2. Declan #3
"Not your table." I pull up a chair, Stellan hovering at my shoulder. "Your merchandise."
Interest sparks in his dark eyes. "What kind?"
"Jewelry." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Special occasion type."
Viktor's grin widens. "Ah. That kind of special occasion." He gestures to a black case beside his chair, producing it with the flourish of a magician. "You came to the right place."
Beside me, Stellan goes very still. I can feel his attention sharpening, piecing together implications. The case opens, revealing rows of jewelry—rings, mostly, along with necklaces and bracelets that catch the light and throw it back in fractured rainbows.
"Holy shit." Stellan's voice comes out strangled. "Dec—"
"Help me pick." I lean over the case, examining the rings with more attention than I've given anything that didn't involve blood or money in years. "You've got better taste than I do."
"That's not saying much." But he's already moving closer, drawn in despite himself. "You're really—you're actually doing this?"
"Yeah." Simple answer. Complete answer.
"Christ." He runs a hand over his face, and when he drops it, there's something in his expression I don't see often—genuine happiness, surprised and unguarded. "You're all in on this girl."
"Told you."
"Saying it and actually buying a ring are different things." He leans over the case beside me, studying the options with that strategic eye he applies to everything. "You know what you want?"
"Something she'd like." I point to a ring in the second row—platinum band with a dark stone, subtle and striking at once. "Not too flashy. She'd hate flashy."
Viktor pulls it out, holding it up to catch the light. "Alexandrite. Changes color depending on the light—purple in natural light, greenish under fluorescent. Rare. Expensive. Very unusual choice."
Like her. The thought settles warm in my chest.
"Try this one too." Stellan points to another—simpler band, single stone, elegant without being ostentatious. "Compare them."
We spend twenty minutes like that, Stellan and I bent over jewelry like we're planning a heist instead of a proposal.
He asks questions I wouldn't think to ask—about sizing, about care, about whether the stones will hold up to daily wear.
Viktor answers with the patience of someone who knows he's about to make a significant sale, pulling out ring after ring for our consideration.
"This one." I finally settle on the alexandrite, watching how it shifts from deep purple to sea-green as I turn it. "She'll love it."
"She'd better, for what you're paying." Stellan shakes his head, but he's grinning. "When are you doing it?"
"Soon." I don't have a specific plan, just the certainty that's been building in my chest for weeks now. "When it feels right."
"Nothing about this feels right." But there's no criticism in it, just observation. "You've just made your way and dragged everyone else along."
"I'll tie everyone to a damn chair if that's what it takes to get her at the altar with me."
"Jesus." He actually laughs, real warmth in it. "You sound insane."
"Probably am."
Viktor packages the ring in a small velvet box, black exterior, cream silk interior. It's surprisingly light for something that feels this heavy, this significant. I tuck it into my jacket pocket, feeling the weight settle against my ribs like a second heartbeat.
"Congratulations." Viktor extends his hand, genuinely pleased. "She's lucky."
"I'm lucky." The correction matters. Zola could have anyone—should have someone better than me, someone without blood under his nails and violence threaded through his DNA. But she chose me, keeps choosing me, and I'm selfish enough to take what she offers and hold on with both hands.
We head back through the club, Stellan unusually quiet beside me.
The morning's gotten brighter, sun climbing higher, painting Philadelphia in shades of gold and amber.
My phone says it's just past seven—Zola's definitely gone by now, probably heading to her first class so she can take notes in that precise handwriting she has.
I'll text her in a few hours. Get her back to mine tonight. Cook something elaborate that makes her roll those amber eyes and accuse me of showing off. Kiss her until she stops talking, until the only sound is our breathing and the city humming beyond the windows.
The ring presses against my ribs, promise and possibility and terrifying commitment all wrapped in platinum and alexandrite.
"Hey." Stellan bumps my shoulder as we walk. "I'm happy for you. Really."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He squints against the sun, that cold mask fully down for once. "You deserve something good. And she's—she's really fucking good."
The words catch in my throat, so I just nod. Brothers don't need elaborate speeches, don't need declarations of feeling when the feeling's already understood.
We reach the car, morning air crisp and clean after the smoke-thick club. I'm pulling my keys out when my phone rings, sharp trill that cuts through the quiet. Unknown number, but it's coming through on my business line—the one only a handful of people have.
I lift it to my ear. "Yeah?"
"Mr. Wolfe." The voice is strained, familiar—Danny, one of my guys who runs security on the north side distribution point. "We've got a situation. There's been an accident."