Chapter 11
Zora
"Give me your phone." The words leave Domenico's mouth the moment the jet's engines power down completely.
For a second, I simply look at him.
Rain taps softly against the windows, and beyond the glass the night stretches across the private airfield in shades of black and grey. The flight is over. Ireland is no longer a destination. It is reality.
Without arguing, I hand him my phone.
Domenico takes it and walks toward a secure compartment built into the rear section of the cabin. He places his own phone beside mine, enters a code, and locks both devices inside.
The metallic click echoes quietly through the cabin. Something about the sound feels final. I watch him return to his seat.
"You are really leaving them here?"
"Yes."
I frown. "Why?"
Domenico shrugs into his coat before answering. "Because they will not make it past the front gate."
His tone is calm, but there is something different about him now. The easy banter from the flight has disappeared. Even his posture seems sharper. More alert.
"The Keegans do not allow communication devices inside the estate." He continues. "No phones. No smart watches. No trackers. Nothing capable of transmitting information."
I stare at him. "That seems excessive."
His gaze meets mine briefly. "They find it effective." The simple certainty in his voice makes my stomach tighten.
Until now, the operation has existed mostly on paper. Files. Security reports. Intelligence briefings. Now it feels real. Dangerously real.
"What happens if someone ignores the rule?"
"They get searched."
"And if they are caught?"
A brief silence passes between us.
"They stop being guests." The answer is calm enough to be unsettling.
I study him for a moment. "You are serious."
"Very."
Rain continues to strike the windows while the cabin settles into silence.
For the first time since leaving Manhattan, I become aware of how isolated we are about to be. No phones. No contact with my team. No way to reach anyone outside the estate. No easy exit if something goes wrong.
"How are we supposed to communicate if we get separated?"
Domenico doesn't seem remotely concerned by the question. He slips on his coat and glances toward the cabin door. "We will figure it out."
I stare at him in disbelief. "That is your plan?"
"It has worked so far."
"That is not reassuring."
He smirks faintly. "It wasn't meant to be."
Irritation immediately tightens in my chest. I prefer plans. Structure. Contingencies. Domenico, on the other hand, seems perfectly comfortable operating on instinct and experience alone.
It is one of the things I find most frustrating about him.
"You realize most people would consider ‘we'll figure it out’ a terrible strategy."
"Most people do not get invited." The answer is so casually arrogant that I almost regret asking.
Before I can argue further, he opens the cabin door and gestures toward the exit. "Come on, Elf."
I hate how much he enjoys being vague. Even more, I hate that he somehow manages to sound confident while doing it.
A few minutes later, we leave the jet. Cold Irish air immediately wraps around me. The rain is light but constant, hanging in the darkness like mist. Runway lights glow through the fog while black vehicles wait in a perfectly organized line nearby.
And then I notice the men standing beside them. At first glance, they look like drivers. At second glance, they clearly are not.
Dark tailored suits. White shirts. Black gloves. Small earpieces hidden beneath neatly trimmed hair.
They stand with the kind of stillness that only comes from extensive training. No unnecessary movement. No idle conversation. No visible distractions. Every one of them is watching.
Their attention shifts toward us the moment we descend the stairs. I feel their eyes assess everything. My clothes. My posture. My expression. The distance between Domenico and me. Nothing escapes their notice.
One of the men steps forward. He is older than the others, perhaps in his forties, with sharp features and the calm confidence of someone accustomed to authority.
His gaze lands on Domenico first. Then back to me. Evaluating. The moment he sees Domenico again, his face breaks into a genuine smile.
"Lucien." The name leaves his mouth with familiarity, carried by a strong Irish accent that softens some of the sharper edges of his voice.
He reaches Domenico and pulls him into a firm handshake. "It’s been too long."
Domenico smiles in return. A real smile. Not the polite version he gives strangers. Not the dangerous one he uses when he is amused. Something easier.
"Sean." He says. "You’re looking older."
Sean snorts. "My wife says the same thing."
"And yet she keeps you around."
"Barely."
The two men laugh quietly.
I stand beside them, watching the exchange carefully. Neither of them appears to be performing. Which is exactly what unsettles me. Because Sean clearly knows this version of Domenico. Knows him well.
Sean shakes his head.
"You disappeared again. Typical."
"I was busy."
"You are always busy."
Sean glances toward me before looking back at Domenico.
"Ciara will never forgive you for missing Ben's birthday."
A strange silence settles inside me. Birthday? Not business. Not operations. A child's birthday.
Sean continues before either of us can respond. "He still talks about you, by the way."
Domenico raises an eyebrow. "That cannot be good."
"You taught him how to skip stones when he was six." Sean laughs. "The boy spent six months throwing rocks into every waterbody he could find."
For a second, I forget to breathe. Because none of this sounds fabricated. These are not rehearsed cover details. They are memories. Real ones.
Sean shakes his head fondly. "He asked last week if Lucien was finally coming back."
Something unreadable flickers through Domenico's expression before disappearing.
