"What dreams?"
"The docks. Tommy Castellano." His eyes drift shut. "All the faces. The first time I had to... handle things for the family."
My pulse quickens. Confessions during fever—exactly what the Bureau needs. But instead of recording, I find myself stroking his damp hair.
"How old were you?"
"Sixteen. Dad said it was time to prove myself." His grip on my waist tightens. "Guy was skimming from our territory. Had to send a message."
I should be taking notes. Should be documenting every word. Instead, I watch pain cross his features.
"Been carrying bodies ever since," he mutters. "Starting with Thomas Nolan."
My breath catches. "Thomas?"
"The accountant. Collins said he was selling us out to the feds. Made it seem like he'd destroy the family." His voice breaks. "But he wasn't. Just found Collins stealing money. I killed an innocent man because I was young and stupid and wanted my father's approval."
The confession I've hunted for months spills out while he burns with fever and need. His hands explore my body like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"Should have known better," he continues. "Guy had kids. A regular life. Didn't fit."
I lean down, my lips near his ear. "Collins manipulated you."
"Doesn't matter. I pulled the trigger." His arms encircle me completely now, pulling me down against his chest. "Been trying to balance the scales since. Saving kids, stopping the worst shit. But it doesn't bring him back."
"Eamon—"
"Promise me something." His fevered eyes lock on mine. "If something happens to me, make sure Collins pays. He's still out there, still pulling strings."
"Nothing's going to happen to you."
"Promise me."
I nod, knowing I'm crossing every professional line. "I promise."
He pulls my mouth down to his, kissing me with desperate hunger. The fever makes him unrestrained, all walls down. I respond despite myself, tasting his need and vulnerability.
When I pull back, he's unconscious again.
I sit there shaking, my body still thrumming from his touch. Three months building this case, and now it comes through moments of genuine intimacy I can't bring myself to exploit.
My phone buzzes. Byrne: Status update required immediately.
I type back: Subject recovering. Will report soon.
His response: Need concrete evidence. Time running out.
I stare at Eamon's sleeping form, then slip away to explore the safe house. The main room seems ordinary until I notice a loose panel behind an old painting.
Inside, a metal box holds documents the family keeps separate from regular business. Financial records. Territory maps. Communication logs.
I photograph each page methodically. These show the full scope of their operation—territory divisions, rival family conflicts, protection schemes across the city.
Then I find something that stops my heart cold.
Payment records to FBI agents. Not small bribes, but substantial monthly payments for intelligence. Strategic information about investigations, raid schedules, witness locations.
Agent Riordan Byrne's name appears throughout the documents.
