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The charity gala. The ambassador's daughter. A moment of kindness mistaken for vulnerability.

"A Donovan doesn't comfort crying girls." He removes his signet ring, placing it deliberately on the desk. Bad sign. "A Donovan shows no compassion. Compassion is vulnerability."

"She was hurt?—"

The first blow catches me across the cheek. I don't fall. Falling makes it worse.

"Hurt?" He laughs, the sound empty of mirth. "You think that matters? That girl's father works for the State Department. Information is power, not comfort. You could have leveraged her distress, extracted something useful."

"She's fourteen."

Another blow. Blood fills my mouth.

"Age is irrelevant. Everyone is useful or useless. Nothing between." He circles me like a shark. "Your mother ruined you with her softness. I need to burn it out of you."

The beating begins in earnest then. Methodical. Educational. Each blow accompanied by lessons in power and control. My arms take the brunt of his rage.

"Sentiment is a disease." Crack goes my rib. "Empathy is a liability." Another blow lands across my kidneys. "The moment you care about anyone but family, you create leverage against yourself."

I remain standing as long as possible. It's a matter of pride now.

"Even family becomes liability when they demonstrate vulnerability." He pulls me up by my hair after I finally collapse. "Remember this pain, Cormac. It's nothing compared to what our enemies will do if they sense softness in you."

The signet ring returns to his finger, metal catching light before it connects with my flesh...

* * *

I jolt awake,sheets soaked with sweat. My pulse hammers as present reality comes back with a bite. Manor. Bedroom. Safety.

The nightmare leaves me shaking, echoes of old pain ghosting across my skin. I haven't dreamt of that particular lesson in years. Why now?

Aoife.

Her accusation."Those aren't from fighting. Not all of them."She saw through me in seconds, recognized the systematic nature of my scars. No one else ever noticed—or dared mention it.

The clock shows 6:19 AM. No point trying to sleep. I shower, letting scalding water wash away the nightmare's residue. Under the spray, my mind returns to Aoife—her defiance when I caught her, the softness of her lips contradicting the hardness of her words. The way she yielded momentarily before fighting herself.

She awakens something dangerous in me. Something my father spent years trying to destroy.

By seven, I'm dressed and in my office. Connor arrives with coffee and the morning briefing.

"The Gallagher operation at the docks has gone quiet," he reports. "No movement since we took the girl."

I nod, scanning the intelligence reports. "And our shipment coming in tomorrow?"

"Route changed as ordered. New security measures in place."

"Good." I tap my pen against the desk. "Have you identified how they knew about the pickup location? It was compartmentalized information."

Connor shifts uncomfortably. "Still working on that, boss."

My instincts scream patterns. The last three Gallagher hits against our operations targeted locations known to only a handful of people. The shipment Liam Gallagher stole—the one that justified taking Aoife—had been rerouted last minute. Few knew the change.

Someone's talking. We have a rat, and I loathe rodents.

"I want surveillance on Liam Gallagher," I say. "Full coverage. Phone taps, locations, associates."

"We're already watching the Gallaghers?—"