Not beside me. In front.
He puts his body between mine and six weapons held by men whose loyalty is to him and whose grief is aimed at me. His back is to the guns. His face is to me. His expression is carved from something harder than the concrete beneath our feet—a decision made in real time, visible, public, and irreversible.
"He's with me," Killian says.
Three words. Spoken to his men but aimed at me. Delivered with a certainty that I have not heard from him before—not during the ceremony, not during the vows. This isn't a legal obligation. This is a physical shield.
The air changes. I can feel the loyalty fracturing—the hairline cracks running through the foundation of Killian's relationship with his own men as they process the image in front of them. Their boss. Their Reaper. Standing between them and a Falcone, choosing the alliance over the blood.
Doyle stares at Killian. He looks betrayed. He looks confused. But slowly, incrementally, he lowers the Sig.
"You're making a mistake, Killian," Doyle mutters.
"If I am, it's mine to make," Killian says. He doesn't move until every gun is lowered. Then he turns to me. "Stay close."
I stay close.
We walk past the men. I can feel their eyes on my back, heavy with hate.
The interior of the bar is dim. It smells of stale beer, sawdust, and the accumulated archaeology of decades of Kavanaghbusiness conducted over whiskey and loyalty. It is a place that feels lived in, worn down by heavy boots and loud arguments.
The bodies are in the back room.
Killian pushes the door open.
It’s a small office, cluttered with crates and files. In the center of the floor, two men are laid side by side.
They are young. Maybe twenty. They look like they were surprised. No defensive wounds visible from here.
The violence is brutal—blunt force to the head, concentrated, efficient. The same methodical distribution Killian identified at the warehouse.
And around each man's throat, knotted with deliberate precision, is a length of silk.
Burgundy silk.
I freeze.
It is the exact shade and weave of the ties I wear. The ties my tailor in Milan sources from a specific mill in Como. The ties I have worn to every negotiation for the past five years.
I crouch beside the nearest body. I inspect the knot.
It is a half-Windsor. My knot.
The length has been cut from what appears to be an actual tie—the edges are clean, sheared with fabric scissors. I touch the fabric. It is authentic. Heavy silk. Expensive.
Someone purchased my ties. Studied my knot. Killed two men and dressed them in my signature.
"It's a mirror," I whisper. "The coin for my man. The tie for yours."
"Who found them?" Killian asks. He is standing over the bodies, his hands clenched into fists, his body vibrating with a rage so potent it feels like heat.
"I did."
The voice comes from the corner of the room.
I turn.
Rory Kavanagh is sitting on a crate in the shadows. He looks small. His face is the color of ash. He is holding a sketchbook against his chest like a shield.
