Chapter 2
CILLIAN
Idon’t delegate what matters.
A whiskey shipment came in overnight—stacked crates from County Louth, marked for a hotel chain I don’t own but keep compliant.
Customs cleared it by six, but I show up at eight because I like to see for myself.
There’s no substitute for standing in the salt and cold, watching men work while pretending they don’t notice me.
They always notice.
Dublin Port’s quiet this morning, fog thick enough to blur the cranes.
My boots hit the steel ramp, and the crew straightens without needing orders.
Kavanagh lifts his clipboard and jogs toward me, chin tucked, posture tight.
He’s ex-rail security, hired for his paranoia.
I keep him because he doesn’t speak unless the risk is real.
“Manifest checks out,” he says, handing me the papers. “Labeled as single malt, all traceable, no shifts from origin to dock. Cleared by Barlow’s team.”
“Anything smell wrong?” I ask, flipping the sheet.
“Not here,” he says. “But Tiernan flagged the van that unloaded at two a.m. Driver didn’t wait for a receipt. Left too quick.”
My eyes narrow. “Was he local?”
“Plate traced to Wicklow.”
O’Callaghan territory.
I don’t say it out loud. Doesn’t need saying.
I nod once and keep walking. The crate stack’s clean, twelve high, no signs of tampering. I tap one with my knuckle. Solid. I tap another. Same. I gesture to the foreman. “Open three at random.”
He hesitates for half a breath before calling for the crowbar.
They know I’m not checking for broken glass.
A minute later, I’ve got a bottle in my hand with the label smooth and the foil intact, and I uncork it and take a measured sniff, catching smoke and peat and nothing chemical or sharp.
I pass it to Kavanagh, who mirrors the check, and then he pours a small measure into a clean cap and pulls a sealed test strip from his jacket.
We watch it together, silent, while the strip reacts.
One line appears and holds, and the second never does.
“Clean,” Kavanagh says.
I nod, because fentanyl doesn’t belong anywhere near my docks, not in whiskey and not in anything else that moves through legitimate channels.
“Send the batch through,” I say, already moving on.
Most men in this city don’t care what goes in the bottle.
As long as it sells, it ships. I do. I’ve buried too many bodies that never got the chance to rot.
Kids who bought one pill too strong, one taste too cheap.
Fentanyl makes good money, but it’s a coward’s currency—quick, dirty, and impossible to launder at scale.
We don’t touch it.
The Byrne Syndicate was built on dock control, and docks are only useful if people trust what moves through them. I can’t afford scandals. I can’t afford cargo that draws sniffer dogs, headlines, or fucking grief.
“Send the clean batch through,” I say. “Burn the label lot if it turns up again.”
Kavanagh nods and clicks into motion. Foremen shout. Forklifts fire. The crates move out across the yard in neat, disciplined rows.
I light a cigarette and lean against the container wall. Across the water, the ferry pulls in slowly, its wake soft and steady. I glance at the time. 9:07.
Riley Quinn starts today.
HR sent her to the admin block an hour ago.
She’s on track to meet the head of logistics before ten.
Supposedly brilliant, supposedly quiet. No family on record, no social footprint, no cause for suspicion.
I didn’t approve the hire personally, but I signed off on the role.
We’re expanding and the old guard is too slow.
I need analysts who understand efficiency, not loyalty.
Still. Something about this timing…
I shake the thought. It’s paranoia talking.
The O’Callaghans don’t send spies. They send soldiers. If Patrick O’Callaghan wanted to hit me, he’d do it the old way—bomb, bullet, or blackout. He wouldn’t send some clean-skirt corporate type to audit shipping records.
Unless he’s gotten smarter.
Unlikely.
I exhale, smoke sharp in my throat. My father would’ve laughed. He used to say the O’Callaghans dressed up their crime like theatre—suits, titles, heirs, all that dynasty bullshit. He never bought into it. Said we were mongrels by comparison, but at least mongrels survive.
He was wrong. I don’t want to survive.
I want to rule.
My phone lights up with a text from Roarke.
