I made her survival profitable because the only thing more valuable than a dead rival is a living one you can use.
Of course, falling in love wasn't part of the game.
Keira says nothing.
She traces a finger along the edge of the paper, then looks out the window, where the trees have lost most of their leaves and the sky is already threatening rain.
I wait, but she doesn't ask the next question.
I say, "You were never the target."
She turns, meets my gaze.
"Then what was?"
"Structure. The Donnelly name was a pipeline—no, a brand. We needed it for the take. If I went straight at the Italians, they'd circle wagons."
She raises a brow.
"So I'm a logo now."
I almost smile.
"No. A front. But a good one."
Keira closes the book, sets it on the table.
Her movements are slow, careful, as if she's trying not to break anything.
"How long do you expect me to pretend I'm not a hostage?"
"I don't expect you to pretend at all. The old world is dead. I need someone who remembers what it cost."
She stands.
The light shifts, catches her face, and for a second I see something like pity, but it’s gone before it registers.
"You could have told me sooner," she says.
She leaves the room without looking back.
The echo of her footsteps is softer than the wind at the window.
I stand for a while, watching the clouds roll in, watching the way the gold drains out of the world and leaves everything flat and gray.
I finish the whiskey in a single swallow, then set the glass in the sink and listen to the silence as it settles over the house.
I think of Boyle, his voice thin and desperate as he tried to explain himself.
I think of Keira, the way she held her composure like it was the last weapon she had left. I think of the city and all the men who died believing they could change it.
The window rattles in the frame.
Outside, the first drops of rain hit the glass and slide down in thin, perfect lines.
The truth is, there is no new world.
There's only the same story played out with different names, different logos, different debts.