"Tell him I expect a rematch."
"I will."
My attention remains fixed on Domenico. Or rather, on Lucien.
The identity feels disturbingly alive. Not a passport. Not a cover story. A person. A man with friends. With history and inside jokes. Children who remember him.
The realization sends an uncomfortable feeling through my stomach. Exactly how many lives has he lived?
Sean finally turns toward me. "And you must be Vivienne." His smile softens immediately. "It is nice to finally meet you."
The comment catches me off guard. ‘Finally.’ As if he has heard about me before. As if Domenico has spoken about me.
I glance briefly at Domenico. He gives the slightest nod. Play along.
I offer Sean a polite smile. "It is nice to meet you as well."
Sean greets me warmly before stepping back.
"Come on." He says. "Darragh has been asking when you two would arrive."
The words settle heavily in my chest. Not you. But you two. The cover has already begun.
A few minutes later, we climb into the waiting SUV. Sean takes the driver's seat. Domenico settles into the passenger seat beside him. I sit in the back, watching rain streak across the darkened windows as the vehicle disappears into the Irish countryside.
The conversation between the two men flows naturally. And with every passing mile, one thought continues circling through my mind.
I came to Ireland with Domenico Valenti. But the man sitting in front of me seems to belong here as Lucien Moreau.
The Keegan estate appears through the trees nearly twenty minutes later.
For a moment, nobody speaks.
The manor rises from the edge of a dark lake like something pulled from another century.
Massive stone walls stretch across the shoreline, illuminated by warm golden lights that reflect across black water.
Ancient battlements crown the structure, while ivy crawls across weathered stone that has likely stood there for generations.
It is beautiful. And deeply unsettling.
I have spent my entire life surrounded by wealth. Private islands. Penthouse towers. Historic villas. None of them feel like this. This place does not flaunt its money. It flaunts permanence. The kind of power that survives governments.
The SUV rolls through iron gates large enough to admit military vehicles. Ahead, the manor grows larger with every passing second.
In front of me, Domenico remains completely relaxed. As if arriving here is no different than checking into a hotel.
The vehicle eventually stops beneath a covered stone entrance. The moment we step outside, security closes in. Not aggressively. But professionally.
Two men approach immediately while a third waits nearby holding a scanner.
Nobody smiles. Nobody wastes words. And the process begins without explanation.
They scan me first. Nothing.
Then they move to Domenico. A sharp electronic tone cuts through the night. The scanner flashes. And every security guard becomes noticeably more alert.
Instinctively, my attention snaps toward Domenico. He doesn't move. Doesn't tense. Doesn't even look surprised.
"Left arm." One of the guards says.
Without argument, Domenico rolls up his sleeve. A small medical device sits attached beneath the fabric. The guard studies it briefly before nodding.
"Glucose monitor."
"Correct."
The scan continues.
I stare at the device for a second longer than necessary. I had no idea. For the first time since meeting him, I realize there are still things about Domenico that genuinely surprise me.
The thought lingers as security finally steps aside. "Clear."
And we are finally allowed inside.
The interior of the manor is somehow even more impressive than the exterior. Stone archways. Dark wood. Portraits older than entire countries. Everything feels expensive. Everything feels watched.
A man in a black suit waits near the entrance hall. Older. Impeccably dressed. The kind of person who has served powerful families long enough to become part of the house itself.
"Mr. Moreau. Miss Laurent." His voice is smooth and practiced. "Mr. Keegan sends his regards. Dinner will be served shortly. In the meantime, I have been instructed to show you to your room."
Our room.
The wording barely registers at first. Not until we follow him upstairs. Not until he opens the door. Not until I step inside. Then stop.
The room is enormous. A private sitting area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. A fireplace. Antique furniture.
And one bed. One very large bed.
The silence beside me lasts exactly two seconds. Then I hear Domenico exhale through his nose. Not surprise. Amusement. That is when I know he expected this.
The butler remains completely professional. "If there is anything you require, please inform the staff."
The door closes behind him as the latch clicks softly.
I continue staring at the bed. "Say it."
Domenico sets his bag down. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
I turn slowly. "You knew."
His mouth twitches. A clear mistake. Because now I know for certain.
"You absolutely knew."
"It was a possibility."
"A possibility?"
His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "We are engaged."
"We are pretending to be engaged." I whispered.
"A distinction the Keegans are unlikely to appreciate."
I look back at the bed. Then at him. Then back at the bed again. The situation somehow becomes more ridiculous every time I process it.
"You could have warned me."
"And deprived myself of this reaction?"
Domenico walks past me toward the windows. Completely relaxed. Completely at home. As if sharing a room was the least noteworthy part of the operation. It should be. For me too. But why is it affecting me so much?
We had only been in Ireland for a few hours. Already, the lines between our cover and reality felt more complicated than I would have liked.
Taking a slow breath, I force my attention back where it belongs. The Keegans. The operation. The reason I came here in the first place. Because allowing myself to get distracted now would be a mistake.