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"Stay behind me," he says quietly.

I watch the approaching men—two tall, one stocky and compact, all in dark jackets even though it’s hot as balls down here. I memorize their faces, builds, and gaits.

"Mr. Kavanagh," the shorter man says with fake warmth. "What a surprise."

"Duffy." Cillian keeps his voice casual while his stance changes. "You're nowhere near your pigsty."

"Just visiting." Duffy looks at me, then back to Cillian. "Pretty companion."

"This is my assistant." Cillian reaches toward his waist, showing the handle of a gun. "Why would Moran send his errand boy to y office?"

I play the scared assistant while noting every detail—including this name. Moran, apparently a rival.

"Bringing a personal message." Duffy grins, showing off a gold tooth. "Your brother took something that didn’t belong to him. Mr. Moran wants it back."

"Messages go through official channels," Cillian says. "Not parking and not in front of ladies."

"We wanted a personal touch?—"

"That was shit idea." Cillian's voice turns hard. "Tell Moran to call my office during business hours if he wants to talk to me."

I watch Duffy's men get antsy.

"Sure." Duffy steps backward. "But remember—we could send a fax. Or a courier, or something messier."

The threat lingers as they walk to a black SUV and drive away.

Cillian is alert until the vehicle leaves. Then he turns to check on me.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

I nod, acting afraid. "Who were they?"

"No one important." He walks me to my car, scanning every corner. "Business associates with poor manners."

"They knew you were leaving," I note while unlocking my door.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Coincidence, they were waiting."

We both recognize the lie. Someone told them Cillian would work late, they didn’t sit here all day.

"Drive straight home," he says. "Stay on main streets. I'll call you in fifteen minutes to make sure you arrived."

"You don't need to?—"

"I do." His tone cuts off any argument. "Answer your phone."

I sit in my car, mind racing. These men know Cillian's movements. They might know my address too—a risk I didn't consider. His enemies becoming my enemies—maybe I should make friends.

Driving away, I check my mirror. Cillian watches until I turn the corner, his phone to his ear, gun in his hand now.

I've seen both versions of Cillian Kavanagh today—capable businessman and dangerous criminal. Neither is what I imagined he would be.

My phone rings exactly fifteen minutes later.

"I made it home," I tell him from my apartment.

"Good. Lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow."