Damian's POV
I heard it from Reeves on a Tuesday morning.
He came into my office with the particular expression he wore when delivering information he knew I wouldn't like — not quite apology, not quite neutrality, but something between the two.
"There's talk," he said.
I set down my pen. "What kind."
"The kind that travels." He placed a phone on my desk, screen up. A message thread — names I recognised, men from adjacent circles, the kind of people who kept one foot in legitimate business and one foot in everything else. The kind of people whose conversations I monitored precisely because they were the first place information leaked before it became public.
I read it.
Three exchanges. Clipped, careful language that said everything in what it didn't say outright. Kingsley's keeping
