One by one, the other men make excuses and file out. Some nod to me, a few to Keira.
Most do not meet our eyes at all.
The ring is still at the center of the table, and none of them touch it.
When it is only the three of us, the Chairman leans forward, voice low.
"You know what this means?"
I nod.
"We're on our own."
He smiles, the kind of smile that belongs to a corpse in a good suit.
"You always were."
He stands, moves with surprising grace for his age, and leaves us in the padded silence.
Fiachra exhales, slow and loud.
I look at Keira.
She is pale, but her eyes are glass, unbreakable.
We sit for a moment, watching the ring, the silence a thing so thick it could be mined for profit.
Then we rise and leave the chamber.
Fiachra walks ahead, scanning for threats.
Keira follows, her stride steady as we head to the headquarters.
The houseat night is a carcass, ribs bare, windows like empty eye sockets, every echo a memory of someone who should have made it but didn't.
I move through it by muscle memory, the hallways reduced to trenches after so many campaigns, the staircases mapped in bruises and cigarette burns.
Fiachra is somewhere on the roof, watching for ghosts or Italians or a future in which he is not needed.
The rest of the guards play cards in the den, their laughter as brittle as old glass.
I see no one as I climb to the old master suite, the last stretch of carpet unsullied by blood or history.
Keira is there, at the window, silhouette boxed in by moonlight.
The lamp is on, but dim, so the room is more shadow than substance.
She wears a sweater of mine, the sleeves rolled past her elbows, and her hair is a dark flame against the cold blue glass.
Her feet are bare, planted apart as if she is bracing for a blast wave.
I close the door behind me.
She does not turn.
I peel off the jacket, let it slump to the floor.
The tie is next—one yank, then I let it coil on the dresser like a dead snake.
