I step in, back straight, hands empty.
There's a hush as I walk to the table.
Every face is a mask, but I can read the hunger in the room—they want a performance, and I am about to give them one.
Ruairí follows, silent, taking the chair opposite me.
For a second, I let myself remember the last two hours, the safety of his arms, the confession of weakness.
Then I erase it.
There's no room for sentiment now.
I pour myself coffee.
The cup rattles, just enough to be noticed.
Lena clears her throat.
"The shipments from the North are delayed," she says.
"Customs is running a sweep on the M1."
"Tell them to bribe better," I say, "or find a new route."
Ruairí grunts, not looking up.
"Maybe if the Donnelly side had any discipline, we wouldn't have this problem."
The words are a shot across the bow.
I take it in stride.
"If the Crowleys could manage a single operation without pissing off the police, we wouldn't have to bribe anyone."
A few of the staff glance at each other.
I see the tension building, a slow surge, like the tide coming in under a full moon.
I lean back in my chair, cross my arms.
"You want to say something, say it."
Ruairí looks up, and the mask is perfect.
Cold, empty, not a flicker of warmth.
"You're bleeding this operation dry," he says.
"Spending on parties and fucking protection, like you're the princess of Cabra. The Italians are laughing at us."
I let the words hang.
"Better than rolling over and letting them fuck us," I say.
He slams his fist on the table.
The coffee jumps, spills in a black arc across the tiles.
