Chapter Three
Rylan
The scent of motor oil and stale smoke fills the Doyle warehouse, a place I’ve been trying to avoid since I was old enough to drive. The building hasn’t changed in years—same cracked concrete floors, same low hum of fluorescent lights that give everyone a sickly glow. It’s a shrine to everything I hate about the "family business."
"You’re late," Declan says, not looking up from the stack of papers he’s reviewing. My older brother has perfected the art of disapproval, and it shows in every inch of his rigid posture.
"Traffic," I reply, tossing my keys onto a nearby table. It’s not a complete lie; Brooklyn at rush hour is hell, but mostly I just didn’t want to be here.
"Traffic," he repeats. His tone drips with sarcasm. "You’d think someone who insists on playing delivery driver for a living would know how to navigate a few city blocks."
"It’s called blending in, Dec," I shoot back. "Not all of us want to be the poster boy for the Irish mob."
He finally looks up, his piercing blue and green eyes narrowing. "And yet here you are, delivering our shipments like a good little soldier."
I clench my jaw refusing to rise to the bait. This is the game we always play—Declan asserting his dominance, me pretending not to care. It’s exhausting, but walking away isn’t an option. Not yet.
"What’s the job?" I ask, cutting to the chase.
Declan smirks, sliding a clipboard across the table. "Couple of drops tonight. Usual spots, and one special delivery." He taps the last address on the list. "Make sure this one gets there on time."
I glance at the address, and my stomach sinks. It’s one of our more "sensitive" clients, the kind that comes with strings attached. "Got it," I mutter, grabbing the clipboard and heading for the door before Declan can say anything else.
The night stretches out in a blur of stops and starts. The usual deliveries go off without a hitch—quick exchanges with familiar faces and occasional gruff nods of acknowledgment. Each time I cross another address off the list, the tension winds tighter. That last delivery looms like a storm cloud on the horizon.
By the time I reach the "sensitive" client's address, the air is heavier, thicker on my skin. It's not a place I’d want to linger in under normal circumstances—dim lighting, too many shadows, and eyes that watch from behind curtains. I double-check the package and take a deep breath to push down the unease curling in my gut. The door opens before I can even knock.
"Good. You’re here," the client quips. There's no small talk, no pleasantries, just a quick handoff and a reminder of why I don’t like coming here. A tense moment passes as they inspect the contents, but when they finally nod in approval, I’m free to leave.
Relief washes over me as I step back out into the night. I exhale, shoving my hands in my pockets, and make my way to the truck. One more stop. The stop. My pulse quickens at the thought of seeing Savannah again, her name like a steady drumbeat in my mind. The tension from earlier fades with each mile that brings me closer to her house. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for all night.
Technically, I should be on my way to return the van to the main hub and clock out for the evening, but after the last few months of running into her during her Boudoir Bliss deliveries she’s become a part of my routine. I tell myself it’s harmless—just checking in. Making sure she is okay. But the truth is, she’s been living rent-free in my head and I’ll use any excuse to catch a glimpse of her again.
When I pull up outside Savannah's brownstone, the lights are still on. That’s weird. Even though it’s a Friday night, she’s a teacher with early mornings and doesn’t seem to stray from her routine. Not that I’d know, except . . . well, okay, fine. I might have driven past her place a couple of times, or . . . every night. Before heading back to the hub to clock out for the evening, but it’s not what it sounds like. I’m not a creep, I promise. I’m just looking out for her, call it a byproduct of growing up in a family like mine where knowing too much about what goes bump in the night is second nature.
But tonight, something feels off.
My stomach twists when I notice a car I haven’t seen before in her driveway, a brand-new Maserati Levante gleaming under the streetlights. Its sleek design screams money, the kind that doesn’t typically park in this neighborhood. Suspicion bubbles up, and I lean closer to get a good look at the plates already planning to text Ty for a background check. He works for the family handling all of our behind the scenes tech and hacking work. If you ever need to do some digging on a potential hit or transfer money to an overseas bank account, Ty is your guy.
But no luck. My annoyance spikes when I see paper plates from the dealership still clinging to the bumper. No numbers to run, no leads to chase. Great. Whoever owns this car hasn’t had time to register it or doesn’t want to be traced. Regardless, it’s only adding to the unease gnawing at my gut.
There’s no harm in taking a quick look around, right, just a peek to make sure everything’s fine. Odds are, I’ll find her passed out on the couch with the TV playing some old rom-com. At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I step out of the van and make my way to her porch, each step heavier than the last.
A muffled crash comes from inside followed by a choked sob. My stomach twists in fear. I don’t even consider what I’ll say if she opens the door and finds me standing here randomly showing up at her house in the middle of the night on a Friday. I knock once hard and wait. Nothing.
"Savannah", I call out, pressing my ear to the door. Another sound of a struggle more frantic this time. Panic claws at my chest.
I try the knob. Locked. Of course.
Panic sets in as I urgently search the porch for a spare key—under the mat, inside the planter—nothing. My mind races, and without thinking, I step back and slam my foot into the door. The wood splinters on the second try giving way under the force.
What I see inside makes my blood run cold.
Savannah is pinned to the couch, her arms flailing as a tall, broad-shouldered man looms over her, his weight pressing her into the cushions. His dark hair is slicked back, his sharp features wicked with a cruel sneer, and the expensive cologne he reeks of only adds to his air of entitlement. Her face is twisted in terror. Her voice hoarse from screaming. Adrenaline takes over, and I don’t think. I just act.
"Get the fuck off her," I roar, grabbing the guy by the collar and yank him off with enough force to send him crashing to the floor. He scrambles to his feet, but I’m faster. I land a punch to his jaw that sends him falling backwards against her tv stand.
He tries to get up again, but one look at my face must change his mind. "You’re fucking crazy," he spits, clutching his jaw. "She asked me to come over."
"And she told you to stop," I growl, advancing on him and punch him square in the face one last time. It leaves him in a heap on the ground, unconscious for now.
"Savannah," I say gently and crouch down to her level. "Are you okay? Did he—"
She shakes her head. Her round face is stained with tear tracks marring her perfect skin, and her lower lip trembles ever so slightly. "No. He didn’t. You—you got here in time."
Relief washes over me, but it’s fleeting. I need to get Savannah somewhere safe first, then I’ll deal with whoever thought they had the right to lay a hand on her. She may not be my girl yet, but she will be. She just doesn’t know it.