That's the thing about my father.
Fifty-one years old, thirty of them spent in service to the Mackenzie family, and he's still the most precise man I've ever known.
Every movement is calculated and every decision is deliberate.
He made me the same way.
I was eight when he first put a gun in my hands.
Ten when I learned to fight.
Twelve when I understood that the Brotherhood wasn't just a job—it was blood.
Legacy. The only thing that mattered.
My mother left when I was three.
Couldn't handle the life, Da said.
Couldn't handle being married to a man who belonged to someone else first.
I don't remember her face, don't want to.
Da raised me alone in this house, surrounded by men who lived and died by the same code.
Loyalty above all. Protect the family. Do what needs doing without hesitation or remorse.
I learned those lessons well.
Maybe too well.
Plate lands in front of me.
Full Irish—rashers, pudding, eggs, beans, toast, grilled tomato.
Enough food for two men.
Da's brown bread on the side, still warm from the oven.
He bakes it himself every morning, the same recipe his mother taught him before she died.
It's the only soft thing about him.
"Eat," he says, settling across from me with his own plate. "You'll need your strength today."
I look up. "Why? What's happening today?"
Da takes a long sip of his tea, watching me over the rim.
There's something in his eyes.
Something that makes my shoulders tense. "Mrs. Mackenzie is hosting a showing this afternoon. Private event. Buyers and press, maybe sixty people. She wants full coverage."
Normally, I’d ask which Mrs’, but I know he must be talking about Greer.
"Grand. I'll coordinate with Brennan and?—"
"She wants you on close protection."
