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They nod, offering clipped assurances before driving off, red lights flashing against the wet pavement.

“Boss,” Kiernan says, approaching fast, his phone already in hand.“We’ve got a problem.”

That phrase has never meant anything good.

“The cash drop,” he continues.“The one for your London contact.It never made it.They hit it en route.Lit the entire haul up like a fucking bonfire.”

The words land hard.A quiet moment passes as the full weight settles.That shipment was weeks of planning.Months of positioning.

“You’re sure?”

“Saw the photos myself.”Kiernan hands over the phone.The screen shows a grainy shot of charred crates and soot-blackened bills scattered across asphalt.No survivors.No salvage.

I stare for a beat too long, the quiet rage inside me hardening into something far more dangerous.

“That drop was meant to solidify London,” I say, my voice low.“He didn’t just steal from me.He made a statement.”

The words barely leave my mouth when Seamus steps forward, a long, slim box in his hands.Matte black, tied with a blood-red ribbon.“This was delivered to the hotel,” he says, his voice tight.“Addressed to Aoife.The front desk called it in right after the fire started.Said a courier service dropped it off.No sender.”

My pulse slows as I take the box from him.Slipping the ribbon free, I lift the lid.Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, is a single black rose.

Elegant.Wilting at the edges.Dying.

A piece of paper is pinned to the stem with a thin silver needle.I pluck it free, unfolding it with careful fingers.The words are scrawled in ink, deliberate and precise.

"A heart consumed by fire cannot be reclaimed."

Seamus’s jaw tightens.“Someone doesn’t like that she’s with you.”

A chill runs through me, and my hand tightens around the note, crumpling the paper.

My first instinct is to say his name, to confirm what we all suspect.But suspicion isn’t proof.My mind races through the implications, the message behind the message.Finally, I say what I believe to be true.This wasn’t just business.This was personal.

“This has Ruairi Quigley’s name written all over it.”My voice is sharp, cold.“He’s trying to force Aoife to go back to Belfast.”

Seamus shakes his head.“And you’re still keeping her here?”

I clench my jaw, already knowing where this is going.

He scoffs, running a hand over his face.“Christ, Eamon.You’ve lost shipments, men, and now this.For what?A woman?”He lets out a harsh laugh.“Pack her bags and send her back to him.No pussy is worth this much fucking trouble.”

The rage that’s been simmering beneath my skin boils.I turn on him, my vision sharpening, my body poised like a predator ready to strike.“Say that again.”

Seamus tenses, reading the danger in my stance.But he doesn’t back down.“You know I’m right.This isn’t just about her anymore.Quigley’s not going to stop until he’s buried you or you bury him.”

I take a slow step forward.“Then I’ll bury him.”My voice is low, lethal.“And if you question me again, if you so much as speak her name with that fucking tone, you’ll be buried, too.”

The others shift uncomfortably, waiting, watching.

Seamus holds my gaze, weighing his options.He knows me.Knows I don’t bluff.

After a long moment, he gives a single nod.“I’m with you.”

I turn back to the smoking ruin of Obsidian.

For weeks, I’ve played Quigley’s game.Not anymore.

“We’re done playing tit for tat,” I say, my voice steady, final.“We’re going after Ruairi himself.”