"Would you join me?"
His English is perfect, but there's a rhythm to the invitation that is neither command nor request.
I step forward until the difference between us is half a meter, then stop.
He looks down at the whiskey.
"Redbreast. Ten years. I hope it's acceptable."
I watch him, then say, "I prefer it neat. But I'm not drinking."
He nods, and for a moment his eyes dart—left, then right, then up to the clerestory window above.
"I heard," he says, voice softer now, "that you are expecting. Congratulations."
There it is.
The opening.
I run my tongue over the back of my teeth.
"That's not public."
He shrugs.
"In our world, nothing is private."
He waits for me to answer, but I don't.
Instead, I reach for the buttons at my waist and undo them, one by one, until the coat hangs open enough to reveal the new curve beneath.
I am not huge yet, but there's no hiding the architecture of my body—a silhouette drawn by hunger and intent, then painted over by something almost accidental.
The air in the cathedral shifts.
The men in the pews look away—some with the reflex of courtesy, some with the calculation of a new variable added to the problem set.
Luca is the only one who keeps his eyes level, though he does not smile now.
I let the coat fall open, not wide, just enough.
My blouse is the same black as the coat, but softer, almost translucent in the cold light.
He studies me.
"You are very brave," he says, and it's almost a compliment.
"Or very stupid," I reply, and that's when I see the edge he's been holding back.
He smiles again, but this time it's all business.
"Padraig said you were done with the Crowleys. That you wanted to make use of what you'd learned and build something smarter—less Irish, more... international."
He tips the glass at me.
"I'm here to give you that place."
I tilt my head.
