11. Maeve
Maeve
By nine in the morning, I have slept for forty-three minutes, made one unforgivable decision in Declan’s bed, and discovered that his coffee remains capable of stripping varnish.
The silver lighter he placed in my palm rests inside my trouser pocket, heavier than an object that size has any right to be.
Carrying it does not mean I have accepted his promise.
It means I refused to leave seven years of his grief abandoned among our clothes.
At least, that is the explanation I give myself while entering the dining room and finding Declan already seated at the far end of the table.
His hair is still damp from the shower, and his black shirt hides the marks my nails left across his shoulders.
One glance from him recalls every sound dragged from my throat before dawn.
I look away first, which feels suspiciously like defeat.
Adrianos occupies the seat opposite Declan, immaculate despite having spent the night dismantling corrupted financial records.
Elena sits beside him with three isolated laptops, two encrypted drives, and a mug declaring that numbers do not lie, people do.
The sentiment suits our investigation better than it suits breakfast. Armed guards stand outside both doors.
Callum remains confined in the east guest suite under constant watch, while Ronan supervises the recovery of security data from Keane’s murder.
Eamon has supplied fifteen years of archived personnel records without objection.
His cooperation makes him appear either innocent or extremely confident.
Elena looks from me to Declan, then returns to her screen with exaggerated concentration. “You are four minutes late. I considered beginning without you, but Adrianos said Irish people regard punctuality as foreign oppression.”
“I said Declan regards every instruction as a challenge to his sovereignty.” Adrianos slides a second cup of coffee toward her. “The criticism was specific.”
Declan turns one page in the file before him. “You both remain in my house by invitation. Test its limits carefully.”
“Threatening guests before breakfast is considered poor manners.” I take the chair beside him and set my coffee down. “You should wait until the toast arrives.”
His gaze touches my mouth before settling on the folders Elena has arranged. “I was occupied.”
Heat rises beneath my collar, and I despise him for noticing. Elena’s eyebrows lift, but she possesses enough self-preservation not to comment. Adrianos looks faintly entertained, which confirms there are still reasons for international conflict.
Elena activates the largest screen. “Keane’s drive contained fragments, not complete records.
I compared those fragments against OB6 payments, Irish logistics files, and fifteen years of Crown deaths.
We began with eighty-six executions, unexplained disappearances, and supposed accidents. Eleven fit the full pattern.”
Eleven photographs appear in a grid. Seven faces belong to people Declan personally executed after receiving authenticated emergency orders.
I recognise several names from the discrepancies I found before fleeing.
There is the accountant who traced missing money from a Greek construction fund, the lawyer who investigated Crown-owned shell companies, and the broker who questioned payments moving through dormant accounts.
Another victim worked within Irish intelligence and reported that surveillance evidence had been fabricated.
Two encountered transport routes that did not match the threats used to justify them.
The final formal execution involved a historian hired to catalogue records from the Crown’s creation thirty-five years ago.
He discovered references to accounts predating the alliance, then became an alleged blackmailer before he could present his findings.
Adrianos enlarges the payment column. “Every death protected a separate part of OB6. None of the victims had enough information to understand the entire conspiracy. One found money, another routes, another falsified intelligence, and another documents connected to the Crown’s foundation.
Together, they might have recognised the structure. ”
“The structure recognised them first.” I scan the dates and feel the past tightening around us. “Whoever controlled the altered orders was not reacting to one investigation. They were monitoring every faction for anyone who touched the wrong piece.”
Elena replaces three of the execution files with reports marked accidental, unauthorised, and unresolved.
“These deaths never entered Declan’s system.
A Crown liaison died in a boating accident after questioning payments connected to the murdered heirs.
A shipping clerk was killed during a supposed robbery after copying Irish route manifests. The third is Patrick O’Rourke.”
Declan’s attention fixes on the photograph of his cousin’s son.
The room seems to become colder around him.
Patrick grins from the screen beside a Belfast container yard, young enough to believe discovering the truth would protect him.
The crime-scene image beneath it shows what that belief cost. His body bears the wolf-crown mark introduced during the first attacks against the alliance, a symbol we believed had been chosen to declare war on the five families.
Keane’s files prove Patrick discovered duplicate shipments feeding an OB6 route four days before his death.
“He was the eighth victim Keane identified.” Declan’s voice is stripped of emotion. “Why is he listed as the eleventh?”
“Because the sequence follows the dates of the discoveries, not the order in which Keane found the files.” Elena highlights Patrick’s report.
“The three informal killings were uncovered only after we matched his shipping inquiry against the OB6 ledger. Patrick was murdered twelve years ago, between the third and fourth altered executions.”
Declan rises and walks toward the window.
His face disappears from view, reflected faintly in the glass.
I remember him after Patrick’s murder, though I never saw the worst of it.
Declan stopped sleeping and began drinking before noon.
He carried out assignments with a cruelty that disturbed even men accustomed to watching him kill.
Eamon stayed beside him through it, removing glasses from his hand when he became too drunk to stand, and placing files before him whenever work threatened to replace grief.
“Eamon told him Patrick was killed because Declan appeared weak.” The memory emerges with ugly clarity. “He said the old symbol was a challenge and that grief would invite more deaths.”
