"I got the file. Killian is tracing the network."
I flip it open and see the first page is a full report.
Photo surveillance of me at the clinic. A second angle, timestamped eight minutes later.
A third from across the street showing Aoife's building in full view.
The rest of the file outlines names we didn't expect—Irish names, not Italian—who are helping them track me.
One is from Louth.
One is a nephew of an old councilman.
One has a record that should have flagged a long time ago.
"Killian's working the devices," Ruairí explains.
"The burner that took the photo pinged in Blackrock, then Ringsend, then near the port. He's mapping it now. Same with the financial side. He has banking access in Luxembourg and is pulling everything linked to the Brussels shell."
"And the name Ricci?" I ask.
"He's a handler," Ruairí confirms.
"He moves cargo through Sandymount and uses auction sales to cover the trail. Killian flagged six false bills of lading from the last shipment. All tied to Ricci's account in Bari."
I close the file and stand.
"They're not just pushing drugs. They're pushing blood. Ours."
"Yes."
He takes a deep breath and touches my cheek.
"Let's discuss what to do in the morning. For now, I'll take the room across the hall."
I let him get three steps.
Then I rise, walk to him, and catch his wrist.
"Don't."
His breath is quiet, but I feel it hitch beneath my palm.
"Keira," he says, my name already frayed in his mouth.
"I don't want quiet tonight," I tell him.
"And I don't want space."
His hand comes to my hip.
"You're sure?"
"Yes," I whisper, already slipping fingers beneath his shirt, feeling the ridges of old wounds, the warmth of a man who's fought too long and never once asked to be touched without terms.
The kiss is slow, not gentle.
It's everything that's been simmering for months—words we didn't say, pain we didn't name, the terrible understanding that we've been made from violence but want to live like something more.
