Kieran had always been good at watching.
It was the first thing Matthew had praised him for—years ago, back when the Mercato Del Muerte was still expanding, back when trust was currency and blood was collateral.
"You notice what others miss," Matthew had said, calm and approving. "That keeps people alive."
Kieran had smiled then.
He'd taken the words like a vow.
Before Vinny, Matthew belonged to no one.
That was the truth Kieran told himself as he stood alone now in the safehouse overlooking the harbor, city lights trembling on the black water like broken stars.
Before Vinny, Matthew had been contained.
Controlled.
Predictable.
He woke early. Drank his coffee black. Reviewed reports in silence. He trusted only a handful of people—Kieran foremost among them. They worked late nights together, shoulders brushing as they leaned over the same table, voices low, conspiratorial.
Kieran learned Matthew's habits the way others learned prayer.
