As the security guards led Aoife down the corridor, an uneasy quiet settled over the private room. Outside, the city darkened into dusk, neon and river‑light flickering across the windows. Inside, their coffee sat untouched, slowly cooling.
Tom studied the brothers with measured calm, though Simon caught the flicker of something harder in his eyes. He rose, smoothing his jacket.
"I'll deal with the police and make sure statements are handled properly," Tom said evenly. "You two—carry on. If you can."
He rested a brief, grounding hand on Simon's shoulder before stepping out. By the time the door closed, Tom already had his phone to his ear, speaking softly as he walked away from listening ears.
Outside, his voice sharpened.
"It wasn't random. I want eyes on Sarah Miller and Andrew Morris. Quietly. Find out if either of them orchestrated this. Someone sent that girl in to stop the meeting, and I want to know why."
He listened once more, then ended the call and returned to the room, hovering near the doorway — close enough to protect, far enough to give space.
Inside, Simon sat beside Shane, uncertain where to place his hands. Shane's fingers trembled against the table.
"Are you okay?" Simon asked quietly.
Shane let out a hollow laugh. "I thought I was used to feeling watched, judged. But this?" He shook his head. "This feels different. Like someone's afraid of what happens if we stand together."
Simon nodded slowly. "People don't interfere unless they're frightened."
Shane looked at him closely. "Is this from your world?"
"I don't know," Simon said honestly. "But I trust Tom. If there's something to find, he'll find it."
The silence stretched between them, heavy but unbroken.
Finally, Shane drew a breath. "There's something you should know. Mum tried to tell me once. And now… I think it's time you heard it."
Simon's pulse thudded. He nodded.
Shane stared past the ceiling, steadying himself.
"When Mum was nineteen, she was raped. It happened in Kampala, at a bar called the Half London. The man was the son of a politician. She didn't tell me his name until much later."
Simon didn't move.
"She found out she was pregnant soon after," Shane continued. "She was terrified, alone. When a group of Eastern Europeans offered her a way out—work in the UK—she took it. She never told them she was pregnant."
Shane's hands clenched.
"When she arrived in London, she realised the truth. They weren't helping her. They were connected to a Russian underground network. She was trapped on an estate in Fulham."
Simon's jaw tightened.
"There was one woman who protected her," Shane said softly. "An older Romanian housekeeper named Kocka. She hid Mum in the kitchen, helped her stay safe. You were born in the attic."
His voice faltered, but he pressed on.
"They left you at the bus stop because it was the only way to save your life. Not because she didn't love you. Because she did."
The words settled between them, raw and irreversible.
Shane wiped his eyes. "One last thing. Mum kept track of the man who hurt her. He's a prominent businessman in Kampala now."
Simon felt the shift before the name was spoken.
"Yusufu Matovu."
Outside the window, the city darkened fully. Inside, nothing would ever be the same.