Cillian Byrne has power because people trust him to run Dublin’s docks like a clean machine. They call him disciplined. I call him the man whose coldness killed my mother.
If I have to flirt, I will. If I have to fuck, I will. I’ll do everything it takes to rob him the way he robbed me of my childhood. I’m going to destroy the devil, even if that means dancing in his den.
2
CILLIAN
Idon’t delegate what matters.
A whiskey shipment came in overnight—stacked crates from County Louth, marked for a hotel chain I don’t own but keep compliant. Customs cleared it by six, but I show up at eight because I like to see for myself. There’s no substitute for standing in the salt and cold, watching men work while pretending they don’t notice me.
They always notice.
Dublin Port’s quiet this morning, fog thick enough to blur the cranes. My boots hit the steel ramp, and the crew straightens without needing orders. Kavanagh lifts his clipboard and jogs toward me, chin tucked, posture tight. He’s ex-rail security, hired for his paranoia. I keep him because he doesn’t speak unless the risk is real.
“Manifest checks out,” he says, handing me the papers. “Labeled as single malt, all traceable, no shifts from origin to dock. Cleared by Barlow’s team.”
“Anything smell wrong?” I ask, flipping the sheet.
“Not here,” he says. “But Tiernan flagged the van that unloaded at two a.m. Driver didn’t wait for a receipt. Left too quick.”
My eyes narrow. “Was he local?”
“Plate traced to Wicklow.”
O’Callaghan territory.
I don’t say it out loud. Doesn’t need saying.
I nod once and keep walking. The crate stack’s clean, twelve high, no signs of tampering. I tap one with my knuckle. Solid. I tap another. Same. I gesture to the foreman. “Open three at random.”
He hesitates for half a breath before calling for the crowbar.
They know I’m not checking for broken glass.
A minute later, I’ve got a bottle in my hand with the label smooth and the foil intact, and I uncork it and take a measured sniff, catching smoke and peat and nothing chemical or sharp. I pass it to Kavanagh, who mirrors the check, and then he pours a small measure into a clean cap and pulls a sealed test strip from his jacket.
We watch it together, silent, while the strip reacts.
One line appears and holds, and the second never does.
“Clean,” Kavanagh says.
I nod, because fentanyl doesn’t belong anywhere near my docks, not in whiskey and not in anything else that moves through legitimate channels.
“Send the batch through,” I say, already moving on.
Most men in this city don’t care what goes in the bottle. As long as it sells, it ships. I do. I’ve buried too many bodies that never got the chance to rot. Kids who bought one pill too strong, one taste too cheap. Fentanyl makes good money, but it’s a coward’s currency—quick, dirty, and impossible to launder at scale.
We don’t touch it.
The Byrne Syndicate was built on dock control, and docks are only useful if people trust what moves through them. I can’t afford scandals. I can’t afford cargo that draws sniffer dogs, headlines, or fucking grief.
“Send the clean batch through,” I say. “Burn the label lot if it turns up again.”
Kavanagh nods and clicks into motion. Foremen shout. Forklifts fire. The crates move out across the yard in neat, disciplined rows.
I light a cigarette and lean against the container wall. Across the water, the ferry pulls in slowly, its wake soft and steady. I glance at the time. 9:07.
