Raised inside a powerful crime family, a young man discovers that the blood running through his veins may not be the blood that made him one of them. As forbidden feelings and buried secrets surface, he must decide where his true loyalty lies before the family's code destroys him.
Rourke, he looked at me. Miss Wittek. I'm not staying. He cleared his whole afternoon.
By the end of the week, the containers were coming back empty. He never said he ate it. Then Thursday, I got there later than usual. The double doors were open.
Tillian was standing behind his desk with coffee down the front of his shirt. A girl stood in front of him with both hands over her mouth. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. She was about my age. Grey suit.
A pen through her hair. A notebook in her hand. She reached for his shirt. He stopped her. Put myself between them. Looked up at him.
What happened? Then he, Cillian, didn't look at her. It's a shirt. Then he looked at me.
The girl kept talking. Something about a door, a tray, a corner. Cillian took his jacket off and held it out behind him without turning around. She took it.
Get me another one. Yes, sir. She left with the jacket over her arm like it was something she'd been given. That was the part I couldn't do.
I'd lived in that house my whole life, and I'd never once written anything down. Cillian came back in a fresh shirt. When are you leaving? Now.
He picked his keys up off the desk. There's a sit-down tonight. With who? Doesn't matter.
He said it was flat, like a door closing. Bring the Milan files and the interpreter. Their man doesn't speak English.