I raise a brow.
"The Italians don't."
He grins, but it's a reflex, not a response.
"The Italians don't know their own names. They're just waiting for the wind to shift."
"They think you're still in play," I say.
"I need to know if they're right."
His smile fades. He steeples his hands, palms together, the tips of his fingers white with pressure.
"There is no Donnelly left, Ruairí. You know that. You married the girl."
He says "the girl" twice and corrects himself only after the words are out, like a glitch in old software.
He neveronce meets my eyes.
The conversation is an engine and he's desperate to keep it running, even if it's missing parts.
"You switched your shipments to the O'Duinn line," I say.
He shrugs.
"The O'Duinns have trucks. They pay on time. I run a business, not a crusade."
He sighs, pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and dabs at his upper lip.
There is no sweat, but he wants me to think there is.
The move is a classic.
Distract, disarm, show a little weakness so the next lie lands softer.
"The Wexford invoice is still open," I say, watching his face.
"No payment logged. No delivery confirmation. That's not like you."
Boyle leans back like I've slapped him.
"I flagged that weeks ago. Told your man in the port to look into it."
I nod once.
"We did. He's gone."
I let it hang a second before pressing in.
"The shipment was filed as beans—twenty metric tons. But the item code's wrong by two decimals. That's not a typo. That's fifty kilos missing."
He opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
I keep my eyes fixed on his, which have taken have that odd pallor of dead fish.
"Red moss. Cut, packed, and routed through one of the Donnelly shell fronts. And someone thought they could sneak it into our logistics pool."
