Cillian stops beside my desk and looks down at my screen. “You’re logging mismatches,” he says.
“Yes,” I answer.
“How many?” he asks.
“Seventeen,” I say.
Brona’s head turns. O’Driscoll’s brows lift a fraction.
Cillian’s gaze stays on me. “Seventeen in one morning,” he says.
I keep my voice level. “The pattern sits in the early gate entries. The same carriers show up ahead of slot time. Late entries follow in the same lane.”
Cillian watches my mouth as I talk. He does it without shame.
He nods once. “Keep going,” he says. “Bring it to O’Driscoll first. It reaches me once it’s clean.”
“It will be clean,” I say.
His eyes hold mine for half a beat longer than needed. Heat pulls low in my body again, sharp and unwanted.
Then he turns and walks away, as if he never touched the space beside me at all.
My hands stay on the desk.
My breathing stays even.
My mind feels loud.
The day drags into late afternoon. I keep working, learning, and watching a syndicate run like a structured operation, with rules that protect profit and rules that protect people. That last part keeps catching on me.
At five, Brona tells me to go.
“You’re done,” she says. “You come back tomorrow with the mismatch list refined.”
“I will,” I answer.
I pack my bag and walk out with my head high, crossing the yard without slowing. Men watch me as I pass. Some look curious. Some look cautious. None of them look careless. I don’t linger. I head straight for the small quarters on the estate grounds set aside for me. Once inside my room, I shower, pour myself a drink, and only then let the tension show as I sit down and drag a hand over my face.
He’s supposed to be the villain. So why does he feel like the only man here who believes in loyalty?
4
CILLIAN
Iwake early and walk the port before the sun hits the east yard. Kavanagh reports nothing unusual. The Belfast run cleared late but landed clean. The crates from Vigo arrived early and sat untouched. That part bothers me. Early arrivals disrupt inspection timing, idle cargo creates gaps in custody, and gaps are where people hide things. That kind of silence in the system isn’t an accident, and it tells me someone is testing how closely I’m watching.
By seven thirty, I’m back in my office with the manifests spread out in front of me, tracing dispatch stamps and gate times by hand instead of trusting the dashboard. I skim three logistics updates and spot the same Spanish corridor appearing twice under different clerks, so I send Roarke to check the seal codes on a flagged Vigo container. If the seals don’t line up, I’ll know this isn’t a one-off mistake but a probe.
I step back from the desk and look at the wall of schedules again. The lanes are tight, the time slots clean, but the anomaly doesn’t belong to the yard or the drivers. It belongs to the paperwork.
Something’s off, not in a way that sets alarms ringing but in a way that suggests someone inside the system understands how it works and is betting I won’t notice the edges. If I want to close that gap, I need the person who saw it first, not the men who’ve been staring at the same screens for years.
I take out my phone and open a new message to Roisin.
Send Ms. Quinn to the residence. Tell her she’s expected for breakfast at 8:30.
By the time she arrives, I’ve read the day’s reports, showered, dressed, and poured black coffee into a clean ceramic mug. The cook serves toast, eggs, and grilled tomatoes, but I barely touch it. I wait instead.