"Timeline?" Byrne asks, pulling out a notebook.
"Six weeks. They're moving major assets overseas." Sorcha maintains perfect composure while lying to her superior. "Eamon mentioned Caribbean accounts."
Hearing my name from her lips does things to me it shouldn't. The way she says it—like she owns it, owns me. Christ, maybe she does.
Byrne writes everything down. "Good. This fits with our other intelligence."
"Other intelligence?" Sorcha probes, and I admire how smoothly she works him.
"Moran's people have been watching Rotterdam too. We're coordinating a joint operation."
My hands curl into fists. Federal agents working with the Moran crew? The same bastards who've been trying to muscle in on our territory for months?
"Moran?" Sorcha asks, feigning surprise. Her acting skills are fucking perfect. Makes me wonder what else she's good at pretending.
"Lorcan's been providing valuable insight into Kavanagh operations. Mutual benefit." Byrne checks his watch. "We're accelerating everything. RICO charges filed next week."
I see Sorcha's hand tremble slightly before she controls it. That tiny crack in her composure makes me want to cross the room and break Byrne's neck for putting fear in her eyes.
"Next week? That's fast."
"The Director wants results. Moran's intelligence gives us what we need." Byrne leans closer to her, and possessive rage floods my system. "Your role continues until arrest. Document everything."
"Understood."
The bastard's eyes linger on her face, her mouth. I know that look—I've had it myself every time I'm near her. But seeing it on him makes me want to show him exactly what happens to men who look at my woman that way.
My woman. When the hell did that happen?
Byrne leaves through the main entrance. I count to thirty, then follow. Years of collecting debts on the waterfront taught me how to tail someone without being seen—stay back, use reflections, blend with the crowd.
Byrne walks two blocks before getting into a black sedan. I memorize the license plate, continue following as the car moves through downtown traffic. The whole time, part of my mind stays focused on Sorcha back at the café, wondering if she's safe, if she needs me.
The sedan stops outside Moran's shipping office. Byrne exits, walks straight inside like he owns the place. No surveillance, no caution. This isn't his first visit.
I position myself across the street, using a newspaper stand as cover. Through the office windows, I watch Byrne meet with Lorcan Moran himself. They shake hands like old friends, and my anger builds with each passing second.
My phone camera captures everything. Date stamps. Location markers. Visual proof that we can use to destroy both these bastards.
Twenty minutes later, Byrne emerges with a thick envelope. Payment for selling out his own badge. I photograph the exchange, then track him back to his federal vehicle.
The evidence is solid. A federal agent meeting directly with organized crime, taking money, coordinating operations against us. Sorcha was right to suspect corruption.
I text her the all-clear signal, then head to our meeting point, my mind already shifting to how I'm going to keep her safe during what comes next.
The warehouse conference room holds an unlikely alliance. Cillian sits at the head of the table, Orla to his right with legal documents spread before her. Sorcha enters right on time, and I can't help but notice how her hips move in that conservative skirt.
Focus, you bastard.
"Status?" Cillian asks.
"Byrne bought the Rotterdam story," Sorcha reports, her voice steady despite what she just went through. "But he's accelerating the RICO charges. Filed next week."
"And the Moran connection?" Orla looks up from her documents.
I place my phone on the table, showing the photographs. "Visual confirmation. Byrne met Moran right after leaving Sorcha. Cash payment exchanged."
Cillian studies the images while I study Sorcha. She's wound tight, adrenaline still coursing through her system. I want to pull her against me, let her know she's safe now. Instead, I grip the edge of the table.
