He's very still now.
"You knew," I say.
"You knew the O'Duinns were using our old lines to push product. You knew one of your invoices was the cover. And now one of my men at the port is missing."
Boyle's fingers twitch near the envelope.
I don't give him room to lie.
"So tell me, Sean. Are you still playing Donnelly? Or did you sell out before Keira ever put on the dress?"
I let the silence spool out.
Fiachra is a statue by the door.
The CCTV monitor hums, its static the only sound.
Boyle tucks the handkerchief away and leans forward, voice lower.
"You want to know what I know? Fine. The O'Duinns are buying muscle from the Russians. The Russians are overextended, but they like the cash. The Italians are shopping for new partners, but nobody trusts them after the fire on Capel Street."
He lists the facts with a dealer's efficiency, flipping each card for effect.
His gaze skips over me, then lands on the envelope, then flicks to the closed-circuit camera, as if expecting it to blink a message in Morse code.
"And you?" I say.
He spreads his hands.
"I'm loyal. Always have been."
"To what?"
He hesitates, and in the gap I see the whole history of this city—a thousand men swearing loyalty to a name, a crest, a ghost, and meaning none of it.
Boyle is loyal only to the percentage.
He always was.
I say, "You're here because I need to know if you can be useful. If you can't, you're finished."
He barks a laugh, too loud.
"Finished how? You going to shoot me in a betting shop?"
"No. That's not my style."
He sobers.
"Then what?"
I pick up the next sheet in the envelope and slide it to him.
"Read it."
He does.
The color drains from his face.
