He's not dead.
He's gasping, paralyzed, arms trembling as he tries to get a last word out.
I kneel beside him, careful not to let the blood touch my knees.
I watch his lips move,watch his pupils dilate and contract as if they're arguing with the amount of light left in the world.
For a moment, I almost pity him.
Behind me, the two surviving Italians are on their knees, wrists bound with plastic wire, mouths clamped shut.
One weeps silently, the tears streaking through the blood on his cheek.
The other just stares at the far wall, refusing to blink, refusing even to beg.
Fiachra wipes his blade on the dead man's sleeve, then steps back, giving me the stage.
Lena and Killian check the bodies, pulse and pocket, making sure no one is going to get up and rewrite the ending.
The cathedral is not quiet anymore.
The echo of gunshots and the metal tang of blood have given the air a vibration, a kind of hum that lives just under the threshold of hearing.
I breathe it in, let it settle in my lungs.
Only then do I notice Ruairí.
He enters from the north side, coat unbuttoned, no urgency in his walk, just the long stride of a man coming home at the end of a shift.
He steps over the dead, nods to Fiachra, then turns his eyes to me.
There is nothing theatrical about him.
No raised voice, no gesture.
He comes to stand beside me and looks down at Moretti, who is still alive, just barely.
He says, "We're done here."
And I nod.
The last two Italians kneel, hands shaking, waiting for a verdict.
The Crowleys—what's left of them—stand ready to make history out of the rest.
I look at Ruairí, and for the first time all day, I let myself feel the chill.
He looks back, and the edge in his eyes is the only warmth I need.
We walk out together, past the dead and the dying, past the men who have already chosen which side of history to stand on.
At the threshold, I look back just once, to wherethe blood is soaking into the old stone, the last of the ghosts being fed.
In the cold air outside, I button my coat and take Ruairí's arm.
Tomorrow, the stories will say it was a massacre.
But they won't know the truth.
