“That’s not simple.”
“Nothing worth doing is.”
I step away from the desk and pace once across the room. The warmth from the drive, from the dinner, from the cliffside, drains out of me.
His voice hardens again. “You move now, Saoirse. You don’t get sentimental.”
Tears well up in my eyes, but I don’t let my voice shake. “I’m not sentimental.”
“Then prove it.”
I grip the phone tighter. “You jeopardized my lines tonight,” he says. “I won’t let him corner me. You destabilize him fast, or I’ll do it without subtlety.”
“And if you do that,” I reply, “there won’t be anything left to salvage.”
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he says, “You have access. Use it.”
The line goes dead. I stand in the middle of the room, the burner still in my hand, the quiet now thick and suffocating. Cillian is tightening his hold on the docks, and my father is panicking.
Which means the war just shifted, and I’m standing exactly between the man who raised me and the man I’m falling for.
14
CILLIAN
Morning brings business as usual, and today, I’m handling Kinsella’s pier.
I’m already dressed when I step out of my quarters, jacket buttoned, phone in my hand, messages stacked and waiting. The move on Kinsella’s pier wasn’t spontaneous. It’s been building for weeks, contracts reviewed, liabilities mapped, men tested for where their loyalty bends and where it holds.
Kinsella’s pier sits between my main shipping corridor and the eastern independent docks, which means it functions as a buffer zone on paper and a loophole in practice. Officially, it handles mixed freight—agricultural imports, machinery parts, small-scale exporters who can’t afford long-term leases on the primary docks. Unofficially, it’s been the perfect overflow lane for anyone who wants flexibility without scrutiny.
Patrick’s been using it, but not openly. He’s too careful for that. But three shell carriers that route through Kinsella’s yard also service warehouses tied to his secondary distributors. Their manifests are clean, but their volume spikes when enforcementpressure tightens on his usual corridors. Kinsella never asked questions as long as his fees cleared and the yard stayed busy.
Neutral ground benefits everyone until it benefits someone more.
If I leave Kinsella’s pier alone, Patrick keeps a pressure valve. When I clamp down on synthetics through my primary docks, he reroutes smaller loads through Kinsella, fragments shipments, and distributes inland before I can track patterns. The volume isn’t massive, but it’s steady, and steady is what builds footholds.
Over the past month, I’ve quietly purchased the insurance debt attached to Kinsella’s largest haulers through two intermediaries who don’t carry my name. I’ve audited compliance clauses buried in their contracts, clauses most independent operators sign without reading, and I’ve triggered review thresholds they can’t meet without exposing the very traffic I’m trying to cut off.
They didn’t fail.
They didn’t complete.
That’s enough.
I’m halfway down the corridor when Riley steps out of her room. She’s dressed for work, hair pulled back, expression composed, but I catch the flicker in her eyes when she sees me. She looks like she didn’t sleep enough.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“So are you.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Busy day?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes.
“At the docks?” she asks.