Chapter 3 #2
He protests. I stay quiet. Silence pushes men like him into filling space. He fills it. He gives me details he doesn’t mean to give. I write them down.
When the call ends, Brona watches me from across the room with a look that almost resembles approval.
The work keeps moving.
So does the guilt.
It shows up in small places. It shows up when a driver thanks a yard man for helping him get home on time. It shows up when the medic returns and says the injured worker will keep his wages for the week. It shows up when nobody jokes about the blood on the concrete.
I open my drawer and pretend to look for a pen. My fingers slip into the signal sleeve and open it just enough.
One message sits there.
Report.
No greeting. No softness. My father does not write like a parent. He writes like a man checking a weapon.
I type with my phone hidden under the desk.
First day. Discipline is high. Gate slots run tight. Whiskey lanes are clean. Spanish agent name is Alvarez. He pushes amendments at noon. I have a list of repeat drivers and a pattern of early arrivals that cover late entries. I’ll send details tonight.
I pause before I hit send.
That feels too helpful. It feels too fast.
I delete one line and rewrite it with less. My father likes to be fed, not flooded.
I send.
The sleeve closes. The burner goes dead again.
My hands stay steady on the keyboard, yet my stomach feels wrong.
A chair scrapes near the door.
O’Driscoll walks in with a folder tucked under his arm. His eyes scan the room, then land on my desk.
He nods. “Quinn. Come with me.”
I stand and follow.
We walk down a corridor into a smaller room where a wall map shows Dublin Port in sections. Ringsend. East Wall. North Lotts. Lanes marked in red and black. Names written in the margins.
O’Driscoll points. “These are your base lanes for the month. Whiskey contracts and clean exports. You keep them smooth.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He turns another page. “These loads get time windows. Drivers get assigned lanes. Seals get verified twice. Nobody departs without a receipt.”
I hold my face steady.
O’Driscoll watches me with that tired suspicion again. “You follow the rules, you last,” he says.
“I plan to last,” I reply.
He pushes the folder into my hands. “Read it. Memorize the structure. Ask questions only when you can’t answer them alone.”
“I will,” I say.
We walk back out.
As we step into the main room, voices rise near the door. A man in a torn jacket staggers in, his face bruised and his lip split. Blood dots his chin. Two security men flank him, not dragging, not guiding, just containing.
My muscles lock.
Cillian follows them in. His gaze sweeps the room and lands on the injured man first, not on the paperwork, not on the schedule screens. “What happened?” he asks.
Roarke answers. “He got jumped outside the gate. Two lads. They tried to take his bag and his keys.”
Cillian looks at the man. “Name?”
“Callum,” the man mutters, voice rough.
Cillian nods once. “Brona.”
Brona appears. “Yeah.”
“Cover his shift for two days,” Cillian says. “Full pay. Send him to the medic. Then send him home with someone.”
Brona nods once. “Done.”
Cillian looks at Roarke. “Find the lads,” he says.
Roarke’s eyes harden. “I will.”
Cillian’s gaze flicks to Callum again. His voice drops. “You did good coming inside,” he says.
Callum’s shoulders sag. “Thanks,” he mutters.
Cillian’s hand comes up and grips Callum’s shoulder once, firm. That single touch does something to the room. Men stand straighter. Faces settle. The place locks back into order.
He turns toward the desks and his eyes find me. My throat tightens, and I feel the full force of that look in my stomach, in my legs, in the parts of me that do not belong in a port office. I keep my face calm. He steps closer.
O’Driscoll shifts slightly, as if he wants to intercept, then decides not to.
Cillian stops beside my desk and looks down at my screen. “You’re logging mismatches,” he says.
“Yes,” I answer.
“How many?” he asks.
“Seventeen,” I say.
Brona’s head turns. O’Driscoll’s brows lift a fraction.
Cillian’s gaze stays on me. “Seventeen in one morning,” he says.
I keep my voice level. “The pattern sits in the early gate entries. The same carriers show up ahead of slot time. Late entries follow in the same lane.”
Cillian watches my mouth as I talk. He does it without shame.
He nods once. “Keep going,” he says. “Bring it to O’Driscoll first. It reaches me once it’s clean.”
“It will be clean,” I say.
His eyes hold mine for half a beat longer than needed. Heat pulls low in my body again, sharp and unwanted.
Then he turns and walks away, as if he never touched the space beside me at all.
My hands stay on the desk.
My breathing stays even.
My mind feels loud.
The day drags into late afternoon. I keep working, learning, and watching a syndicate run like a structured operation, with rules that protect profit and rules that protect people. That last part keeps catching on me.
At five, Brona tells me to go.
“You’re done,” she says. “You come back tomorrow with the mismatch list refined.”
“I will,” I answer.
I pack my bag and walk out with my head high, crossing the yard without slowing.
Men watch me as I pass. Some look curious.
Some look cautious. None of them look careless.
I don’t linger. I head straight for the small quarters on the estate grounds set aside for me.
Once inside my room, I shower, pour myself a drink, and only then let the tension show as I sit down and drag a hand over my face.
He’s supposed to be the villain. So why does he feel like the only man here who believes in loyalty?