The stale cigarette smoke in Declan Murphy’s Dublin office did nothing to mask the stench of failure. He stared at the rain-streaked window, his reflection a pale, bloated mask of fury. Forty-eight hours. That’s all it took for the O’Malley Clann to dismantle his Macau operation. They hadn’t fired a single shot. No explosions, no bodies in the street. Just a few clicks of a keyboard by their slick lawyer, Quinn Delahunty, and Declan’s entire venture, the bet-fixing racket that was supposed to be his golden ticket into Asia, evaporated into ones and zeroes. His crew captain was humiliated, his accounts were frozen, and his reputation was in the toilet.

  “They think they’re clever,” Declan muttered, turning from the window. He took a long drag from his cigarette and slammed the butt into an overflowing ashtray on his cheap laminate desk.

  His lieutenant, Finn, stood nervously by the door. “Declan, maybe we just… let it go. It was Macau. We can rebuild here.”

  Declan’s head snapped toward him, his eyes burning. “Let it go? They made me look like a feckin’ gobshite. A ham-fisted thug. Meeka O’Malley and her band of tech nerds and suit-wearing killers. They don’t respect the old ways.” He paced the small room, his expensive suit looking out of place against the peeling paint. “They think they’re a corporation now. A bloody board of directors. But they’re gangsters, same as us. And gangsters understand one thing.”

  He stopped and looked Finn dead in the eye. “Blood. You don’t answer a punch to the gut with a strongly worded letter. You put the other guy on the ground.”

  Finn swallowed hard. “So, we hit them? In Boston? Their turf is a fortress, Declan. We don’t have the men for a direct fight.”

  “We don’t need an army,” Declan scoffed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “We just need to be smart. Smarter than they think we are.” He sat down, leaning forward, the cheap chair groaning under his weight. “Meeka O’Malley. The great Matriarch. Harvard-educated, talks a big game about moving the family into the future. But at the end of the day, she’s still just a woman. And all women have a weakness.” He tapped a finger on his desk. “She has that son. The adopted one. The brainy kid who plays with stars instead of guns.”

  A flicker of understanding, and fear, crossed Finn’s face. “Ty? The museum director? He’s a civilian, Declan. Hitting family is one thing, but a civilian son…”

  “He’s an O’Malley,” Declan spat. “His name is on the damn building. Costello-O’Malley National Space Museum. He’s a symbol. Her pride and joy. She parades him around like a show pony.” He leaned back, the plan solidifying in his mind, fueling his rage into a cold purpose. “She took my money. So I’ll take what she values more. We’re not going to kill him. Not right away. We just need to send a message. A score to settle. Show her that her new world of cyber-warfare can’t protect her from an old-world bullet. Get me a shooter. Someone good. Someone who can make a long shot from the hills. I want it public. I want it messy. And I want her to know it was me.”

  Finn hesitated for only a second before nodding. “I’ll make the call.”

  Declan smiled again, the expression devoid of any warmth. “Good. Let’s see how the great Matriarch runs her global empire when her son is bleeding on the pavement.”

  ***

  Thousands of miles away, under a perfect, cloudless Boston sky, Tadgh ‘Ty’ Costello O’Malley had no idea he was the subject of a death warrant. His world was one of nebulae and orbital mechanics, not bullets and revenge. He stood on the polished concrete plaza in front of his life’s work, the Costello-O’Malley National Space Museum, and felt a familiar swell of pride. The building was a masterpiece of glass and steel, its sweeping curves designed to mimic the arc of a comet. It was his sanctuary, a place of science and wonder, calculatingly separated from the other, darker facets of his family’s empire.

  "It's a good crowd for a Tuesday," a calm voice said beside him.

  Ty turned and smiled at Gema Banks. She stood with the relaxed posture of a predator at rest, her eyes constantly scanning, missing nothing. Dressed in stylish but practical dark slacks and a fitted jacket, she could have been a museum administrator, but Ty knew the truth. Underneath that jacket was a handgun, and her mind was a weapon sharpened by years as an Air Force Pararescue specialist. She was his head of security, his shadow, and, even though he wouldn’t admit to anyone but himself, she was his friend.

  “Cassiopeia A is a big draw,” Ty replied, gesturing toward the entrance where a school group was excitedly filing in. “Exploded stars sell tickets. Who knew?”

  Gema’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I prefer my explosions to be at a safe distance. Preferably a few thousand light-years.”

  A furry head nudged Ty’s hand. He looked down at Comet, his golden retriever, whose tail was wagging hard enough to create its own gravitational pull. Comet was technically his pet, but the dog had also been trained to protect him, another layer in the security blanket his mother had wrapped around him.

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  “Easy, boy,” Ty chuckled, scratching the dog behind the ears. “You’ll be on display next.”

  His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and saw the caller ID: Mamai. He braced himself with a sigh.

  “Hi, Mamai,” he answered, trying to sound casual.

  “Tadgh, darling, are you eating?” Meeka O’Malley’s voice was a smooth, cultured melody that held the underlying strength of steel cable.

  “Yes, Mamai. I had lunch.”

