"No chatter, no crew rotations, nothing. The less anyone knows, the safer we are."
He raises an eyebrow.
"You expecting trouble that far south?"
"I expect trouble everywhere," I say.
"Especially from you."
He laughs, then snaps his fingers for one of the men outside.
A runner brings in a pair of black coffees, sets them down, and leaves without making eye contact.
Fiachra sips his coffee, then drops his voice.
"You sure you want to go through with the wedding?"
The question hangs for a moment.
I savor my own coffee, black, hot enough to scald, and then answer.
"I don't want anything. I want results. The Donnelly girl is a path to the city's nervous system. That's all."
We finish the meeting with a rundown of the next day's schedule—a drive-by at the courthouse, lunch with a minister who's been compromised since his student days, and a final sweep of the estate to ensure there are no last-minute surprises.
Fiachra will handle the logistics.
I'll handle the optics.
At the end of it, the city will know the Crowleys are not just a placeholder—they are the new law.
As I stand to leave, Fiachra stops me with a hand on myarm.
For a second, the posture is intimate, but the grip is iron.
"If you need an exit strategy," he says, voice low, "let me know. I can get you out, fast and clean."
I shake him off.
"If I need to run, I'm already dead, and you know it."
He lets go, nods once, and goes back to the maps.
I walk the length of the corridor to the elevator, passing men who won't meet my gaze and women who pretend not to recognize me.
At the ground floor, I take the back exit to the car.
Before the night fully sets in, I revisit the Donnelly estate.
The drive is swept, the hedges shorn to uniformity, the gravel raked with a zeal that hints at intimidation more than hospitality.
I step out of the car, scan the windows for movement, and see nothing but the reflection of my own arrival.
The guards at the entrance wear their new orders like a rash, visible and irritating, but at least they know better than to speak.
I tour the ground floor.
The wine cellar is now a holding pen for dignitaries too soft to stand through the ceremony.
