Chapter 6
CILLIAN
Idon’t sleep long.
I lie there with the note’s words sitting in my head like grit, then I get up while the estate is still quiet. I dress in black and clean lines, and I let the cold water hit my face until my thoughts sharpen into something usable.
The distillery is mine, and it’s the one place in this city that feels honest to me. Barrels don’t lie, glass doesn’t flatter, and whiskey doesn’t pretend it didn’t burn on the way down.
I drive there before the staff arrives, and I let the gates open without any horn or fuss. I park close to the main doors so the cameras catch my face and my plate and the time stamp.
Kavanagh meets me inside with a folder and a stiff posture, looking like he’s been awake even longer than I have. “Roarke’s holding the driver,” he says, voice tight. “He’s still singing the same song.”
I take the folder and flip it open. “Any names?” I ask.
Kavanagh shakes his head. “He claims he got paid cash, and he got the van from a rental lot in Bray.”
“Who booked it?”
“Fake ID, and the clerk can’t describe him well.”
I close the folder and tap it once on my palm. “So it’s meant to point at Wicklow and die there.”
Kavanagh nods once, then he shifts his eyes away, like he already knows what my next question is. “Any trace on the contractor stamp?” I ask.
“Old subcontract,” he says. “One of O’Callaghan’s shells. Not active on paper, still used on jobs that don’t go through paperwork.”
I grunt, then I look past him at the row of barrels and the neat lines of glass and let my anger settle into something quieter. I don’t like notes or anonymous hands tugging my attention away from what’s real. I don’t like anyone thinking they can make my choices for me.
Kavanagh clears his throat. “You’re still doing the tasting tonight?”
“I am,” I say.
He watches me, and he doesn’t smile. “After that note?”
I turn my head and hold his gaze. “The note changes nothing.”
“It makes her a risk,” he says.
“She was a risk when she walked in,” I answer, then I take a step closer and lower my voice. “I’m not scared of risk. I’m scared of missing what’s right in front of me.”
Kavanagh’s jaw flexes once, then he nods and drops it. He knows better than to argue with me when I’m settled.
I move deeper into the distillery and check the bottling line, then I check the storage ledger, then I do a walk of the tasting room with my hands behind my back and my eyes tracking small things most people never notice.
A chair pulled slightly off line. A smudge on a glass shelf. A door latch that doesn’t click cleanly.
I fix it all.
At nine, Roarke calls and gives me the short version. The driver’s still held. The van’s stripped. The tags are gone. The note is in my pocket, folded once, then twice, then pressed flat. “Someone wanted you rattled,” Roarke says.
“They don’t get to pick my mood,” I answer.
“You want me to run the note language through the old files?” he asks.
“Do it,” I say. “I want patterns, not guesses.”
He pauses. “And Quinn?”
I don’t answer right away, and my silence is enough. “She’s on schedule,” he says. “No calls, no detours, no weird stops.”
“Keep it that way,” I tell him.
It’s early afternoon when I text Roisin.
Eight sharp. No delays. Bring Quinn through the front.
Roisin replies with one word.
Done.
The day runs tight. I sign off on a supplier, review export numbers, make one call to Belfast and cut it short when the man on the line starts begging for exceptions. Exceptions get men killed.
By six, the distillery is clean and ready, and the tasting room looks like it’s meant for power and not comfort. Low lights. Dark wood. Heavy chairs. Three glasses set at each place. A small plate of bread and cheese that no one touches until I say so.
My men don’t drink on duty, and I don’t drink to feel loose, but I do drink to taste, and tonight I want to see what Quinn does with a controlled setting.
A woman can hide in an office. She can hide behind screens and schedules and polite rules. She can’t hide with whiskey on her tongue and me watching her mouth.
At 7:40, Roarke steps into the tasting room and checks the corner cameras with his eyes, not his hands. “You’re here early,” I say.
“I’m here on time,” he answers, then he nods toward the door. “She’s outside.”
I let the pause stretch. “Alone?”
“Alone,” he confirms.
I don’t ask what he thinks. Roarke’s loyalty is hard and blunt, and he wants her gone the way a man wants a splinter out of his palm. He doesn’t care if it hurts as long as it’s removed.
I care, but then again, not in a way I’d call sane. “Let her in,” I say.
Roarke opens the door, and Quinn walks in wearing a black dress that clings to her like it was cut for her alone, firm across her breasts and narrowing at her waist before falling straight to her knees.
There’s nothing careless about it. Her lips are full, painted a deep red that makes a man think of teeth and heat in the same breath.
