He wasn’t smart enough.
Someone had helped him. Someone had opened the door, fed him the intel he needed, and cleared the path for the Irish.
And I was going to find out who.
The study was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the rising sun. I poured myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the faint light as I sat behind the desk. The leather chair creaked beneath me, the sound familiar, grounding.
I set the gun on the desk beside the glass. Just in case.
The file on the Irish was still open, spread across the desk like a map of betrayal. Names, numbers, routes, payments. I flipped through it slowly, methodically, my eyes scanning each page, each line, looking for the thread I’d missed.
It was there. I could feel it.
I just had to pull it.
My phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the quiet.
I glanced at the screen.
Luca.
Luca:Heard about Giovanni. You good?
I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Me:Doesn’t matter. It’s done.
The response was immediate.
Luca:You need anything?
I hesitated, my mind already racing ahead, piecing together the next move.
Me:A meeting with the fucking Irish.
There was a pause. Then:
Luca:That’s a death wish.
I smirked faintly, but there was no humor in it.
Me:No. It’s a declaration of war.
1
GRACE
The law library smelled like dust, ambition, and desperation.
I inhaled deeply, finding comfort in the familiar scent of old books and overpriced coffee. My highlighters were arranged by color on the desk—yellow for statutes, green for precedents, pink for contradictions, blue for my own thoughts. Order amid chaos. Control in small doses.
Professor Harrington's Constitutional Law midterm was in three days, and I'd been camped out at the same table since 7 AM, surrounded by case briefs and sticky notes. My coffee had gone cold two hours ago, but I kept sipping it anyway—a small punishment for letting myself get distracted by the text from Connor.
Need to talk. Dad's planning something. Call me.
I'd read it seventeen times without responding. Whatever family drama was unfolding could wait until after I'd finished outliningMarbury v. Madison.
The library was quiet except for the occasional rustle of pages and the soft tapping of keyboards. Everyone looked half-dead, eyes bloodshot, postures slumped over their laptops. Law school's walking wounded.
