Chapter 5
SAOIRSE
His hand stays on my arm, and his thumb shifts once like he’s testing how much control he can take without asking. I don’t pull away or lean in, but I also refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing my breath change. I keep my eyes on his and let my face hold steady.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts back up, and the look in it isn’t soft. It’s deliciously dark and it makes my heart skip a beat.
I’ve seen men decide plenty of things about me in my father’s rooms, and I’ve learned how to stand still through it, but this is different. This isn’t a man buying access, but he’s measuring risk and wanting it anyway. That makes it all the more dangerous considering why I’m here.
Father would be proud if I let him kiss me and used it as leverage later on. But I’m not ready for that yet. My hand slides to his wrist, and I press two fingers to the inside where his pulse hits. “Let go,” I say again, quiet and flat.
He steps closer, and the heat of his body pushes into my space, and the room shrinks down to his knuckles on my sleeve and the line of his mouth.
My mind throws up my father’s voice, my mother’s casket, the file on the table, the word immediate, the promise I made in my head at Riot Room. Then my body gives me something else, and it pisses me off.
His eyes narrow like he caught it. His hand slides higher, just a little. I shift my stance, and I angle my shoulder so my blazer seam doesn’t pull, and I keep my weight even on both feet.
He watches the adjustment like it’s an answer. “You’re in too deep already,” he says, his lips curling into a small smile that makes him look old and young all at the same time.
I lift my brow. “Am I?”
His mouth twitches, and his grip tightens for half a second, then steadies again. “I don’t trust you.”
To that, I give him a smile of my own. “You shouldn’t.”
Cillian nods. “But I keep calling you in.”
“Then maybe that’s your problem.”
His gaze drops again, and it lingers, and his hand doesn’t move away. He leans in.
I don’t back up. The distance between us turns thin, and I can feel the moment hovering, sharp and stupid and tempting.
Then a knock hits the door.
Cillian doesn’t move at first, and I don’t either, and the pause stretches long enough to make the interruption feel like a mercy I didn’t ask for.
The knock comes again, then the door opens without waiting.
Roarke steps in with his phone in his hand, and his eyes flick once to me, then back to Cillian.
“Gate three,” he says. “We’ve got your Wicklow plate van, and it’s not a delivery. ”
Cillian’s grip loosens, not all the way, but enough to change the immediacy of the moment. Roarke keeps going. “Driver’s claiming he’s got paperwork for admin, but the documents don’t match the port tags, and he’s sweating like he ran here.”
My heartbeat stays even, but my brain goes fast.
Wicklow.
My father’s ridge.
My father’s reach.
I keep my face calm and my hand on Cillian’s wrist, then I let go first, and I step back like I was leaving anyway. Cillian’s eyes stay on mine for one more beat, and the look in them says he hasn’t forgotten what he almost did.
He turns to Roarke. “Where is he?”
“Side gate. Holding pen.”
Cillian nods once and looks at me. “Stay.”
It isn’t a request.
Roarke’s gaze shifts to my blazer, then to my face, then away, like he’s deciding where I fit in a room that’s never had a place for me.
Cillian walks out, and Roarke follows, and I’m left in the study with the folder on the table and the quiet closing in.
I don’t waste time staring at the paper again. I already saw what Cillian wanted me to see, and I already showed him what I can do. Now he’s walking toward a van tied to my father’s territory, and if that van is here for me, then I need to know it before Cillian does.
I step out, shut the door behind me, and walk down the corridor with the same pace I use at my desk.
The building feels different at night. Less noise, fewer voices, fewer bodies to hide behind.
I take the stairs down and cut through the back hall, and the security camera above the landing follows me. I keep my head up and my hands visible.
Two guards at the side exit glance over and don’t stop me. One opens the door without a word.
Outside, the yard lights throw white pools on the concrete, forklifts sit parked like sleeping animals, and the cranes stand still against the dark.
I head toward gate three.
Roarke’s men stand near the holding pen, shoulders square, hands loose at their sides. The van is parked at an angle, engine off, front wheels turned wrong like the driver wanted to bolt and didn’t get the chance.
Cillian stands near the driver door. The driver is a man I don’t recognize, late twenties, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with fear he’s trying to hide.
He’s holding a folder with both hands like it’s a shield.
Roarke is two steps behind Cillian, and Kavanagh is off to the side with a clipboard, watching the van plate like it’s a name on a grave.
Cillian doesn’t look at me when I approach, but he shifts half a step, and the movement tells me he knew I’d come anyway.
He speaks to the driver. “You’re on my ground.”