  “What did you have? Was it healthy? Gema, is he eating properly?”

  Ty could see Gema suppress a laugh. “He had a salad, Meeka. And a bottle of water,” she said, her voice loud enough for the phone to pick up.

  “A salad? That’s not enough to keep a bird alive. I’ll have Cillian bring you over some of Mamo’s stew later.”

  “Mamai, please,” Ty groaned. He loved his mother, his grandmother Rosie, and his great-aunt Liz, but living on the family estate in Weston meant being constantly doted on by three powerful O’Malley women. It could be smothering. “I’m fine. The museum is busy. I can’t have my driver showing up with a pot of stew.”

  There was a soft sigh on the other end. “I just worry, love. Your father, Gavin… he was so careful.” The mention of his birth father always brought a brief, somber pause to their conversations. Gavin Costello had been on Meeka’s security detail, and he’d died taking a bullet meant for her. Meeka’s adoption of him wasn’t an act of charity; it was a debt she felt she could never fully repay. It was why she named the museum after both of them.

  “I know,” Ty said softly. “And that’s why I have Gema and her team. They’re the best.”

  “See that you listen to them,” Meeka said, her tone shifting back to business. “I have a board meeting. I’ll see you for dinner tonight. Don’t be late.”

  The line went dead.

  Ty pocketed his phone and looked at Gema. “My apologies. Again.”

  “No apologies needed,” Gema said, her gaze drifting toward the rolling hills that rose above the far side of the parking lot. “She’s your mom. It’s her job to worry.” She squinted slightly, her focus sharpening. “It is a beautiful day. Clear sight lines.”

  It was an idle comment, but the way she said it sent a small, inexplicable shiver down Ty’s spine. He followed her gaze to the sun-drenched hills. They were a popular spot for hikers and tourists wanting a panoramic view of the city. Today, they just looked peaceful.

  “Time to head back in?” Ty asked, giving Comet’s leash a gentle tug.

  “In a minute,” Gema said, her body tensing almost imperceptibly. Her hand moved, hovering near the opening of her jacket. “Buach, do you have eyes on the northeast ridge?” she spoke quietly into the mic on her wrist. Buach Doherty, the newest and youngest member of Ty’s security detail, was on the roof.

  “All clear up here, Gema,” came the crackled reply in his ear. “Just a few hikers. A couple taking photos.”

  Ty frowned. “What is it?”

  Gema didn’t answer right away. She scanned the ridge line, her training parsing the landscape, looking for anything out of place. A shape that didn’t belong. A flicker of movement that wasn’t the wind in the grass. For a second, she thought she saw it, a tiny, star-like glint. Sunlight on a pair of binoculars? A piece of glass?

  Or a rifle scope!

  Her blood ran cold.

  he realization and the action were simultaneous. She didn’t have time to think, only to react. The sniper would have already accounted for the wind, the distance. The trigger was likely already being squeezed.

  “Ty, get down!” she yelled, her voice a raw command.

  She didn’t wait for him to obey. In one explosive movement, she launched herself forward, shoving him with all her strength. The shove was a brutal, jarring impact that sent him stumbling backward, his feet tangling with Comet’s leash, sending both of them tumbling to the hard ground in a confused heap.

  For a split second, time seemed to stretch. Ty heard Gema’s shout, felt the violent push, and saw the world tip sideways. He heard Comet yelp in surprise. He saw the panicked faces of the visitors on the plaza turning toward the sound of her voice.

  Then he heard the noise. It wasn’t a loud bang like in the movies. It was a sharp, angry crack that split the air, simultaneously a sickening, wet thud.

  He landed hard on his elbow, scraping it raw. Disoriented, he pushed himself up, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Gema? What the hell was that?”

  She was standing where he had just been, her back to him. For a moment, she didn't move. Then, her posture seemed to crumble. A dark, rapidly spreading stain appeared on the front of her light-colored blouse, just below her collarbone. Her hand went to her chest, her fingers coming away slick with red.

  Her eyes, wide with shock and pain, met his. “Sniper,” she managed to choke out, the word barely a whisper.

  Then her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the pristine concrete, a stark, fallen figure against the clean lines of his museum.

  Chaos erupted. People screamed and ran for cover. The other members of Ty’s security detail, their guns now drawn, converged on his position, forming a human wall around him and shouting into their comms.

  But Ty couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t hear anything except the ringing in his ears and the frantic, terrified barking of his dog. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, ignoring the guards trying to pull him back. He reached Gema’s side. The wound was high on her chest, blood pulsing from it in a terrifying rhythm. Her breathing was shallow and ragged.

  Her eyes were still open, fixed on his face. Her training was still firing, even as her body was shutting down. “Stay… down… Ty,” she gasped, her voice already weak.

  “Gema! Oh god, Gema!” He looked down at his hands, covered in her blood. He looked up at the tranquil, sunlit hills, trying to comprehend what had just happened. A picnic. A normal Tuesday. A phone call with his mother.

  And now this.

  The promise of a bloody war had just been delivered, signed in Gema’s blood on the steps of his temple of peace.