Roarke’s voice comes through steady. “Lisbon confirmed a container matching the cloned ID is scheduled to dock in thirtyhours. Madrid’s pulled Torres & Vale’s backend access. Their system’s locked.”
Cillian’s fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “And the next run?”
“Frozen,” Roarke replies. “Customs seized it mid-route under digital fraud.”
Silence fills the car for a second.
“So that’s it,” I say quietly. “The clone corridor collapses once the hub is locked.”
“Yes,” Roarke confirms. “Torres & Vale are being audited. Vigo’s cleared itself of internal breach. Gutierrez is cooperating.”
Cillian nods once. “Keep pressure on the consultancy.”
The call ends.
We drive the rest of the way back in silence. By the time we pull into the estate, I’m almost floating on a cloud, even if all of this was far too quick and easy. Cillian leads me to his study, sets his phone down, and pours water for the both of us. “You closed it,” he says.
“We closed it,” I correct.
His eyes hold mine. “You saw it first.”
I shrug lightly. “You built something worth protecting.”
He studies my face like he’s weighing that statement. “Torres & Vale won’t recover from this,” he says. “And if they do, they won’t touch my lanes again.”
“Good,” I answer.
He steps closer, not crowding, but near enough that the space feels charged.
“You earned your place today,” he says.
I can hear my father celebrating somewhere in the background, and it isn’t a good feeling. But the way Cillian’s looking at me now fixes a lot of what’s aching in my heart. “Thanks,” I mumble.
“And you did more than that.”
He reaches out to brush his knuckles lightly along my jaw. “Dinner,” he says.
“That sounds like a reward,” I reply.
“It is.”
We don’t leave the estate. He leads me to a private dining room tucked behind the main hall, and the table is already set with two plates, simple and warm. No audience. No staff lingering.
He pulls out my chair, and I sit without comment. “This isn’t business,” he says as he takes the seat across from me.
“I figured,” I reply.
The meal is quiet at first. He asks about Rotterdam. I give him pieces that are true without giving him the bones. I ask about the distillery. He tells me how he learned to read barrels by smell alone.
The conversation moves easily, and the tension that lived in every glance earlier now sits heavier, slower.
“You could’ve walked away tonight,” he says suddenly.
I raise a brow at him. “From what?”
“From Vigo. From me.”
I hold his gaze. “I didn’t want to.”
