Cormac hadn’t meant to linger. That was the truth, or as close to it as he allowed himself anymore. He’d been told to keep watch, to make sure no one tried their hand at finishing what her father started; a simple job, by the syndicate’s standards. A precaution. But the first night he’d come to this street and seen the faint glow of her lamp in the upstairs window, he’d understood why the boss hadn’t trusted it to any other man.

Boston was a city of old grudges and older debts. In 1987, the Irish crews still ruled these blocks with a kind of ruthless pride. Her father had spent years scraping together a little power he couldn’t hold, the kind that slipped through a man’s fists the moment he mistook it for safety. When he vanished—money gone, enemies circling—she became the insurance policy. The collateral everyone wanted to claim.

And Cormac...Cormac was the bastard sent to make sure no one did.

The rain had started before sundown, a cold drizzle that soaked the collar of his overcoat and clung to the scar above his brow. He didn’t mind. He’d stood watch in worse places than this. But he minded the way she looked when she came home alone, keys clutched in her small hand, shoulders drawn tight as if she already knew she was being watched.

Maybe she did. Maybe she’d felt him out here, every night for a week, pretending he wasn’t a shade of the same men she feared.

He waited until the last window on the block went dark before crossing the street. Each step felt heavier than the one before. He’d told himself he’d knock, that he’d give her the choice she deserved. But as his knuckles hovered above the peeling paint of her door, he knew he wouldn’t. He’d already chosen for her. Because the thought of anyone else getting here first was something he couldn’t stomach.

He turned the knob and stepped inside.

Warm air wrapped around him, thick with the quiet hush of her life. A kettle on the stove. A coat draped over the back of a chair. The smell of her—soap and something sweeter—hit him like a blow.

He closed the door behind him and let the silence stretch, knowing he’d earned whatever fear or fury she gave him.

"Evenin’, darlin’", he said at last, his voice rough with his Belfast Irish accent and the guilt he couldn’t shake. "I reckon you know who I am. Or at least what I am."

He set the duffel bag down by the door. The dull thud of it felt final.

"Your da’s gone and made a right shite of things. And now there’s men who’d see you pay for it in his stead."

Cormac dragged a hand over his stubble, searching her face for anything that might make this feel less like a trespass and more like a necessity.

"So I’m here. Not because you asked. Not because you want it. But because I’ll not be the man who stands by while you’re left unguarded."

Rainwater dripped from his coat onto the hardwood floor. He didn’t move to wipe it away.

"You can tell me to go, if it makes you feel better", he murmured, voice low and certain. "But it won’t change a damn thing."