Chapter 5 #2
I keep my voice steady. “It’s not my job to know that, Sir. But I can find out, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Kavanagh clears his throat. “Boss, the plate is registered to a rental firm in Bray. It’s not a private owner.”
Cillian nods once. “So it’s meant to point at Wicklow.”
Kavanagh nods again. Cillian’s eyes return to me. “And none of this frightens you?”
I don’t give him a smile. “It’s a note. I’ve seen worse.”
His stare holds, then he shifts his attention to the folder on the ground. He picks it up with two fingers like it’s dirty and flips to the back page.
His lips part slightly, then close. He turns the folder so I can see it.
The last page is a manifest template, and in the corner there’s a stamp mark that shouldn’t be there. It’s a contractor mark, a security subcontractor stamp used in Wicklow corridors, used by firms that answer to my father. I keep my face blank.
Cillian watches me watch it, and his eyes sharpen like he’s waiting for something to slip.
Nothing does.
He lowers the folder. “You’re either very good at staying calm,” he says, “or you’re very good at lying.”
I tilt my head. “Which do you prefer?”
His mouth twitches, then he looks past me toward the dark yard. “Neither.”
Kavanagh shifts. “You want me to lock down gate changes for the night?”
Cillian nods. “Do it.”
“And the van?” Kavanagh asks.
Cillian’s gaze stays on the yard, then returns to me again. “Get it off my ground, strip it, and burn the tags. And Kavanagh.”
“Hmm?”
“Didn’t the old dog have a daughter?”
This time, it takes everything in me to keep my face still or stop my hands from shaking. Kavanagh shakes his head. “From what I know, the girl’s abroad, in college. She cut ties with the family a long time ago.”
I press my heels into the ground. This was a targeted lie delivered across the different Mafia families in power a few years ago, around the same time as when my father decided I needed to man up and avenge the family.
Cillian nods briefly. “Very well.”
Kavanagh moves out. Now it’s just me and Cillian under the yard lights, and the cameras are watching, and the distance between us feels different than it did upstairs.
My father doesn’t waste fuel or men on theatrics, so if he sent that van, he didn’t send it for a scrap of paper.
He sent it to watch. He’ll want to know how fast the gate locks down, how long Roarke takes to move, whether Cillian comes out himself or stays behind glass, which lanes freeze and which keep rolling.
If Cillian sees Wicklow stamped on something loud and obvious, he looks at my father, not at the quiet woman at his desk. It throws suspicion into the open, and it keeps my connection buried under noise. It does put me under light, but my father never feared light. He trained me to stand in it.
He trusts that I can hold a stare, shift a story, turn heat into distraction.
If doubt lands on me, he expects me to smile through it and drag Cillian closer instead of pushing him away.
That’s how he plays—create a storm big enough to hide the real move, then send his daughter straight into the center and trust she won’t drown.
Cillian steps closer again. I don’t move back. His voice drops. “You told me today that you want control over what matters.”
I hold his stare. “I do.”
“What matters to you?” he asks.
It’s a trap. I give him a clean answer that holds both. “Work. Results. Staying alive.”
His eyes stay on mine, then he nods once. “Good.”
He turns, and he starts walking, and he expects me to follow. I do. We move through the yard toward the ops block, and he doesn’t hurry and he doesn’t slow for me. He walks like the world adjusts to him or it breaks.
As we pass the camera pole near the weld bays, he speaks without turning his head.
“That note changes nothing,” he says.
I keep my tone even. “It shouldn’t.”
We reach the back stairs, and he stops at the door. He finally turns and faces me. “If someone wants me to doubt you,” he says, “they picked a bad method.”
I keep my face calm. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
His gaze drops to my mouth again, then lifts. “You’re going to keep working those mismatches,” he says. “Keep bringing clean findings to O’Driscoll, and keep your head down.”
I nod. “Understood.”
His mouth twitches. “Then go to your room.”
I turn to leave, and I keep my pace steady as I walk away from him. I make it halfway down the corridor before my burner vibrates inside the signal sleeve. I get inside my quarters, lock the door, and only then do I pull the burner out.
One message.
Answer me.
No greeting.
No question mark.
I type fast.
First day went fine. System runs tight. They’re watching new hires. I’m moving slow.
The reply comes too quickly.
Are you close to him yet?
My fingers hover before I type a reply.
Yes.
Another reply.
Did he touch you?
I stare at the screen.
He’s testing everyone.
A pause.
You don’t forget why you’re there.
I read it twice, then I lock the burner and shove it back into the sleeve before moving to pour a drink. The only thing I can see is his hand on my arm and the way he didn’t let go until someone forced the moment to break. I set the glass down and pace once, then twice, then I stop.
Opening my laptop, I pull up the schedule dashboard, and I make myself work. I refine the mismatch list and tighten the pattern notes. I strip out anything that points to high-risk lanes, and I keep the language clean.
When the report is ready, I copy a smaller version for my father, and I leave out names and numbers that would get men killed fast. My thumb hovers over Send.
I don’t send it yet.
I sit back and stare at the screen, and my reflection in the dark glass looks like Riley, not Saoirse, and I hate how easy that is becoming.
My normal phone buzzes. I let it ring once, then I answer. “Quinn,” I say.
A man’s voice comes through, smooth and familiar. “Ms. Quinn,” he says. “Mr. Byrne requests your presence tomorrow evening.”
I keep my tone even. “For what?”
“A tasting at the distillery,” the man says. “Eight sharp. Wear something that won’t get you stared at in the wrong way.”
I swallow the reaction before it shows in my voice. “Understood.”
The call ends. I stare at my phone for a second, then I set it down. I feel a pull in my chest that doesn’t belong to duty, and I hate that it feels real. I close the laptop, I turn off the light, and I lie down fully dressed.
I tell myself I’m going for the work, to watch him, learn him, and take what I need. Tonight almost happened, but next time, I need to be smarter. Then I close my eyes, and the last thing in my head is his voice saying that note changes nothing and my body answering with a quiet truth I don’t want.
I want him to prove it.