Rocco points. "Look at his mouth."
I step closer. I crouch down, ignoring the dampness seeping into the knees of my trousers.
Marco’s mouth has been pried open. His jaw is slack, broken. His teeth are chipped.
Resting on his tongue is a coin.
It’s copper. Old. Dull with age.
I recognize it instantly.
A 1966 Irish pre-decimal pound.
The calling card of the Kavanagh family. The signature of Killian’s grandfather, the old Don who used to leave a coin for the ferryman in the mouths of his victims. A warning. A promise.
"It’s a declaration of war," Rocco spits. "That animal. That Irish piece of shit. He marries you on Friday and kills your driver on Monday."
The men around us mutter in agreement. Hands drift toward holsters. The air is thick with the promise of violence.
I stare at the coin.
Something is wrong.
I reach out. My hand hovers over Marco’s face.
"Don't touch it," Rocco warns. "Forensics?—"
"We are the forensics, Rocco."
I pick up the coin. It’s heavy. Cold. I turn it over in my fingers. The copper is worn smooth from years of handling.
I look at Marco’s mouth again.
The coin was sittingon topof the tongue. Visible. Displayed. Like a prop in a bad play.
In every historical account of the Kavanagh hits—and I have read them all, studied the police reports, the FBI files—the coin was placedunderthe tongue. Sublingual. Hidden. A secret toll for the dead man, not a message for the living. It was a ritual, not a billboard.
"He placed it wrong," I say softly.
"What?" Rocco steps closer.
"The coin." I stand up, wiping the coin on my handkerchief before slipping it into my pocket. "Killian knows his family history. If he did this, he would have placed it under the tongue. This... this is theatrical. It’s meant to be found."
"You're defending him?" Rocco looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. His face is flushed with fury. "His calling card is in our dead man’s mouth, Ale! He tortured Marco for hours!"
"I am analyzing the evidence." I turn to face the room. I let my gaze sweep over the men, daring them to challenge me. "The beating patterns are inconsistent with Killian’s style. Killian is a brawler, yes, but he is efficient. He breaks bones to end fights. This"—I gesture to the body—"this is messy. Sadistic. And the attacker was left-handed."
"So?"
"Killian is right-handed. I watched him sign the marriage certificate. I watched him hold a gun. He is right-handed."
Rocco stares at me. The rage is still there, burning hot, but doubt is creeping in at the edges. He looks at Marco, then back at me.
"So who did it?"
"Someone who wants us to think it was him," I say. "Someone who wants the marriage to fail. Someone who wants a war between the families so they can pick up the pieces."
"The Russians,” Rocco whispers.
