"Some fella in the flats says he saw you crying outside the pawn shop."
"One of Keira's own dropped a line to the papers—said you never loved her, that you were only in it for the money."
She smiles when she says it, not because it's funny, but because it means the plan is working.
Lena hates it.
She paces the length of the makeshift headquarters, muttering curses in two languages, hands twitching every time the radio spits static.
She wants to fight back, to phone Keira, to punch the next person who repeats the lie.
But she doesn't.
She keeps her mouth shut and her eyes open, scanning the window every half hour for the car that will pull up and end the whole game.
The Elders are officially involved by noon.
The callcomes in on the radio, a coded phrase from a council member whose voice I know too well.
"They want to see you, Ruairí. They want to know what the fuck is going on."
The message is equal parts warning and invitation.
I laugh when I hear it, then turn the radio off and stare at the wall until the static fades from my head.
The spread is working.
The streets believe it, the guards believe it, even the old men at the betting shop believe it.
The only one who doesn't is me, and maybe Keira, wherever she is.
By evening, Niamh gets word from Brussels.
"The Italians think you're vulnerable."
The message is clear—our little theater has gone international, and the first act is over.
Now comes the blood.
Lena asks, "You think Keira is safe?"
I say, "She's safer now than she was yesterday."
At this point, Lena gets a call.
She moves quickly to listen, head cocked, then slams the phone down on the table and spits a string of curses.
"It's started," she says, no preamble.
"O'Duinn's people are moving. Full audit on the Donnelly accounts, tonight."
Niamh looks up from her phone, face unreadable.
"Which ones?"
"All of them."
Lena swipes the hair from her face, rainwater flicking onto the table.