The driver swallows. “I’m delivering documents.”
“For whom?”
“Admin.”
Cillian nods once like he’s considering it, then he looks at the folder. “Open it.”
The driver hesitates, then slides it open and holds up printed pages. I can see the top sheet from where I’m standing, and I know the shape of those forms. I’ve seen them on my father’s table, and I’ve filled them out for our contractors when I was younger.
It’s a cover.
Cillian’s voice stays even. “Who sent you?”
The driver tries to lift his chin. “I was paid to bring it here.”
“By whom?”
He shakes his head fast. “I don’t know.”
Roarke takes one step forward, and the driver flinches, then tries to hide it. Cillian holds up a hand, and Roarke stops.
Cillian turns his head slightly, and his gaze lands on me. “Quinn,” he says.
I keep my face neutral. “Yes.”
“You recognize those forms?”
This is where I need to be careful. If I deny it too hard, I look guilty, and if I admit it, I hand him a thread. I take one step closer and keep my tone flat. “They’re not Byrne paperwork.”
Cillian’s eyes narrow. “So what are they?”
I look at the top sheet, then I look at the driver again. “They’re meant to get him past the first desk without someone calling it in.”
Roarke’s mouth tightens, and Kavanagh shifts his weight.
Cillian watches me. “You’re telling me this is a test.”
I nod once. “Or a probe.”
Cillian turns back to the driver. “You were told to come to gate three.”
The driver’s eyes flick left, then back. “I just followed directions.”
“Who gave them to you?”
He swallows hard. “A man. Suit. Mid-thirties. Scar on his cheek.”
My throat stays calm, but my brain spikes.
A man with a scar in our world could be half the city, and my father keeps plenty of them on payroll, but the detail feels far too neat and convenient.
Cillian steps closer to the driver and takes the folder from his hands with one smooth movement.
The driver’s fingers twitch like he wants it back, then he thinks better of it.
Cillian flips the pages, then he looks toward Roarke. “Check the van.”
Roarke nods and motions to two men. They open the back doors.
The van is mostly empty.
No crates, no tools, no normal delivery trash, just a small, sealed envelope taped to the inside wall, placed dead center like it wants to be found. Roarke peels it off and holds it out.
Cillian takes it without looking away from the driver.
He turns the envelope over once, then once again, then he tears it open.
I don’t move.
The driver’s eyes keep jumping.
Cillian pulls out a single sheet of paper.
No letterhead. No logo.
Just typed words.
He reads it, and the muscles along his throat shift once, then settle.
Roarke leans in. “What is it?”
Cillian doesn’t answer.
He hands the page to Roarke and turns to the driver. “You drove in on Wicklow plates,” he says. “You came to the wrong gate, you carried fake paperwork, and you brought me a note.”
The driver shakes his head. “I didn’t read it.”
Cillian’s gaze stays calm, but his voice drops lower. “You don’t need to read poison to deliver it.”
Roarke finishes scanning the page, then his eyes lift to mine for a brief second, then to Cillian.
“What does it say?” Kavanagh asks.
Roarke answers, and his voice is clipped. “It says the new girl isn’t new.”
My blood goes cold in a clean way, and my face stays still. Cillian’s eyes stay on the driver. “Who put that envelope in your van?”
The driver’s mouth opens, then shuts. Roarke steps in and grabs the driver’s collar and shoves him back against the van without slamming his head, just pinning him.
Cillian doesn’t flinch. “Name?”
“I don’t know,” the driver chokes out.
Cillian’s voice stays even. “You will.”
Roarke turns his head. “We can take him to the back room.”
Cillian nods once. “Do it.”
Roarke drags the driver away, and the man’s shoes scrape on the concrete, and his folder drops to the ground.
Kavanagh watches them go, then turns to Cillian. “That note’s O’Callaghan style.”
Cillian’s eyes flick up. “You sure?”
Kavanagh nods. “It’s a warning.”
Cillian’s gaze slides to me again. The note’s words still sit in my head, sharp and simple. The new girl isn’t new. I keep my hands at my sides and my posture relaxed, and I give him nothing. Cillian steps closer, then stops just outside my space. “Tell me something,” he says.
I lift my brow. “What?”
“Why would someone send me that?”
I let a second pass, then I answer with calm I have practiced for years. “Someone wants you to doubt your own hire.”
“Why?”
“To slow you down,” I say. “To make you start chasing ghosts instead of chasing paper.”
Cillian studies my face. “And you’re telling me it’s noise?”
“I’m telling you it’s strategy,” I say.
He holds my gaze. “If it’s strategy, whose?”