Got eyes on the new hire. She’s a bit too clean for my liking.
I reply.
Watch her. Don’t interfere.
Roarke doesn’t respond. He knows the rule. Everyone gets one day of safety—their first. After that, they prove who they are.
I stub the cigarette out on the crate and crush it under my heel. I should head in. The new contract with the Spaniards needs confirming. The Balkan run got stalled at customs and someone’s got to lean on the right inspector.
But I linger another second.
Out on the edge of the dock, a van slows down near the fence.
Same plate.
Wicklow.
I start walking and cut across the gravel, boots grinding against the frost-rubbed stone, and signal Roarke to hold the van at the side gate.
Wicklow plates don’t belong here without reason, and I don’t like coincidences.
I make a note to check the delivery manifest later.
For now, there’s another meeting waiting—HR buzzed a minute ago to say the new logistics analyst showed up early.
I head toward the east side of the yard, past the steel stacks and weld bays, and take the back stairs up to the operations office.
The operations office sits three floors up, squat and windowless, but it overlooks everything that matters—dock lanes, inbound manifests, and the camera feeds we don’t give customs access to.
I shoulder the door open.
It’s warm inside. Too warm. Paper and sweat and old ink, same as always. Two clerks freeze when they see me. O’Driscoll looks up from his desk, glasses low on his nose, pen still in motion.
“Mr. Byrne,” he says, standing halfway. “We didn’t expect—”
“You should always expect,” I say.
He nods once, swallows whatever excuse he meant to offer, and gestures to the ledger stack on the table beside him. “Signed and batched. Container routes aligned with pre-cleared corridors. No flags.”
I cross to the ledgers and flip through one. Route 44-B is marked for Belfast, expected to transit through Lisburn without inspection. I note the driver’s name. I'll check the feed myself later.
“Barlow called in sick,” O’Driscoll adds. “Kavanagh cleared the manifest without secondary.”
I grunt. “He can handle it.”
He can. But if this becomes pattern instead of exception, it’s a problem. I don’t reward habits that edge us toward risk.
There’s a faint knock on the interior door—Roisin, the HR rep, peeks in with a clipboard.
“Morning,” she says, chipper in that way that always grates. “Just letting you know the new hire’s outside. She’s early.”
“Bring her in five,” I say.
She nods and slips back out.
O’Driscoll clears his throat. “You want me to give the rundown?”
“Later. I want to see how she handles direct oversight.”
“She’s not the usual type we get,” he mutters, not quite disapproving. “Overqualified.”
I glance up. “And?”
“And she’s polished.”
“That bother you?”
“No, sir,” he says. “But if she starts asking the wrong questions—”
“She won’t.” I shut the ledger and toss it back on the pile. “And if she does, we’ll know what kind of asset she is.”
He inclines his head.
I turn toward the back wall where a screen displays rotating feeds from the yard.
The van’s still idling at the edge, Roarke standing just out of view but close enough to intercept if needed.
I’ll let it sit for now. See if the driver gets nervous.
Sometimes, it’s the waiting that smokes out a tail.
The admin printer kicks into motion beside me, jolting one of the younger clerks into scrambling for the tray.
“Don’t let it jam,” I say, not turning.
He freezes, palms flat on the tray. “No, sir.”
I check the wall clock. 9:17.
She’s early, but not by accident.
“Bring her in,” I say, not raising my voice.
O’Driscoll hits the intercom. “Send her through.”
And that’s when Riley Quinn walks in.
The moment she steps into the operations office, I know.
Same curve of her mouth. Same thick lashes. Same eyes that locked with mine across a crowded club and didn’t look away.
Except now, she’s polished. A high ponytail, clean blazer, minimal makeup, and a face that shouldn’t belong in a port office surrounded by freight schedules and ink-stained hands.
She’s dressed like a logistics analyst, but she moves like she knows every man in the room is either watching or pretending not to.
Including me.
Her hips shift as she walks—subtle, but not accidental. There’s something unapologetic about the way she owns her space, even though it’s her first day.
