“Fine,” Gavin says. “Half an hour.”
“Two hours.”
“One.”
“Done,” I say, even though I have zero intention of complying.
Once they back off, I turn to Niamh. “I’m starving.”
She grins. “I thought you’d never say it.”
Riot Room serves food through a hatch near the back bar, the kind that keeps drunk crowds standing. We order chips, fried chicken, and soda bread. I carry the tray myself, ignoring the looks from men who can’t decide whether they want to flirt or avoid eye contact entirely.
I like that sort of attention. It reminds me I’m not a ghost in my father’s house.
We eat at a small high-top table. I tear into a chicken piece like I haven’t eaten in days. Grease clings to my fingers. I don’t care.
“I think you scared Gavin,” Niamh says.
“He deserves it.”
“You’re wound tight.”
“I’m being thrown into the docks on Monday with a forged name and a fake life. I’m allowed to be wound tight.”
Niamh drinks half her pint in one go. “That sounds insane. Wanna talk about it?”
I can’t, for privacy reasons, so I shake my head. “Nah, not really.”
Like my father’s men, my friends also know when not to push. “Whatever it is, you’ll pull it off.”
“I will. That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
I think about Cillian Byrne’s eyes locking with mine. “I’m afraid I’ll have too much fun.”
That makes the both of them giggle. Once we finish eating, Niamh goes to dance again. I stay at the table, wipe my hands, and pull out my phone. I open the encrypted folder my father’s men sent earlier. My new identity stares back.
RILEY QUINN
Age 29.
Degree in supply-chain management.
Work history in Rotterdam, Hamburg, and Antwerp.
Consultant for logistics modernization.
No criminal ties.
No family attachments.
No flags.
I scroll through the cover story again and again until it sits in my mind like something I’ve lived. I study the forged references. I memorize the phrasing in the CV. I practice Riley’s cadence quietly, matching the tone of a woman who works long hours in clean offices and pretends the world makes sense if it’s organized well enough.
But the anger in me is real. It doesn’t belong to Riley. It belongs to Saoirse. I don’t need my father to remind me why this mission matters. I don’t need guilt to push me. I have enough of my own.