The script pings. A partial match on syntax structure. Irish Gaelic.
But the vocabulary is wrong. The words don't appear in any standard dictionary. It’s a dialect. A bastardized, localized mutation of the language.
Kavanagh Irish.
The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow. Someone put an encrypted file on my driver's phone using a cipher built on a Kavanagh dialect. Which means one of two things: Marco was compromised by someone with deep access to Kavanagh history, or the file was planted on his device by the same people who killed him—breadcrumbs designed to lead somewhere, encoded in a language only one family in this city would understand.
I cannot break it.
The admission sits in my chest like a jagged stone. I have degrees from Wharton and Johns Hopkins. I have a network of intelligence assets that spans the globe. I can dismantle a corporation or a human body with equal efficiency.
But I am staring at forty-seven kilobytes of text that might as well be written in smoke.
I need a Kavanagh.
The realization is humiliating. It forces me to acknowledge an operational deficit. I cannot solve this alone. I need the one thing I have spent my life trying to avoid: chaos. I need the variable I cannot control.
I need Killian.
I close the laptop. I pick up the phone. I stand up, adjusting my cuffs. My reflection in the dark monitor looks tired. The bruiseon my neck is hidden by the collar of my shirt, but I know it’s there. It throbs in time with my pulse.
I walk out of the office.
The penthouse is quiet. It’s early afternoon. The rain has turned the light in the apartment to a dull, slate grey. Killian has been avoiding me since the kitchen incident. He’s been ghosting through the apartment like a restless spirit, sleeping in the guest room, eating when I’m not there.
I walk down the hallway.
I hear a sound coming from the converted gym—a rhythmic, heavy thudding.Thud. Thud-thud. Thud.
It’s the sound of impact.
I stop in the doorway.
Killian is on the heavy bag.
He is shirtless. He is wearing grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, the drawstring loose. His feet are bare on the mat. His back is to me, and the view is... impressive.
The musculature is dense, defined not by vanity but by function. The trapezius bunches with each strike. The latissimus dorsi flares on the follow-through. He is covered in a sheen of sweat that catches the dim light, tracing the deep channel of his spine.
There is a tattoo I haven't seen before. A complex Celtic knot spanning his left shoulder blade, the ink dark against his flushed skin. It moves with the rhythm of his strikes like something alive, expanding and contracting.
He hits the bag. A left hook that dents the leather. He pivots. A right cross that makes the chain rattle.
His hands are wrapped in white tape, wound tight from knuckle to wrist. The tape is already spotted with pink where the split knuckle on his right hand is weeping through the layers.
He hits the bag with a force that makes the ceiling mount groan, but there is no anger in it. It isn't a tantrum. It is controlled. Precise.
I watch him for five seconds longer than necessary.
I tell myself I am assessing his physical condition. I tell myself I am evaluating his combat readiness. But the truth is simpler, and more dangerous.
I am admiring him.
The kinetic chain of his movement—from the ball of his foot, through the hip, into the shoulder—is perfect. It is biomechanically flawless. He isn't just brawling; he is practicing a discipline. He moves with an economy of motion that betrays years of training.
He senses me.
He doesn't turn around immediately. He catches the bag on the backswing, stopping its momentum with a heavythud. He holds it there, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
