gestures toward the sofa. I ignore it and so does Daithí. Tony sighs. "I figured this day was coming."
"Did you?" Daithí asks quietly.
Tony looks at him, whatever he sees in Daithi’s face makes him look away first. "I never meant for any of this to happen."
Daithí laughs. "Daire isolated her."
Tony's face tightens. "Daithí—"
"She bullied her." Silence. "She destroyed her life."
Tony closes his eyes briefly. "I know."
My jaw tightens, because that answer is worse than denial. He knew, and did nothing.
Daithí takes a step forward. "You knew?"
Tony looks exhausted. "I didn't know all of it."
"You knew enough." Tony doesn't answer, because there's no defense for it.
I decide we've wasted enough time. "Frederick Hightower."
Tony's head snaps toward me. There it is, the reaction I was looking for. Daithí sees it too, and the color drains from Tony's face. I smile. "Good," I say. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Tony swallows. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I laugh because, God, that’s such a pathetic lie.
"We found the shell companies." Tony goes still at my words.
"We know about Frederick, and we know about Daire.
" Nothing, not a single acknowledgement.
I take another step closer. "And we know you're connected to both of them.
" Tony's hands curl into fists, the first sign of fear.
"I think," I say softly, "this is the part where you start talking. "
Tony looks at Daithí, then at me, and then toward the front door.
He’s calculating, looking for a way out, but there isn't one.
Daithí blocks the only exit, I block the rest. Tony finally understands exactly how trapped he is, and for the first time since we arrived, he looks afraid. Good, he should be.
Tony lowers himself into an armchair like his legs have suddenly stopped working properly. "What do you want to know?"
Daithí lets out a short laugh, the sound is devoid of humor. "Everything."
Tony rubs a hand over his face. "I can't give you everything."
My expression doesn't change. "Try."
His eyes meet mine, then drop away. Because he knows exactly how this goes. "You've got this wrong," he stammers.
I smile. "No, Tony. We don't." The room falls silent again. I pull the file from beneath my arm and toss it onto the coffee table. Photographs slide across the polished wood, travel records, financial records, and phone logs.
Tony stares at them and then his shoulders slump.
"How long?" I ask.
He doesn't pretend not to understand. "A few years."
Daithí explodes. "A few years?" Tony flinches. "A few years?" Daithí repeats. "Orla is dead. My sister was blamed for her death. She was fucking innocent. And you’ve been sleeping with Daire for a few years?"
"It wasn't like that."
Daithí laughs, the sound is ugly. "Then tell me what it was like."
Tony drags a hand down his face and for the first time since we arrived, he looks every one of his years. "I never intended for any of this."
"That's not what he asked," I snap.
His jaw tightens. "Daire was fourteen, but she started it."
Daithí takes a step forward. "Be very fucking careful with your next words."
Tony closes his eyes. "I know how that sounds."
"It sounds like you're trying to excuse yourself."
"I'm not. I should have stopped it."
"Yeah," Daithí says coldly. "You should have."
"When did Frederick enter the picture?" I ask.
Tony's eyes open. A flicker of fear crosses his face. Fear of Frederick, well, that’s interesting. "A few years later."
"How?"
Tony laughs bitterly. "Because Daire wanted more." Neither of us says a word. Tony swallows. "You think you know who Daire Delaney is?" His voice is rough. "You don't."
A chill crawls down my spine. Tony sounds genuinely afraid of her.
Daithí hears it too, and his eyes narrow. "What does that mean?"
Tony laughs once. Its a hollow and broken sound. "It means you're all still treating her like she's some spoiled rich girl who got in over her head." Tony looks between us. "You think Frederick corrupted her."
The corner of my mouth twitches, because that's exactly what most people would assume.
Tony shakes his head. "You've got it backwards. Daire was manipulating people long before Frederick Hightower came along."
My jaw tightens. "Explain."
"When she was sixteen, there were three of us."
Daithí goes still and I don't move. "Three?" He snarls.
Tony nods. "Me." His voice is barely above a whisper. "A city councilman from South Boston, Hargreaves."
I recognize the name immediately when he says it. He’s married and has two children.
"And the third?" Daithí snaps.
Tony laughs again, this time there's genuine disbelief in it. "Gregory Hightower."
I stare at him. "What?"
Tony rubs a hand over his face. "Not Frederick." He shakes his head. "His father."
Now that's very fucking interesting, because Gregory Hightower is old enough to know better, powerful enough to avoid consequences, and stupid enough to believe he wouldn't get caught.
"How?" Daithí asks.
"Photos."
"Photos?" I repeat.
Tony nods. "Daire would flirt, she’d push boundaries, and get close.
" He swallows. "Then she'd make sure there was evidence.
" Nobody says a word and Tony's gaze drops to the floor.
"She’d have messages, pictures, of us meeting her that couldn't be explained to wives.
Gregory paid," Tony says quietly. "The councilman paid.
" His eyes close briefly. "And I..." His voice breaks. "I didn't."
The room falls silent. Because we all know what that means. Tony didn't pay. He slept with her instead, and somewhere along the line he convinced himself that made him different. It didn't.
"You knew she was doing this?" Daithí asks.