"He didn't just sign it," Vance rasped, coughing up a thick glob of blood that splattered across the steel. "He suggested it. He told the Board that the only way to truly prune the garden was to remove the roots.” His eyes darkened. “He was the one who gave us the train schedule. He knew exactly which carriage your brother would be in, Zarek. He knew..., and he chose that one for the strike."Zarek’s hands, hidden in the deep pockets of his robe, curled into white-knuckled fists. The betrayal was a new kind of toxin, one that even Shaw’s engineered antibodies couldn't fight. It was a poison of the heart.Shaw looked between the broken Director and his frozen Boss. 

Across the city, in a home office that smelled of expensive leather and old cedar, Finnian O’Shea was not polishing whiskey glasses. He was pacing. His footsteps were heavy on the Persian rug, tracing a frantic line from the fireplace to the floor-to-ceiling windows. His face, usually a mask of calm Irish charm, was slick with a thin film of sweat that made his graying hair cling to his forehead."It can't be true," Finnian whispered, his fingers trembling as he tugged at his necktie. "Ten years of silence. You don't just walk away from a thermite charge on a locked carriage. You don't come back from that."In the shadows, his three top lieutenants watched with varying shades of boredom."Finnian, sit down," the tallest, Burke, said flatly. "You’re going to burn a hole in the carpet. So a Riggs survived. So what? One boy against the entire Board? He’s a ghost story, not a threat.""I heard things, Burke!" Finnian snapped, spinning around with bloodshot eyes. "The rumors from the doc

Finnian stepped closer, his eyes raking over Zarek’s face with predatory intensity. "Lord, look at you. You have your mother’s eyes, Zarek. The same shape. The same... softness."Finnian shifted his weight, spreading his arms wide in a grand, empty gesture. "Come here, boy. Bring it in. Let me welcome you home properly."As Finnian moved for the embrace, his eyes already scanning for the bulge of a weapon or a wire beneath the rags, Zarek instinctively lurched backward. He stumbled, his heels catching on the stone lip of the entryway."No! No, Uncle, please," Zarek cried out, holding his hands up as if to ward off a blow. He looked down at his filthy, salt-stained coat. "I'm... I'm too dirty. I haven't bathed in weeks. I've been sleeping in shipping containers. I’ll ruin your suit."Finnian froze. A look of genuine revulsion flickered in his eyes at the mention of shipping containers, but he quickly masked it with a practiced sigh of sympathy."Of course, of course," Finnian said,

Zarek stepped out of the guest suite, the charcoal wool of the suit fitting him like a second skin. He had adjusted his posture, not enough to look like a soldier, but enough to look like a man trying to stand tall for the first time in a decade.Declan was waiting in the hallway, his eyes brightening. "There he is. You look like a Riggs again." He clapped Zarek on the shoulder, his touch lingering a second too long, as if he were trying to pulse-check for a tremor. "Come. The family is waiting in the sunroom. A light lunch before we head into the city."Zarek followed, eyes scanning the floor as he played the part of the overwhelmed guest. But as they entered the sunroom, the air seemed to vanish from his lungs.The table was set with fine bone china. Seated there were a young girl, a small boy playing with a silver spoon, and a woman.Zarek stood paralyzed on the threshold, the air in his lungs turning to lead. He had prepared for a house full of vipers, for cameras, for locked

Every word out of Declan’s mouth was a lie wrapped in gold. Declan wasn't a steward; he was a thief who had moved into his master's bed."You've done so much," Zarek whispered, staring at a bed of blood-red roses. "I... I don't think I would have known where to start.""That's why I'm here, Zarek," Declan said, stopping at a stone bench. "To lead you back. You don't have to worry about the past anymore. I’ve taken care of it all."Zarek looked at Declan's silhouette against the sun, his mind turning cold and sharp. Behind them, in the tall grass near the perimeter fence, he caught the briefest glint of glass. ‘Shaw is in position,’ Zarek thought. ‘Talk all you want, Declan. Every word you speak is just more evidence for your eulogy.’They moved deeper into the estate, past the manicured beds to a secluded grove where willow trees wept over a circular clearing. In the center stood a structure that looked out of place in the modern garden: a small, domed pavilion of white marble, sh