Kohl lines her eyes in a way that turns them into weapons instead of decoration.
When she slides her hair back behind one ear, her throat moves, smooth and exposed for half a second.
She looks at me like she’s measuring the distance between my chair and her choices. “Mr. Byrne,” she says, her tone perfectly pleasant.
“Ms. Quinn,” I reply, and I keep my tone even while my attention runs hot.
Roisin steps in behind her and offers a bright, fake smile, then she leaves fast, like she knows she’s stepping out of a storm. Roarke stays at the edge of the room with his arms crossed, and his eyes don’t leave Quinn’s hands.
Quinn keeps her attention narrowed on me. “I didn’t expect a formal invitation,” she says.
“You got one,” I answer. “Sit.”
She takes the chair across from mine and settles in with calm control, and she crosses her legs without making it a performance.
I pour water first, and I slide the glass toward her.
“Drink,” I say.
“I’m not here to be tested,” she replies.
I lean back and hold her gaze. “You’re always being tested.”
She picks up the water and takes a small sip, then she sets it down and looks at the glasses waiting between us.
“You brought me here for a tasting,” she says. “You don’t strike me as a host.”
“I’m not hosting,” I answer. “I’m watching.”
She gives me a look that could be defiance or amusement, and she keeps her voice steady.
“Then watch,” she says.
I lift my hand and pour the first whiskey, and the scent rises, clean and rich. I keep my movements slow so she sees I’m not rushed.
“This one is young,” I say. “Two years. It’s sharp and it doesn’t pretend it isn’t.”
She picks up the glass and swirls it once, then she brings it to her mouth and takes a measured sip without wincing or faking pleasure. She swallows and sets the glass down with a soft click. “It bites,” she says.
“It’s meant to,” I reply.
Her eyes lift. “That’s your style?”
“That’s how I keep people honest,” I answer.
She nods once, then she reaches for the bread and breaks a piece off without asking.
Roarke shifts, and I lift my fingers slightly, and he stills.
Quinn chews, then she speaks while she’s still looking at the glass.
“Your workers talk about this place like it’s a church,” she says. “They respect it.”
I don’t respond, and I pour the second whiskey. This one is older. Smoother. More expensive. Harder to make right. Quinn takes it with the same calm, and she sips, and her eyes narrow slightly from attention. “That one doesn’t need to prove itself,” she says.
I watch her mouth as she speaks. “No,” I answer. “It already did.”
She holds my stare, then she looks down and sets the glass in line with the first. “You’re not drinking,” she says.
“I am,” I reply, then I take a sip and let her watch me swallow. Her gaze doesn’t move away, and she doesn’t pretend she didn’t just track my throat.
“Why invite me and no one else?” she asks.
I tap the folded note in my pocket once with my thumb, then I stop myself from pulling it out. I tilt my head. “Tell me what you think it is?”
She leans back slightly and keeps her hands on the table, open, no fidgeting.
“You want to see if I flinch when you change the setting,” she says. “If I chase your attention or ask questions I shouldn’t.”
“And?” I prompt.
She holds my gaze. “You want to see if you can control yourself.”
Roarke makes a low sound like he’s going to speak, and I lift my hand again, and he shuts up.
Quinn doesn’t look at him. She keeps her eyes on me, and her mouth is steady. “Can you?” she asks.
I let the pause sit long enough to make it real. “I can,” I say.
Her brow lifts slightly. “Do you want to?”
I smile without warmth. “Don’t get bold.”
Her mouth twitches. “You asked.”
I pour the third whiskey, and this one is the one I usually keep reserved. I push it toward her and watch what she does. She doesn’t reach for it right away. She studies the color and the slow legs along the glass. “You don’t give this one to everyone, do you?” she says.
“No,” I answer.
“Then why me?” she asks, and her voice stays calm even as her eyes sharpen.
I lean forward and lower my voice. “You spoke about fentanyl like you’ve buried someone from it.”
Her face stays still, then she answers with a single line. “I’ve seen what it does.”
I don’t ask who or where or give her the comfort of digging into her past like it’s mine to pick through. I just nod once. “Drink,” I tell her.
She takes the sip, and this time, she lets her eyes close for half a second, then she opens them and looks straight at me. “That’s clean,” she says.
“It is,” I reply.
“It’s also dangerous,” she adds.
My mouth twitches. “Everything worth keeping is.”
She watches me, then she sets the glass down and lets her fingers rest on the rim. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good,” I answer. “Expectations make people stupid.”
“And what did you expect?” I ask, and I keep the question soft without making it kind.