Page 158 of Royal Bargain

We don’t talk much the rest of the ride.

When we get back to my place, it’s like walking into a memory that doesn’t quite fit anymore. The couch is still a mess. The baby gear’s still in a pile by the door. But the silence is sharper now. Not peaceful. Suspicious.

While Ana settles Lily down for a nap, I step onto the balcony and make a few calls. I need to know what the hell is happening on our side of the city.

I get my answer fast.

Rory’s voice is tight when he picks up. “Burns wants us at headquarters tomorrow. Big donor meeting.”

“Rory—” I don’t even know how to start. “We need to talk about him. About what we’re doing.”

He exhales like I’m already exhausting him. “Liam, not this again.”

“He’s compromised. You know he is. That press leak? That speech change? The ‘anonymous’ tips to theTribune? All of it stinks of Miranda.”

“I’m not denying she’s involved,” Rory says carefully, “but we can’t afford to pull out now. He’s too tied into the contracts, the funding, the optics. If we back off, we lose everything we’ve built.”

“We lose everything if we stay too,” I snap. “You think Miranda’s gonna let us walk away clean? You think Burns is still calling the shots?”

There’s a pause. Then, coolly, “We’ll talk about it later.”

He hangs up.

I text Lucky.

You free? I need backup. And beer.

The diner’s nothing fancy—greasy menu, chipped linoleum counters, a waitress who calls everyone “hon.” But it’s quiet, and nobody’s looking twice at two Irish guys with dark circles and heavier-than-usual silences.

Lucky slides into the booth across from me, shoving his sunglasses onto his forehead. He squints at me. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “Appreciate the warm welcome.”

“Anytime.” He signals for coffee, then tilts his head. “You back in town a whole ten minutes and already in a panic spiral?”

“It’s not a spiral,” I lie. “It’s situational awareness.”

Lucky snorts. “You only talk like that when you’re spiraling.”

I don’t answer. Just run my hand through my hair and stare at the chipped edge of the sugar caddy. The waitress drops off two mugs and a pot of coffee. Lucky dumps in way too much cream and gives me a look. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Burns,” I say. “And Miranda. They’ve got something going. Something big. Rory won’t see it. Kellan’s cautious, but he’s not making moves yet. And meanwhile, the Russians are imploding. Dariy and Anatoly are splitting the Bratva in half, and we’re caught in the goddamn middle.”

Lucky leans back slowly, letting that sink in. “Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”

“You’ve noticed it too?”

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” he says. “Burns has changed. His eyes don’t match his words anymore. Every time he talks about ‘cleaning up the city,’ it sounds less like policy and more like a goddamn purge.”

“Exactly.”

Lucky sips his coffee. “And Miranda’s always three steps ahead. Burns isn’t calling the shots anymore. If he ever was.”

I sit back, staring at my brother, grateful and also annoyed it took this long to say it out loud. “So we’re on the same page.”

“Pretty much,” Lucky says. “Though I don’t think Kellan’s totally blind. He’s just trying to get us out without flipping the whole table. He’s playing chess.”

“I don’t play chess,” I mutter. “I play survival.”