2. Declan
DECLAN
The basement of the warehouse smells like concrete dust and old fear.
Strip lighting buzzes overhead, casting everything in washed-out yellow that makes the blood on my knuckles look almost black.
The man zip-tied to the chair—Marcus something, mid-level distributor who thought he was clever—whimpers through broken teeth.
I shake out my hand, flexing my fingers. The split across my knuckles stings but it's nothing compared to what Marcus is feeling.
"Your turn." I step back, giving Stellan room to work.
My brother moves forward with that eerie calm he always has, like he's approaching a business meeting instead of a beating.
He's still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, not a hair out of place.
The contrast between his appearance and what he's about to do would be funny if I didn't know him so well.
"Thirty thousand." Stellan circles the chair slowly. "That's what you thought you could skim without us noticing. Interesting number. Not small enough to hide, not large enough to run on."
Marcus tries to talk through his ruined mouth. It comes out wet and garbled.
"Can't understand you." Stellan glances at me. "Can you understand him?"
"Not a word."
"Shame." Stellan's fist connects with Marcus's ribs in a sharp, precise strike that makes the chair rock. "We'll have to communicate through other means."
I lean against the concrete wall, arms crossed, watching my brother work.
This part of the business doesn't thrill me the way it does some people in our world.
I don't crave violence, don't get off on power plays and dominance displays.
But I don't shy from it either. It's necessary.
Maintenance. Someone skims from our distribution network, word gets out, suddenly everyone thinks they can take a slice.
Can't have that.
Stellan hits him again, same spot. Methodical. That's always been the difference between us—I'm direct, efficient. Get it done and move on. Stellan treats it like surgery, finding exactly where to apply pressure for maximum effect with minimum waste.
"You know what's funny?" Stellan stops his circling to examine his knuckles. No blood on his. He's more careful than I am. "We already found the money. Your girlfriend's apartment, under the mattress. Very original."
Marcus makes a sound that might be despair.
"Right? That's what I said." Stellan looks at me. "Didn't I say that was disappointingly unoriginal?"
"You did mention it."
"Under the mattress. Like we don't have people who know every hiding spot in this city." He shakes his head, genuine disappointment coloring his tone. "You could've at least made it interesting."
I push off the wall, rolling my shoulders. My turn again. Marcus's head lolls to one side, consciousness flickering. I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me.
"Stay with us, Marcus. We're not done yet."
His eyes focus on my face with effort. There's the fear I need to see. Good. He needs to remember this, needs to carry it in his bones so when we let him walk out of here—and we will, because killing him would cause more problems than it solves—he spreads the right message.
I drive my fist into his solar plexus, not hard enough to do permanent damage but hard enough to empty his lungs. He gasps like a landed fish, the chair tipping backward before I catch it, setting it upright again.
"Getting soft." Stellan's voice comes from behind me, bored amusement threading through it. "That was practically a love tap."
"He's groaning, isn't he?"
"Barely counts." My brother appears at my shoulder, studying Marcus with clinical detachment. "Remember the guy last month? You had him done in fifteen minutes. This is what, thirty? Forty?"
"We're having a conversation." I step back, letting Marcus struggle for air. "I can multitask."
"Right. Conversation." Stellan's gray eyes cut to me, sharp with something that might be humor in anyone else. "That what we're calling it now?"
I know that tone. Here it comes.
"Don't start."
"Start what?" He moves in for another hit, this one to Marcus's kidney. Precise. Brutal. Marcus's scream echoes off concrete. "I'm just making an observation."
"Stellan."
"About how you've gone all domestic." He examines Marcus's face, checking pupil dilation. Making sure we're not losing him yet. "Big house in Chestnut Hill, pretty girl waiting at home. Cooking dinner like you're playing house."
"Fuck off." But there's no heat in it. This is familiar territory, well-worn through months of similar conversations. "I cook one meal and suddenly I'm domesticated?"
"Please." Stellan straightens, wiping his hands on his pants. Blood streaks dark against the charcoal fabric. "You cook every time she comes over. Which is what, three times a week now? Four?"
"Five." The correction slips out before I can stop it.
His eyebrow arches. "Five. Christ, Dec. You're practically married."
The word sends something through my chest. He has no clue how close he is there.
"Your point?"
