He stands up as we look at him. His green eyes—Killian's eyes, a shade lighter—are wide, fixed on the bodies with an expression that cycles through horror, fury, and a cold, assessing intelligence.
"Rory," Killian breathes. He crosses the room in two strides and grabs his brother by the shoulders. "What are you doing here?"
"I was working," Rory says, his voice thin. "In the studio space. I heard... I heard a noise. By the time I came out, they were gone. And the boys were..." He gestures to the floor.
"Did you see them?"
"No. Just the back of a car. Black sedan. No plates." Rory looks at me. His gaze sharpens. He points at the dead man's neck. "The knot's wrong."
I look at him. "What?"
"It's a half-Windsor," Rory says, his voice shaking but gaining strength. "You tie a full Windsor. I've seen the surveillance photos. I've drawn it. The knot is too small. The loop is inverted."
I look back at the tie. He's right. It mimics the shape, but the execution is flawed. It’s a superficial copy.
"Someone did their homework," Rory says. "But not enough."
Killian pulls Rory into a hug. It’s fierce, desperate. He holds his brother like he’s checking for broken bones. Then he pulls back, his hands framing Rory’s face.
"Go home," Killian orders. "Take Brennan. Lock the doors. Do not leave the apartment until I call you."
"Killian, I can help?—"
"Go!" Killian roars. It scares Rory into silence. "I can't do this if I'm worrying about you. Go."
Rory nods. He grabs his bag. He shoots me one last look—a look that saysif he dies, you die—and slips out the side door.
Killian watches him go. He takes a breath, shuddering and deep. Then he turns to me.
"We need to leave," he says. "Before Doyle decides to ignore my orders."
We leave.
The walk back to the car is a gauntlet. The men outside are silent now, but the air is thick with the promise of violence. I can feel the target painted on my back.
Killian drives. Slower this time. The urgency has metabolized into something denser—a focused, grinding awareness that fills the vehicle the way pressure fills a submarine.
His hands are at ten and two on the wheel. The blood from his cracked knuckle has dried in a dark line across his finger. He stares at the road, the rain lashing against the windshield in rhythmic sheets.
"The coin for your man," he says quietly. "The tie for mine."
"Mirrored provocations," I say. "Each one designed to implicate the other family. Specific. Personal."
"Using our own signatures. Our own histories." His grip tightens on the wheel until the leather creaks. "Whoever is running this knows us. Knows our families, our methods, our pressure points. They know what will make your brother reach for a gun and what will make my men point theirs at you."
"A psychological operation," I agree. "Designed to accelerate conflict."
"It's more than that."
He looks at me. The dashboard lights cast his face in shadow, cutting his features into sharp relief. The green eyes are vivid, burning with that intelligence the reports failed to capture.
"They sent me a photo of Rory," he says. "They killed your driver. They murdered my men with your tie. Every move is designed to push me further from you and closer to a breaking point."
He stops at a red light. The brake pedal brings the car to a halt that feels heavier than physics warrants. The wipers slap back and forth.Swish. Swish.
"They aren't trying to start a war between our families, Alessandro."
It's the first time he's used my name in the car. It sounds different now.
