"Octavian Voinea."
He checks his list, nods to his partner, then looks at my driver.
"He's clear," he says and walks away.
My driver kills the car and my door unlocks. I step out, grab my duffel bag, and sling it across my shoulder.
Boston is colder than I expected.
I glance around and count six windows with direct views of the driveway. Three potential ambush points between the gate and front door. The garage sits offset from the main house, vulnerable. The garden wall provides minimal cover for a sniper position.
I file it all away.
The other guard who stayed back walks over and looks up at me.
"This way," he says and starts walking toward the house.
I follow.
The entrance hall is cathedral-like. Marble floors that stretch out beneath vaulted ceilings, and paintings of stern-faced people in gold frames. Above us, a massive chandelier hangs, illuminating everything.
I follow my escort through the house, mapping it mentally.
We pass two men standing near a side corridor, bulges on their hips beneath their jackets. Armed.
The main hallway splits left and right. Security cameras tucked into crown molding. A pressure plate near a bookcase; subtle, but I see it. I would assume it triggers a silent alarm if someone steps on it.
I notice panic buttons disguised as light switches under a frame of what I assume is the father of the men I'm here to see.
Paranoia wrapped in luxury.
We turn down a corridor and pass an empty sitting room, then a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves and leather chairs scattered throughout the room.
We continue walking, turn another corner, and come to a stop in front of a set of double doors, dark wood carved with Celtic crosses as handles. The guard knocks twice, doesn't wait for an answer, and pushes them open.
"He's here," he announces to the room.
I step inside and find both Killaney brothers.
Callum sits behind a massive desk, hands folded in front of him. His posture reserved. Broad-shouldered, dark hair swept back, eyes that give nothing away. He doesn't stand. Doesn't offer his hand.
He just watches.
He looks a bit older than the file photo I was sent, but that's what running a family does.
The second leans against the wall to my left. Declan Killaney. Younger, built like a boxer, green eyes sharp as glass. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. He tracks me with a fighter's instinct, which I read is his favorite pastime.
I fully assess them both in the time it takes for the door to close behind me. I've seen their type before.
I step forward, stopping three feet from the desk, and look down at Callum.
His gaze drags over me, like he's deciding whether I'm worth the air I'm breathing.
Finally, he speaks.
"You're the one Enzo vouches for, huh?"
"I suppose that's why I'm here," I say, looking down at him.
