Brennan wipes a rag across the bar. He doesn't meet my eyes. "Boss. You're... back early."
"It's Sunday, Brennan. Where else would I be?"
"Right. Right." He grabs a bottle of Jameson. "The usual?"
I nod.
I sit at the bar. The stool creaks. I look around the room. Doyle is whispering something to the recruit next to him. They both glance at me, then look away quickly.
They know.
They know I’m married. They know I’m living in the Falcone penthouse. They know I’m not just the Underboss anymore. I’m the asset. I’m the treaty.
I’m the Falcone’s husband.
I can feel the shift in the air. The loss of respect. They don't see the Reaper. They see the man who sold himself.
Brennan slides the glass toward me.
I stare at the amber liquid. I don't drink it. My stomach is still rolling from this morning.
"Where's Da?" I ask.
"Back office," Brennan says. "Counting the receipts."
Of course. Counting the money he saved by selling me.
My phone buzzes again.
I pull it out, expecting Rory again. Expecting a lecture about avoiding him.
It’s not a call. Not a contact I have saved.
Unknown Number.
I open the message.
It’s an image.
I frown, tapping the screen to download it. The little circle spins for a second, then the picture loads.
My blood freezes.
It’s Rory.
He’s walking down the street outside his studio. I recognize the mural on the wall behind him—the faded blue waves. He’s wearing his oversized coat, carrying a sketchbook under one arm and a coffee in the other. He’s smiling at someone off-camera, his head thrown back, his neck exposed.
The photo is taken from a distance. From across the street. Maybe from a car window.
The angle is perfect. The focus is sharp.
It’s a surveillance shot. Professional grade.
There is no caption. No text. No threat. Just the image.
I stare at it. I zoom in on Rory’s face. He looks happy. Unaware. He has no idea that someone is watching him. He has no idea that he is in the crosshairs.
My hand tightens around the phone until the case cracks.
