2. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
"You know you've been reading the same page for the last four minutes and twenty-six seconds."
Callum's head snaps up so fast his chair squeaks against the hardwood floor. For half a second he just stares at me from across the office before dragging a hand down his face, somewhere between annoyed and amused.
"Why have you been standing there for five minutes without saying anything? I didn't even hear you come in."
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I step fully into the room, letting the door click shut behind me.
"I wouldn't be very Special Forces if I wasn't quiet."
I throw finger quotations around Special Forces, earning exactly the eye roll I'd been hoping for.
Giving the military guys shit has become something of a hobby for Callum ever since Samantha dragged the four of us into the Rizzoli family's orbit. Apparently, because I spent most of my career behind a keyboard instead of carrying the biggest gun in the room, my title doesn't count in his eyes.
Personally, I think infiltrating a foreign government's network without getting caught deserves a little respect.
Callum disagrees. Frequently.
His office feels exactly like the man himself.
Organized enough that he can find anything in seconds, cluttered enough that anyone else would get lost trying.
Half a dozen monitors glow against the dark walls, security feeds cycling silently while legal pads, folders, and empty coffee mugs fight for space across the desk.
My attention drifts lower, landing on the knot of cables disappearing behind one of the monitors, and I physically cringe.
"What are you working on?” I pull the chair out across from his desk and drop into it. I kick my boots up to rest on the top of his desk because I know he hates it.
"Something for my Pops." He shoves my boots off the desk but I put them right back up.
He shakes his head with a laugh as he pushes away from the desk and walks toward the small bar tucked against the back wall.
He pours two fingers of whiskey into matching glasses before walking back. The second he gets close enough, I hold my hand out expectantly. "Anything exciting?”
Instead of giving it to me, he keeps the glass hovering just out of reach.
Interesting.
I lean forward.
The glass moves another inch. He continues to hold it out of my reach until my feet come off the desk and smirks. Dick.
"Not really, Digging into this Irish guy. He married a girl. My Pops is friends with her Dad. Her Dad is worried this guy isn't who he says he is and that he is treating the girl bad. So I am doing a deep dive. Haven't found anything yet.”
That gets my attention. Instinct usually means someone noticed a pattern they couldn't explain. Patterns are my favorite kind of puzzle.
"You are speaking my language brother!" I down my drink and clap loudly. "I haven't been doing any digging for CeCe and Romeo lately. I need something to do." I take my brown messenger bag from around my neck, open it up and pull out my laptop. "Let's get to work.”
****
I pull the folder closer while Callum starts typing, my own laptop humming beneath my fingertips as it wakes from sleep. The first few minutes are exactly what I expected. Property records. Business filings. Corporate ownership.
Gallagher Holdings branches into six different subsidiaries before disappearing into a maze of shell corporations that would make most accountants develop a drinking problem. I chase one thread until it dies in the Cayman Islands, backtrack, pick up another in Delaware, then another overseas.
Nothing. I don't mind nothing. Nothing is usually where the interesting things start.
"You've looked at his businesses?" I ask without taking my eyes off the screen.
Callum nods. "Everything public."
"Banking?"
"So far."
"Phone records?"
"I've only scratched the surface."
A slow smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. "Good."
He looks up. "Good?"
"You haven't ruined all my fun."
His head shakes as another file opens across my screen.
Ronan Gallagher is irritatingly disciplined. No impulsive purchases. No suspicious cash withdrawals. No public scandals. Not even a speeding ticket.
Men with money usually think the rules don't apply to them. They buy boats they don't need, girlfriends they can't afford, and enough traffic violations to keep local governments funded for years.
Ronan Gallagher apparently drove the speed limit. Psychopath. Wheels would have a field day with him.
I lean back just enough to stretch my shoulders before diving into another database. Business licenses. Charitable donations. Real estate. Tax filings. Everything lines up. Too perfectly.
My fingers tap twice against the edge of the desk. Something's wrong. I just haven't figured out what.
"I hate clean," I mutter.
Callum glances over. "Excuse me?"
"Nobody's life is this clean." I rotate the laptop toward him, pointing at the timeline I'd built. "No lawsuits. No messy divorces in the family. No unpaid taxes. No gambling debts. Hell, the man doesn't even have a parking ticket."