"No point." Stellan circles again, predator pacing. "Just interesting watching you go all soft and domestic while the rest of us are still out here doing the actual work."
"That's bullshit and you know it." I move forward, grabbing Marcus's collar. His head snaps up. "I do my share."
"Do you though?" But Stellan's grinning now, that cold slash of humor that means he's enjoying needling me. "Because from where I'm standing, you spend more time picking out pasta shapes than handling distribution problems."
"We're handling one right now."
"After I called you three times."
He's not wrong about that. I'd been at home, Zola curled against my side on the couch, her breathing deep and even in sleep.
She'd finally let herself rest after I'd fed her, and I'd been watching her, struck by how young she looked without worry creasing her forehead.
When Stellan's call came through, I'd considered ignoring it.
Actually considered it. That should probably concern me more than it does.
I land another hit on Marcus's face, feeling cartilage give under my knuckles. The violence grounds me, reminds me who I am outside of Zola's soft warmth and the domestic fantasies I've been entertaining.
"I'm here now."
"You are." Stellan takes his turn, efficient strikes that'll leave Marcus pissing blood for a week. "Physically, anyway. Mentally you're probably wondering what she's doing. If she ate the leftovers. If she's comfortable in your bed."
Every word lands accurate. Irritating how well my brother knows me.
"Shut up."
"There it is." He laughs, the sound empty of real warmth. "See? Domesticated. Two years ago you would've hit me for that."
"Two years ago you wouldn't have said it."
"Fair point." He stops, studying Marcus's face. The man's barely conscious now, head lolling, breathing shallow. "We about done here?"
I check Marcus over with practiced eyes. Bruised, broken in places that'll hurt like hell but heal clean. Nothing permanent. Nothing that'll need a hospital—his people will patch him up, spread the story, and that'll be that.
"Yeah. We're done."
Stellan produces a knife from somewhere, cutting through the zip ties in one smooth motion. Marcus slumps forward and I catch him before he hits the floor, lowering him down with more care than he probably deserves.
"Someone'll be by to collect you in an hour." I crouch beside him, making sure he can hear me through the pain haze. "You're going to remember this, Marcus. You're going to remember that we found you, we found the money, and we decided to let you live. That's a gift. Understand?"
He manages a nod, barely.
"Good." I stand, wiping my hands. "You work off what you stole. Ten percent of every job for the next two years goes directly to us. Miss one payment and we have this conversation again. Except next time, my brother handles it alone. And he's not as nice as I am."
Stellan scoffs at that but doesn't contradict me. We both know it's true—I have limits he doesn't, lines I won't cross that he stepped over years ago without looking back.
We leave Marcus crumpled on the concrete, heading for the stairs. The warehouse above is empty, just crates and shadows and the ambient sound of the city beyond the walls. My knuckles throb in time with my pulse, steady and insistent.
"You need to wrap those." Stellan nods at my hands as we emerge into the main floor. "Before you go home to your girl. Don't want her asking questions."
"She doesn't ask questions." It's true. One of our unspoken agreements—she knows enough to understand the life, not enough to be implicated in it. "And even if she did, I wouldn't lie."
"Wouldn't you?" He stops walking, turning to face me fully. The lights up here are better, showing the sharp angles of his face, the cold assessment in his gray eyes. "You sure about that?"
Am I? I think about Zola's face earlier, the way she'd melted against me when I kissed her, the trust implicit in how she lets me care for her even when it terrifies her. Would I tell her about nights like this? About the blood under my nails and the systematic breaking of men who cross us?
"I don't know." The admission costs something. "But I won't start lying now."
"Noble." But there's no mockery in it, just observation. "That's going to get complicated."
"Everything about us is complicated."
"True enough." He starts walking again, headed for where we left the cars. "At least you're consistent."
I follow, my mind already shifting forward. Marcus is handled. The message will spread through our distribution network within twenty-four hours. Problem solved. But there's something else I need to handle, something I've been thinking about and am finally ready to take the jump on.
"Hey." I catch up to Stellan, matching his stride. "You busy after this?"
He glances at me sideways. "Define busy."
"Not bleeding someone. Not moving product. Not doing anything that can't wait."
"Then no, I'm not busy." Suspicion creeps into his tone. "Why?"