And that’s the first sign. The second is his hand.
He pulls out a cigar like he’s in a movie, tries to light it with slow confidence, but there’s a tremor in his grip.
Nerves.
A cult leader nervous? That doesn’t track.
My gut twists hard. Not with surprise. With confirmation. Because we planned for this.
Two days ago, Enzo laid out every scenario like chessboards across the table at Inferno. He didn’t just prepare us for the likely outcome. He prepared us for the dirty one. The long game.
The one where Tatiana plays games, and where the real Preacher doesn’t show his face. The one where she sends a sacrificial mouthpiece to sit in the center seat and take the heat while the real monster stays hidden.
Scenario B.
The decoy. Tatiana’s favorite move.
I’d bet my life she thinks she’s clever. I’d bet my life she’s enjoying it. And she’s not the only one. Because on the far right of the table, one man isn’t watching Declan. He’s watching me.
The second our eyes meet, a grin spreads across his lips like he’s just found something delicious. Tatiana’s contact.
I give him a subtle nod, my face cold, my posture relaxed. I’ve got the necklace. But he isn’t touching it until this is done.
His grin says he understands. It also says he thinks I’m trapped.
I clear my throat and lean slightly toward Conan, my lips barely moving.
“Ní heisean,” I whisper in Gaeilge so only he can understand. “Not him.”
Conan stiffens beside me, but he doesn’t react, not outwardly.
Declan doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. He’s already sliding into the role. Because this is the part where we keep the negotiation intact.
We let the puppet talk. We let the performance breathe.
We let the decoy think he’s important, that they’ve got one over on us. While Enzo listens from above, recording everything, mapping every word, every tell, every subtle shift.
And once this peace talk ends? That’s when the real plan goes live. The decoy doesn’t lead us to peace; he leads us to a trail. And no one on this earth tracks men better than the Sterling brothers.
Hunter Sterling and his crew don’t do sermons and suits. They’ll follow this fake Preacher the moment he leaves this church. They’ll tail him to his handlers, his contacts, his drop points. And eventually to the real Preacher.
Declan rests his hands on the table, gaze razor sharp. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Preacher.”
“Likewise,” the decoy says, puffing out smoke like he wants to cover the tremor in his hand. Even the accent is pathetic. An exaggerated southern drawl. He really thinks he’s the star of the show.
“So talk, peace, Mr. Quinn,” he drawls, spreading his arms. “How do you see our organizations living harmoniously?”
Declan’s answer is immediate. “I don’t.”
The decoy’s smile twitches.
“That won’t happen with how you run yours currently,” Declan continues, calm as death.
“Right,” the decoy says, tapping his rings on the wood. “So by peace, you mean… stop my business?”
“Find new business,” Declan replies. “We’re here to stop a war. The terms are simple. You stop trafficking women and children.”
The decoy tuts. “So dramatic, Declan.” His smile stretches. “Can I call you that?”
