There's silence on the other end.
No attempt to deny, no quick demand for terms. Just the sound of Padraig O'Duinn breathing like a man who knows the fall is already halfway done.
Ruairí doesn't wait for an answer.
He lays it out clean.
"Here's what we have. Four dummy firms registered in your name, two in Brussels and two in Berlin. A logistics company in Cork running false manifests through a dead man's name. A customs officer bribed through Liam's proxy accounts. A production house with no films but several shell payouts routed through a Luxembourg clearing bank that traces back to you. We know the structure. We've got the routing numbers. We've got signatures."
Still nothing.
Just breathing.
The long, cold kind of silence that precedes collapse.
"The Bombardier Challenger set to land at Shannon in forty-two hours," Ruairí says, voice steady.
"Tail number ending in 6XQ. Registered out of Gibraltar under a fake holding company that traces back to one of your Brussels firms. The same plane landed in Palermo last month and Tangier before that—both times within twenty-four hoursof confirmed hits on targets connected to Moretti's debt collections."
He pauses for one second, just to let the effect sink in.
"We know what it's bringing in this time. Two of Moretti's men, likely armed, with diplomatic cover arranged through a shell export office registered to your dead cousin. The handlers at Shannon are on your payroll. The refueling invoice was paid through an account we just pulled from Liam. That's your money, Padraig. That's your operation. And that is more than enough to charge you with conspiracy and state-sponsored organized crime. Unless you want me to walk that evidence in to Interpol and the Garda commissioner, you'll do exactly what I'm about to tell you."
At this, Padraig speaks a single word.
"What."
Ruairí doesn't raise his voice.
"Deliver Moretti to me. In person. On neutral ground. Not his villa, not yours. Here. At the Crowley Donnelly headquarters in Dublin. If you want to protect what's left of your position, your access, your family name, you'll bring him to us. And you'll make sure he understands it's not a request."
A long beat passes.
No denial.
No outrage.
Just breaths again, slow and shallow now.
Ruairí leans in slightly, hand flat on the table, his thumb grazing the edge of the photo we printed of Padraig's forged signature on a wire transfer to a known Sicilian arms broker.
"We know it all, Padraig. Every number you thought was safe is in my hand. Every ledger entry you thought disappeared is printed and stacked. You want to gamble your future on the Italians keeping their mouths shut when they smell smoke in your office, be my guest. But once this goes public, they'll toss you out of the network before the ink dries on your indictment."
Then finally, Padraig speaks.
His voice is hoarse, stripped down to bone.
"I'll get him there."
Ruairí hangs up.
I sit on the edge of the table with my hand resting on my stomach.
My shoulder still throbs.
Niamh presses a cold cloth to her face without flinching.
Killian leans against the wall, still watching Liam like he might lunge again.
