"Padraig's old men, mostly. But they had two new faces—Polish, I think. Our guys taggedthem, then lost them somewhere off the N11. They won't try again soon."
"Was there a payout?" Ruairí asks.
"Nothing significant. Not worth the muscle they spent," Fiachra says.
He sets the clipboard down, the pen already clicked and stowed.
"You want me to keep the pressure, or?—"
"We hold for now," I say.
"Let them run out of options. If they call, take the meeting. But make them sweat."
Fiachra grins.
"My favorite."
He glances at the documents again, as if trying to see what's inside without flipping the cover.
I give him the smile I save for men who want too much.
He takes the hint, collects the tablet, and turns to leave.
At the door, Lena waits.
She is in dark jeans, boots, and a jacket tailored to her shape and her arsenal.
Her hair is pulled tight, her gaze as flat as the floor.
She gives Fiachra a once-over as he passes, then steps into the office.
"Clear?" she asks.
I nod.
"For now."
She scans the office—a habit, not a tic—then drifts to the window, hands behind her back.
I watch the way her fingers curl and uncurl at her waist, the way her eyes move over the skyline as if cataloguing threats.
Ruairí closes the binder, slides it into the drawer, and turns to me.
"We should lock it down by next Friday," he says.
"After that, there's no more leverage. Padraig will have to go through us for every move."
I look up at him and I see what everyone else sees now—a partnership, not a power struggle.
He sees it, too.
"Good," I say.
"Let's make it last."
He nods, then leaves, silent as he arrived.
I stay in the office until the light shifts, the city switchingfrom day mode to night, the windows going from clear to reflective.
