Declan

You held his hand while he took his last breath. You cried with his mother. You spent three years leaving voicemails on a dead man's phone. Now you're standing in the back room of a club in Macau. The boss turns around. Silver lighter in hand, scar across his jaw, same broad shoulders. He doesn't look surprised to see you. He just locks the door. Here's what nobody told you: His death was faked. He paid a coroner to stage the body. He let you grieve so his enemies wouldn't kill you.