"So?"
"So either he's the most boring billionaire in history..." I turn the screen back toward myself. "...or somebody spent a lot of time making sure I couldn't find the interesting parts."
Callum studies me for a second before nodding once. "I've been thinking the same thing."
"Everybody leaves a footprint."
"They do."
"We just haven't found his yet."
The silence that settles between us is comfortable. The kind that only exists between people who don't need conversation to fill a room. Keys click. Coffee cools. Code scrolls.
An hour disappears almost without either of us noticing.
Every time I think I've found a loose thread, it dead-ends into another legitimate business or another perfectly documented transaction. Whoever built Ronan Gallagher's financial life knew exactly how investigators think. I almost respect it. Almost.
Then another image loads. Not a spreadsheet. Not a tax document. A photograph.
"...Well." I stop typing altogether.
Callum doesn't even bother looking up. "What?"
Instead of answering, I spin my laptop around so he can see the screen. Maeve O'Donnell Gallagher smiles back at us from what looks like a charity gala, emerald silk draped over one shoulder while crystal chandeliers blur into soft gold behind her.
"Holy shit, she is fucking hot."
Callum lifts one shoulder without even looking twice. "I guess."
I blink at him. "You guess?" He keeps typing.
"You guess?" I repeat, emphasizing each word a little more than the last. "Are you fucking blind or something?
" He rolls his eyes, but I can already see the corner of his mouth trying not to smile.
"I am guessing that's why your secretary is gone.
She made the moves on you and you canned her. She was hot too."
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I've stepped into something.
Callum stills. Only for a heartbeat. But I've known the man long enough to notice the tiny fractures.
I press my lips together.
"...Just say it, Skee."
I let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of my neck. "I guess you wouldn't think any of them were hot." My eyes drift back toward my keyboard. "You have Lacey."
"I had Lacey." The correction lands between us. Not angry. Just...final.
I nod once. "Whatever you say, Brother."
I don't push. Some subjects don't need jokes. Some wounds are still bleeding. Instead, I turn back to my screen and let the rhythm of the search pull me under again.
For the next hour, Ronan Gallagher becomes lines of code and financial records. We dig into every corner of his life, looking for the version of the man he doesn't let the world see. The one hidden behind expensive suits, polished interviews, and immaculate bookkeeping.
The deeper we go, the less I like it. Not because of what I find. Because of what I don't.
Finally, I lean back in my chair, tipping my head against the leather and rolling it slowly from one side to the other until my neck cracks.
"Man..." I exhale, staring at the ceiling. "This guy must be bad. He doesn't have shit on him. It's insane."
Callum doesn't stop typing. "Everybody has something, Skee." His fingers continue moving across the keyboard with the same steady rhythm they'd held all afternoon. "We just have to find it."
****
Three days.
Three days of telling myself I was only looking at Gallagher because Callum hadn't officially told me to stop.
Three days of convincing myself there was a difference between research and investigation.
There wasn't.
By the second night I'd already cloned Gallagher Holdings' public network.
By the third morning I'd worked my way through property records, shell companies, shipping manifests, charitable donations, tax filings, security contractors, vehicle registrations, and enough financial reports to make an accountant cry.
Nothing. Not actually nothing. Just...nothing useful.
Everything lined up too neatly. Every company was legitimate. Every tax document was filed on time. Every payment trail ended exactly where it was supposed to.
It was like someone had built an entire life designed to survive an audit.
My fingers tapped twice against the edge of the desk.
"I hate clean," I muttered.
People weren't clean. People lied to their spouses. Forgot to pay speeding tickets. Used the same password for twenty different websites. Bought stupid things at two in the morning after too much whiskey.
They were messy. Gallagher wasn't messy. He was curated.
That bothered me more than if I'd found something illegal.
A notification slid across the corner of one monitor.
Vehicle movement detected. Gallagher Estate. My attention shifted automatically.
Not because I cared where Maeve Gallagher spent her afternoon.
Because I cared where Ronan's wife spent her afternoon.
If he was building connections through the marriage, she was another piece on the board.
The estate gates opened. Not Ronan. Maeve.