As the plane taxis toward the runway, I pull out my phone one last time, scrolling back to the photo of Keira Killaney.
Red hair. Green eyes.
She won't want me there.
That'll make two of us.
The job is the job. Emotions are for amateurs.
Boston's just another map dot. And she's just another contract.
But something in that photo, something in the tilt of her chin, the sharpness in her gaze, pricks at the edge of my instincts. The part of me that's kept me alive this long tells me she's not going to be easy.
I turn off my phone and lean back, shutting my eyes as the engines roar to life. The plane lifts, and Bucharest falls away beneath me, swallowed by clouds and rain.
When I open my eyes again, I'll be in Boston.
And Keira Killaney will learn what it means to face someone who doesn't flinch.
4
OCTAVIAN
As the SUV cuts through the night, I finish up my texts with my cousins.
They've given me some things to work with. The Ionescu’s want a piece of the United States. Let's see if I can help deliver it.
One thing they mentioned is how connected the Irish are to this city. Irish immigrants formed street gangs, who then swallowed each other up to form larger ones, and now the Killaney family runs the show. Been that way for the last 20+ years.
Standard for the mafia world, I suppose. Always one family more ambitious. The only danger is that it's not purely ambition, but what they're willing to do to get to the top is what you have to worry about.
The SUV slows to a stop. Two large gates and a guardhouse. A man comes out and nods to my driver.
I watch as the gates swing open, and in the foreground, an estate materializes.
As we pass, I notice the intricate ironwork curling up toward two gargoyles that stare down with mouths open, frozen mid-roar.
My driver hasn't said a word since he confirmed my name at the airport. I haven't tried speaking to him either. What's the point?
As we move closer to the house, my training mode slips into play.
I scan the perimeter through the windows. Four visible cameras on the main gate alone. Two armed guards sheltered in a booth, another patrolling the inner fence line. Motion sensors disguised as landscape lighting. Three-layer security system, enough tech to monitor a small city.
As we pull up to the house, I see more cameras mounted at every angle, motion-activated, probably thermal. The kind that see heat signatures, not just movement.
This isn't a home.
It's a fortress.
But fortresses don't stop death. They just delay the mess.
We come to a stop, and two guards are outside the main entrance.
Suddenly my window rolls down. One of the guards approaches holding a tablet while the other watches from a distance, hand resting on his holster.
I assume if I've gotten this far inside, they already know who I am, but protocol is protocol.
"Name?" the guard asks, rain dripping from his hat.
