Fiachra snorts.
"Three checkpoints, two body searches, and you still made it here alive. That's a statement."
"I'm here to make statements," the emissary agrees.
I cut to it.
"You want a meeting. A sit-down."
He nods.
"There are elements—on the council, in the city, even in your own house—who believe this cycle of escalation has reached its point of diminishing returns."
Fiachra's eyes flick to mine, but I don't return the look.
I say, "If you're here to offer a truce, you've wasted the drive. There will be no reconciliations."
The emissary allows a thin smile, as if we're sharing a joke.
"No one expects handshakes. But certain business matters require stability. You and the Connollys have a chance to end this with terms, not funerals."
He places a single envelope on the desk.
I don't touch it.
"The O'Duinns are mediating?" I ask.
He shrugs again.
"We're invested in the outcome."
"And yet you funded the abduction," I say, letting it land with no inflection.
"You paid for the safe house, supplied the men, even covered the insurance premium on the van. Do you think I don't keep records?"
The smile stays, but the eyes go hard.
"The council does what it must. Sometimes mistakes are made."
I lean forward, elbows on steel.
"Any olive branch you offer is soaked in gasoline. I will not sit across a table from a man who arranged to have my wife murdered. Not for money, not for territory, not for any piece of this dying city."
There is a stillness then, broken only by the soft click of Fiachra's fingers against his belt.
The emissary collects himself, then the envelope.
"You know, in the end, all this just makes us look like amateurs."
I stand, closing the distance so he has to look up to meet my gaze.
"Amateurs get to walk away from their failures. I don't."
He holds the stare a beat too long, then steps back.
The line of sweat at his hairline betrays more than the heat in the room.
"I'll tell them you refused."
