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The largest unexplained movements had happened around the same period as the fire that consumed my house when I was a child.

My stomach turned. The fire had always existed in my memory as one terrible night, a single event that had destroyed my family and left me with almost nothing. I’d never imagined that it might have been connected to something much larger.

There were references to internal disputes within the organization during that same time period. Several accounts had been emptied or redirected, and someone inside the syndicate had apparently stolen a substantial amount of money before disappearing.

The records described the person as an unnamed traitor. I read that line several times. An unnamed traitor suspected of stealing from the organization before vanishing permanently…my hands went cold. Could that person have been connected to my father?

No. I immediately rejected the thought, but it refused to go away. My father had always been innocent in the story I’d built inside my head. He’d been the man who had died in a fire, the father I’d lost when I was eight, the person whose memory I’d protected because there was so little of him left for me to hold on to.

I’d never seriously considered that he might have been involved in anything criminal. But now I was staring at records connecting his business to an organization involved in laundering money, internal theft, and organized crime. I closed my eyes for a moment. There had to be another explanation.

I went back through the documents, looking for something that would prove my father was an innocent businessman who’d simply become entangled with dangerous people.

I found references to his company, several transactions, and meetings involving people connected to the O’Connor organization.

Nothing proved that he’d stolen anything, but nothing proved he hadn’t stolen, either. That was the problem—there were too many gaps.

I’d spent years imagining that finding the right information would finally give me an answer, but the deeper I went, the more complicated everything became. Maybe the O’Connors had ordered the attack. Maybe they’d discovered that someone had stolen from them and my family had somehow become involved. Maybe my father had known something he shouldn’t have known. Or maybe the O’Connors had arrived after the fire and covered up what had happened for their own reasons.

I didn’t know. God, I hated this. I hated not knowing. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. The sensible thing would have been to stop. I’d already discovered enough to know that I was dealing with people who were dangerous, powerful, and accustomed to making problems disappear. Continuing to investigate them could put me in danger, especially if someone discovered who was asking these questions.

But walking away had never been my strength. For years, I’d tried to convince myself that I could live without knowing what had happened that night. But I wanted answers. More importantly, I needed them. I opened the folder containing my podcast notes and stared at the unfinished outline for my next episode.

An idea began forming. I couldn’t accuse anyone without evidence, and I wasn’t reckless enough to publish names and allegations I couldn’t prove. But I could tell the story.

I could talk about the fire, I could talk about the missing money, I could talk about the unexplained disappearance of someone believed to have betrayed a powerful criminal organization.

I could ask questions. Maybe someone listening had information I didn’t. Maybe an old witness had remained silent for fifteen years. Maybe someone had photographs, documents, memories, or even a name that had never appeared in the official investigation.

Buried Saints had always been about forgotten stories. This one had been waiting for me all along. I opened a new document and began typing.

Ronnie’s terrible breakfast was still sitting in the sink. For some reason, that made everything feel even more complicated. I’d spent the morning letting a man into my home while uncovering information about a world I barely understood. And somehow, I still wanted him to call me later. That frightened me almost as much as the files on my screen.

Sofia Hayes, what the fuck are you doing?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ronan

I should have distanced myself from Sofia. That would have been the right and sensible thing to do. I’d done that countless times when someone became too involved or too important to me. But instead of withdrawing, I started creating reasons to see her. They were all very reasonable in the beginning. It just so happened I was in her part of the city. I had a meeting near the café. I wanted to buy her something she’d mentioned during our conversations. Not because she’d asked me to, but because it felt right. I barely knew her, yet she was already bringing out a side of me I hadn’t known existed.

I started shifting meetings so they’d center around the times she would be available. Syndicate assignments that had previously ruled my entire day became flexible.

I began watching the clock, not because I had anywhere critical to be, but because I wanted to know how much longer until I could see her again. I told myself I simply enjoyed her company. That was a more difficult explanation to buy once Trevor mentioned I’d changed my routine.

He entered my office while I was sorting through some paperwork and placed a folder on my desk, but didn’t move to leave. His expression was blank, but I knew what was coming. He’d seen the changes in my schedule. He’d noticed the frequency with which I cut out early from important meetings and how I’d begun declining opportunities I normally would have embraced without question.

He never had to say Sofia’s name. Attachment opened me up, and anyone important to me would become a weapon if the right people wanted to harm me.

I ignored Trevor’s warning, or at least outwardly denied that it was necessary, but his words echoed in my mind long after he’d left.

The truth was, Sofia already was a weakness. I hadn’t intentionally tried to protect her, but I’d begun to think about her safety as my own. I wondered who was around her when she told me she was working late. I thought about the streets she’d walk alone to get home.

I’d worked hard to not care too deeply about anything unnecessary. Caring could make me predictable, and predictability could cost me my life.

And one woman, without doing any visible work to achieve it, was quietly crushing my principles. The worst of it was that Sofia had no idea what she was doing to me. She thought I was just Ronnie, the man who liked her food. Even if she insisted I didn’t belong anywhere near a frying pan, she seemed at ease with me.

She dared me, met my eyes without being afraid. She rendered the world beyond my routine distant. It should have been a warning, but I found myself eagerly anticipating every excuse that would take me to her.