O’Driscoll walks in with a folder tucked under his arm. His eyes scan the room, then land on my desk.
He nods. “Quinn. Come with me.”
I stand and follow.
We walk down a corridor into a smaller room where a wall map shows Dublin Port in sections. Ringsend. East Wall. North Lotts. Lanes marked in red and black. Names written in the margins.
O’Driscoll points. “These are your base lanes for the month. Whiskey contracts and clean exports. You keep them smooth.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He turns another page. “These loads get time windows. Drivers get assigned lanes. Seals get verified twice. Nobody departs without a receipt.”
I hold my face steady.
O’Driscoll watches me with that tired suspicion again. “You follow the rules, you last,” he says.
“I plan to last,” I reply.
He pushes the folder into my hands. “Read it. Memorize the structure. Ask questions only when you can’t answer them alone.”
“I will,” I say.
We walk back out.
As we step into the main room, voices rise near the door. A man in a torn jacket staggers in, his face bruised and his lip split. Blood dots his chin. Two security men flank him, not dragging, not guiding, just containing.
My muscles lock.
Cillian follows them in. His gaze sweeps the room and lands on the injured man first, not on the paperwork, not on the schedule screens. “What happened?” he asks.
Roarke answers. “He got jumped outside the gate. Two lads. They tried to take his bag and his keys.”
Cillian looks at the man. “Name?”
“Callum,” the man mutters, voice rough.
Cillian nods once. “Brona.”
Brona appears. “Yeah.”
“Cover his shift for two days,” Cillian says. “Full pay. Send him to the medic. Then send him home with someone.”
Brona nods once. “Done.”
Cillian looks at Roarke. “Find the lads,” he says.
Roarke’s eyes harden. “I will.”
Cillian’s gaze flicks to Callum again. His voice drops. “You did good coming inside,” he says.
Callum’s shoulders sag. “Thanks,” he mutters.
Cillian’s hand comes up and grips Callum’s shoulder once, firm. That single touch does something to the room. Men stand straighter. Faces settle. The place locks back into order.
He turns toward the desks and his eyes find me. My throat tightens, and I feel the full force of that look in my stomach, in my legs, in the parts of me that do not belong in a port office. I keep my face calm. He steps closer.
O’Driscoll shifts slightly, as if he wants to intercept, then decides not to.