Declan looks at me through the glass. “He said Patrick’s blood proved mercy had become visible.”
“And after that, you stopped questioning emergency orders.” I hate the pain in his face, but pity would insult him. “Every time grief slowed you, Eamon gave you another target.”
Adrianos closes Patrick’s file. “That does not prove Eamon orchestrated the murder. He may have interpreted it incorrectly.”
“No, but someone used Patrick’s death to shape Declan into a more obedient executioner.
” I approach the screen and compare the dates.
“Before Patrick, Declan reviewed supporting intelligence personally. After Patrick, the verification office began providing condensed approval summaries. The supposed reason was to reduce his exposure to sensitive faction sources.”
Declan turns from the window. “Eamon recommended the change. The council approved it.”
There it is, not proof but intention wearing a respectable suit.
Patrick’s death did more than silence a shipping inquiry.
It wounded Declan, surrounded him with alcohol and duty, then removed the details that might have made him question later executions.
Whoever planned it understood that grief could be engineered into obedience.
Eamon may have comforted Declan because he loved him.
He may also have held the blade steady while someone sharpened it.
Declan returns to the table and opens the first execution file.
He studies each photograph as if memorising the faces will offer them something death denied.
Seven people died by his hand. Patrick died because he found a route hidden inside Declan’s organisation.
The knowledge does not merely hurt him. It attacks the foundation upon which he built himself.
Declan can survive being hated. He does not know how to survive discovering his loyalty made him useful to a traitor.
I place my hand over the first photograph. “Do not turn this into another excuse to punish yourself instead of investigating.”
His eyes lift to mine. “You believe I deserve mercy?”
“I believe mercy would irritate you.” I let my fingers touch his. “I am suggesting responsibility. Dead men cannot correct what they did. You still can.”
He turns his hand beneath mine and closes his fingers around my palm.
The gesture is hidden from Adrianos and Elena by the open files, though secrecy does nothing to make it less intimate.
Last night, Declan touched every part of me with possession tempered by restraint.
This quiet contact feels more dangerous.
It asks for nothing and offers no distraction.
I leave my hand in his because grief once drove him toward whiskey and obedience.
I will not let it drive him there again.
Elena opens Callum’s employment file. “Callum controlled intelligence verification when six of the seven altered orders were processed. His office also generated Maeve’s false access signature and opened the safe-house door before Keane’s death.
If we stop there, he appears responsible for almost everything. ”
“We do not stop where the evidence becomes convenient.” Declan’s thumb moves once across my knuckles. “When was Callum promoted?”
“Nine years ago.” I pull the earliest orders toward me. “The first concealed override was used fifteen years ago. Callum was a field analyst then. He had no authority to approve execution intelligence or alter the audit ledger.”
Adrianos studies the personnel timeline. “He could have gained access illegally before his promotion.”
“Possible, but the early override required senior clearance from both the Irish verification branch and a Crown liaison.” Elena displays the access hierarchy. “Callum had neither.”
The list above him contains Eamon, two former Irish advisers, and several Crown liaisons drawn from the five factions.
One adviser died ten years ago. The other retired to Spain and has not entered an Irish facility since.
The liaison credentials changed with every Crown leadership rotation, making consistent access difficult but not impossible.
Eamon alone held uninterrupted authority across all fifteen years.
As Declan’s adviser, he could review Irish intelligence, communicate with Crown liaisons, and authorise changes to the execution system.
He also employed dozens of analysts, clerks, and couriers who might have acted beneath his credentials without his knowledge.
“Eamon had access throughout the entire period.” I separate his file from the others. “But access is not guilt. Two former advisers could have created the route, and rotating Crown liaisons could have maintained it. We need to identify who benefited from each change.”
Declan releases my hand and examines Eamon’s record. The absence of his touch leaves an unreasonable cold behind. “Trace every occasion Eamon travelled, delegated authority, or changed personnel within thirty days of an altered order. Do the same for the advisers and liaisons.”
Elena begins building the comparison. “That will take several hours.”
“We may not have several hours.” I study the three informal deaths.
“The killer murdered Keane because he still possessed evidence. Callum is confined because the current trail points to him. If Callum is being framed, whoever created that trail may need him silenced before we prove the older orders predate his authority.”
The alarm begins before the last word leaves my mouth.
A harsh pulse tears through the dining room, followed by the mechanical slam of security doors locking across the estate.
Declan is on his feet before the second tone, his pistol in his hand.
Adrianos moves in front of Elena while the guards outside shout into their radios.
The screen changes automatically to a red floor plan.
An alert flashes over the east guest suite where Callum has been confined.
Ronan’s voice comes through Declan’s phone, breathless and furious. “The guards outside Callum’s room are down. No visible intruder, and the door is still locked.”
We run. Declan reaches the east wing first, with me close behind and Adrianos covering the corridor.
One guard lies unconscious beside the wall.
The other struggles to breathe, a needle mark visible beneath his jaw.
Ronan overrides the lock using an emergency mechanical key and drives the door inward.
Callum sits in a chair facing the window, his head tilted at an unnatural angle.
A narrow line of blood circles his throat, and his open eyes stare at the reflection of the room behind him.
Callum has been murdered inside Declan’s estate.