I sit back and stare at the screen, and my reflection in the dark glass looks like Riley, not Saoirse, and I hate how easy that is becoming.
My normal phone buzzes. I let it ring once, then I answer. “Quinn,” I say.
A man’s voice comes through, smooth and familiar. “Ms. Quinn,” he says. “Mr. Byrne requests your presence tomorrow evening.”
I keep my tone even. “For what?”
“A tasting at the distillery,” the man says. “Eight sharp. Wear something that won’t get you stared at in the wrong way.”
I swallow the reaction before it shows in my voice. “Understood.”
The call ends. I stare at my phone for a second, then I set it down. I feel a pull in my chest that doesn’t belong to duty, and I hate that it feels real. I close the laptop, I turn off the light, and I lie down fully dressed.
I tell myself I’m going for the work, to watch him, learn him, and take what I need. Tonight almost happened, but next time, I need to be smarter. Then I close my eyes, and the last thing in my head is his voice saying that note changes nothing and my body answering with a quiet truth I don’t want.
I want him to prove it.
6
CILLIAN
Idon’t sleep long.
I lie there with the note’s words sitting in my head like grit, then I get up while the estate is still quiet. I dress in black and clean lines, and I let the cold water hit my face until my thoughts sharpen into something usable.
The distillery is mine, and it’s the one place in this city that feels honest to me. Barrels don’t lie, glass doesn’t flatter, and whiskey doesn’t pretend it didn’t burn on the way down.
I drive there before the staff arrives, and I let the gates open without any horn or fuss. I park close to the main doors so the cameras catch my face and my plate and the time stamp.
Kavanagh meets me inside with a folder and a stiff posture, looking like he’s been awake even longer than I have. “Roarke’s holding the driver,” he says, voice tight. “He’s still singing the same song.”
I take the folder and flip it open. “Any names?” I ask.
Kavanagh shakes his head. “He claims he got paid cash, and he got the van from a rental lot in Bray.”
“Who booked it?”
“Fake ID, and the clerk can’t describe him well.”
I close the folder and tap it once on my palm. “So it’s meant to point at Wicklow and die there.”
Kavanagh nods once, then he shifts his eyes away, like he already knows what my next question is. “Any trace on the contractor stamp?” I ask.
“Old subcontract,” he says. “One of O’Callaghan’s shells. Not active on paper, still used on jobs that don’t go through paperwork.”
I grunt, then I look past him at the row of barrels and the neat lines of glass and let my anger settle into something quieter. I don’t like notes or anonymous hands tugging my attention away from what’s real. I don’t like anyone thinking they can make my choices for me.
Kavanagh clears his throat. “You’re still doing the tasting tonight?”
“I am,” I say.
He watches me, and he doesn’t smile. “After that note?”
I turn my head and hold his gaze. “The note changes nothing.”
“It makes her a risk,” he says.
“She was a risk when she walked in,” I answer, then I take a step closer and lower my voice. “I’m not scared of risk. I’m scared of missing what’s right in front of me.”
