4. Cady
Cady
Breakfast with my father has never been about food. Even when I was younger, when I still believed things like this meant time together, there was always an edge to it.
Now, there’s no pretending otherwise.
It’s a meeting.
The restaurant is the kind of place my father favors, quietly tucked behind a facade that keeps curious eyes out.
The lighting is low and warm, the walls paneled in dark wood that absorbs sound, and the air smells faintly of coffee, butter, and money.
Everything is polished, intentional, and controlled.
Just like him.
I’m led past the main dining room, heels sinking softly into the carpet as I follow the hostess toward the back. No one stops us or questions it. My father doesn’t ask for space; he occupies it, and people around him adjust without needing to be told.
The private room door is already open, and he’s already seated inside.
Colin Gallagher doesn’t wait for anyone, not even his daughter.
I step in, smoothing my hand over the front of my dress out of habit, and the door shuts quietly behind me, sealing the room in a heavy silence.
The table is already set.
White linen stretches clean and untouched beneath a spread that’s excessive for two people.
Fresh fruit arranged in careful symmetry, berries still glistening as they’ve just been washed.
A tiered stand of pastries—croissants, scones, and other things delicate enough to fall apart if you touch them wrong.
Eggs, smoked salmon, toast cut into perfect lines, small dishes of jam and butter that look more decorative than functional.
Coffee sits waiting, dark and rich, steam curling lazily into the air.
At the head of it all sits my father.
He doesn’t touch any of it.
A glass of whiskey rests near his hand that he hasn’t bothered to lift, either. His suit is perfectly tailored, charcoal and sharp against the warm tones of the room, not a single detail out of place.
He looks the same as he always does.
Untouchable.
His eyes lift to mine as I step inside, and the familiar, measured scrutiny settles over me, a weight I’ve been carrying my entire life.
“Caitlin.” His voice is smooth and controlled.
“Da.” I cross the room and take the seat across from him without waiting to be told.
A server appears briefly at my side, pushing in the chair before disappearing again just as quickly, the door closing behind him with a soft click that leaves us alone.
Just us.
No buffer.
No distractions.
I reach for the coffee, wrapping my fingers around the warm porcelain and lifting it to my lips, letting the heat settle something in my chest.
He gives me one sip.
Then, quietly, “What did you find?”
There’s never any buildup or pretense with him.
I lower the cup slowly, setting it back onto the saucer with care, buying myself half a second to think even though I already know what I’m going to say.
“Not much.” I keep my tone light enough that it doesn’t sound like the deflection it is.
I feel his dissatisfaction. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You’ve been in that house for weeks.” He leans back in his chair. “You’ve got access to one of Benedikt Volkov’s men, and you’re telling me you’ve got nothing to show for it?”
I reach for a piece of toast to give my hands something to do, spreading butter across it in slow, deliberate strokes.
“I didn’t say nothing,” I correct gently. “I said not much.”
“Then give me something useful.”
I glance up at him as I take a bite, chewing slowly to stretch the moment just enough to decide how much I’m willing to give.
I have something.
Too much.
The shipment logs.
The access points.
The way things are moving inside that house: controlled, compartmentalized, deliberate.
But handing that over doesn’t prevent a war; it starts one.
“There are movements.” I set down the toast. “Routine ones. Nothing that suggests coordination with the Italians.”
That’s the part he cares about.
His jaw tightens at the mention of them, and I know I’ve hit the right place.
“You’re sure?” he presses.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment, deciding if I’m telling him what he needs.
“They’d be moving differently if they were.” I let my voice settle into something more confident. “More overlap. Less separation between operations. What I’ve seen is internal and tight.”
He hums quietly, fingers tapping against the table. “That doesn’t mean they won’t.”
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
“But they aren’t.”
“Not right now.”
Silence stretches between us for a second before he shifts, his attention sharpening again.
“What about shipments?” he asks.
My fingers curl against the edge of the table before I force them to relax. “Nothing unusual.” I keep my tone light and dismissive. “Same routes. Same patterns.”
It’s not a full lie.
He doesn’t need to know everything because it has nothing to do with the Italians.
His eyes narrow as he realizes I’m holding something back.
“You’re being vague,” he accuses.
“I’m being careful.”
“With me?” Coldness slips into his tone. “Or for them?”
“For us,” I meet his eyes without hesitation. “If you want to avoid a war, giving you half-formed information about shipments isn’t the way to do it.”
That doesn’t sit well. It never does when I push back.
“You don’t decide how I use the information you bring me,” he grinds out. “I thought we were clear about that.”
“I understand, Da.”
The silence that follows is thick with something unspoken and familiar.
Disappointment.
Frustration.
Expectations that I’m not meeting fast enough.
“You’re getting too comfortable over there,” he says after a moment. “Too close to something that isn’t yours.”
“I’m doing what you asked me to do.”
“I asked you to be useful.”
I’ve heard those words before, and I’m still trying to prove they don’t apply to me.
“I am being useful,” I say.
“By what?” he presses. “Sleeping with the boy?”
Heat flares through me, sharp and immediate. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
If my father thinks I’m just sleeping around with Misha and not bringing him back what he wants, he’ll pull me out.
“Then what are you doing, Caitlin?” His tone is conversational, which makes it worse. “From where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve spent the past few weeks playing house with a Russian while your brothers bring me something I can use.”
Rian and Killian.
Always better. Always ahead.
I force my expression to stay neutral. “They’re not in the same position I am and can never be.”
“No,” he agrees. “They’re in better ones. They didn’t have to convince me not to marry them off for leverage. They didn’t have to promise they’d be worth more on their own.”
That one lands because it’s true.
Because I did.
“I’m not done yet.” I’m quieter now but no less firm.
“You should be further along.”
“I’m being careful, Da.”
“You’re being slow.”
“I’m preventing a mistake.”
Something dangerous flickering behind them. “A mistake?”
“Yes.”
“And what would that be?”
“Starting something we can’t control,” I say. “You don’t want a war with the Volkovs, correct? That was the whole point of this?”
“No,” His voice drops. “But I’ll have one if I need to.”
I believe him.
“That’s why I’m not handing you incomplete information,” I say. “Once you act on it, there’s no taking it back.”
“If you don’t bring me something soon,” he says slowly. “The plan will change.”
The warning is undeniable.
My fingers tighten in my lap. “I will.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“Maybe,” he mutters. “Or maybe I should stop waiting on you.”
My stomach twists, but I don’t let it show. “What does that mean?”
“It means if you’re going to spend your time with the boy anyway, we might as well make it worth something.”
The meaning hits before he finishes the thought.
“I will not marry Misha.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I told you that.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replies, though his expression says otherwise. “But an alliance with the Volkovs would solve a lot of problems.”
“At what cost?”
“At the cost of you doing what you should’ve done from the beginning,” he says. “Making yourself useful.”
Anger flares, hot and immediate. “I told you I could do better than that. You agreed.”
“I agreed to give you time,” he corrects. “Not to let you waste it.”
“I’m not wasting anything.”
“Then prove it.”
The words land like a challenge.
“I will.”
He watches me for a moment longer, then reaches for his coffee.
“Good,” he says.
But there’s nothing reassuring about it.
Because if I don’t, he’ll make the move himself.
And when he does, he won’t be careful.
It won’t be quiet.
It will be a war.
And I’ll be the reason it starts.