My hand stills on the pen I was using to sign off a customs check.
Kavanagh notices. He says nothing. Smart man.
I don’t say anything either, not at first. I let her come closer.
Quinn, Riley, the new hire from Hamburg. No family on record. No known ties. Shortlisted by Roisin from our admin block, backed by clean references and a crisp CV. Head of Logistics was supposed to give her the rundown this morning.
But this isn’t a logistics analyst. This is a woman who looks like heat and secrets, like whiskey sipped too fast, like danger if you ask the wrong question.
And she’s standing ten feet from my desk, watching me with those same unreadable eyes.
I close the file. “Ms. Quinn, I presume.”
She nods. “Mr. Byrne.”
Her voice is low, smooth. Not soft. She doesn’t smile. That’s the first clue.
“Come in,” I say, motioning her toward the chair across from mine. I don’t offer a handshake. I don’t stand. That would be polite. This isn’t that kind of room.
She takes the seat, legs crossed, hands folded neatly on her lap. It looks practiced, but not fake. She’s done this before.
“You’re early,” I say.
“I’m efficient.”
“You don’t strike me as administrative.”
A flicker of something behind her eyes. “You don’t strike me as someone who does interviews.”
I allow the smallest twitch at the corner of my mouth. Smart. Confident. Possibly reckless.
“You’ve met Roisin?” I ask.
“She walked me through entry protocol. ID, keycard, reporting structure. Gave me the tour.”
“Did she warn you?”
“About what?”
“That I don’t like inefficiency.”
She tilts her head. “Then you’ll like me.”
I study her. She holds the stare like it’s a game she’s played before. No flinch, no nerves. But her pulse kicks once at her throat—just a flicker—and that’s enough.
She remembers me.
Good.
“You worked in Hamburg,” I say.
“I did.”
“Why leave?”
“Cleaner operations. Better opportunity.”
“Cleaner?”
She lifts a shoulder. “No Cartel overlap. Fewer favors owed.”
My brows lift. She doesn’t blink. That’s two more points in her favor.
“You talk like someone who’s seen messy ports up close.”
“I have.”
“But you’re not from Hamburg.”
“No.”
I let the silence stretch, just long enough to be uncomfortable. She holds.
“Where, then?” I ask.
“Rotterdam. Originally.”
It’s a lie. I don’t know how I know it. I just do. There’s something too precise in her tone. Something too polished in her posture. Riley Quinn is a suit built around a secret, and the secret smells familiar.
But I’m not ready to crack it yet. I want to see what she does under pressure first.
I lean forward, elbows on the desk. My voice drops half a note.
“Do you always stare at men in nightclubs?”
She doesn’t flinch.
“Only when they stare first.”
“Didn’t see you look away.”
“I didn’t plan to.”
Heat curls low in my spine. She’s good. Quick, calm, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. But there’s a current under her words that betrays something else—something hungry. She wants to win this exchange, but she also wants me to feel it.
I do.
“You were at Riot Room on Saturday,” I say.
“You were too,” she answers, tone even.
“Coincidence?”
“You tell me.”
My lips part slightly, not quite a smile. It’s not flirting, but a delicious tension stretches taut between us, quiet and electric. I haven’t felt this alive in a long while, and certainly not around any woman.
“You’ll be working under Mr. O’Driscoll this week,” I say. “He’s dry, inflexible, and likely to test your patience. That’s not a warning. That’s an invitation to impress him.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good. Because I don’t do second chances.”
She rises from the chair without being dismissed. I don’t stop her. She’s the one who breaks eye contact first—but not before that pulse at her neck kicks again. I catch it. I want her to know I caught it.
She turns to go.
“Ms. Quinn.”
She stops, one hand on the doorframe. “Yes?”
“Don’t wear that perfume again.”
She freezes. “Excuse me?”
“It’s distracting.”
A beat passes.
Then, “Noted.”
She leaves.
And I stay there, watching the empty space she leaves behind, already deciding I need to know who the fuck she really is. Something about her feels dangerous — and I’ve always had a taste for danger.