I don't recognize the handwriting.
The note looks informal.
But the Ricci name is familiar, and not in a good way.
They've been tied to the Moretti family for over a decade, possibly longer.
This tells me something important—the Italians have had their eye on Donnelly operations long before I came back.
Possibly since before I left.
I flag the page.
I write Taviano's name at the top of a clean sheet.
Then I start building a list—names, locations, connections.
I pin them to the board on the far wall and draw lines between them showing how Moretti might be moving people and money through Dublin using older Donnelly routes.
Lines that explain why removing me and any child I might carry would benefit them.
This isn't random or personal.
It's business.
They think the bloodline is the last obstacle.
So they're trying to wipe it out before it grows.
My phone begins buzzing with a call from Ruairí.
I answer.
"Remember how you wondered how the kidnappersknew about my pregnancy? It turns out this is bigger than what we anticipated. Italian involvement bigger."
"I'm coming," comes the reply after a brief pause.
I nod and hang up.
At eight, the kitchen sends up food and it is the simple kind that I can eat without thinking—chicken broth, brown bread, jam.
I eat at the desk and keep writing.
At ten, Lena tells me the cars are set and the roof posts are up.
At eleven, the gate calls in.
The convoy is here.
Ruairí comes in wet from the rain.
He nods to Lena, then to me.
He smells like the road and cold air.
We go upstairs to the bedroom and shut the door.
He sets a thick folder on the desk.
