"No," Niamh corrects.
"They got greedy."
She flips another page, and this one hits pretty damn close to home.
A printed scan of an appointment book.
Aoife's name.
A date.
My initials.
That they have known about my pregnancy is common truth by now, but to have every second of my life scrutinized like this makes a shiver run up my spine.
Jack nods at the pictures.
"They don't know how far along. But they know enough. The biggest issue is what comes would be Crowley and Donnelly blood. And that scares the shit out of them."
I lift my eyes.
"Why?"
"Because it would be legitimate," Niamh says.
"Because it's history and power in one. Because it is about more than just two children. It's a line, a future they can't control."
Rory leans forward.
"And because if you live long enough to bring those children into the world, it means you've won."
That quiet settles again.
The pre-verdict hush. I sit back, spine straight.
"So the seat they offered me?—"
"Was never meant to be sat in," Niamh says.
"It's a trap. They wanted to lull you into ceremony, show surface-level acceptance. And then isolate you. Smear your name. Use your silence as complicity when Moretti made his real move."
There it is.
The name.
"Moretti," I say.
Rory nods.
"Italian financier. Runs clean operations on the surface—shipping, port ownership, bonded storage. But beneath it, he's the new muscle. Word is that the O'Duinns are also answering to him."
"He wants the city?" I ask.
"He wants the bloodline erased," Jack answers.
"The city comes after."
I rise from the table.
