23. Declan
DECLAN
Saturday arrives and I'm practically vibrating with nervous energy by the time Stellan shows up. He looks about as comfortable as a man heading into enemy territory unarmed, which would be funny if my entire evening didn't depend on him not screwing this up.
"You look like you're going to throw up." I open the door before he can knock.
"I might." He steps inside, eyes scanning the bookstore like he's checking for exits. "Why did I agree to this again?"
"Because you love me and want me to be happy." I lock the door behind him, flip the sign to closed. "And because if you don't, I'll make your life a living hell."
"There's the threat I was waiting for." But he's already climbing the stairs, resigned to his fate.
Zola's in the nursery with Maeve, changing her into pajamas. The baby's babbling away, completely oblivious to the fact that her evening is about to be handed over to a man who's never changed a diaper without direct supervision.
And yes, I've been making him change them all week so I know he can do it right.
"Stellan." Zola glances up, secures the last snap. "Right on time."
"I'm nothing if not punctual when facing certain doom." He hovers in the doorway like he's not sure he's allowed to enter.
"Get in here." I gesture him forward. "We're running through everything one more time."
"We've been through it four times this week." But he's already moving closer, watching as I pick up Maeve.
"And we're going through it again." I settle her against my chest, her warm weight familiar now. "Bottle's in the fridge. You heat it by running warm water over it for about two minutes—not the microwave, it gets too hot. Test it on your wrist before you give it to her."
"Warm water, two minutes, test on wrist." Stellan nods. "Got it."
"She gets the bottle around seven, then you read her a story.
Doesn't matter which one—she can't actually understand them yet, but she likes the sound of your voice.
After that, you rock her for about ten minutes and put her down in the crib with her elephant.
" I'm ticking items off on my fingers now.
"She might fuss for a few minutes but she'll settle.
If she doesn't, you pick her up and start over. "
"Bottle, story, rocking, crib, elephant." He's actually taking notes on his phone. "What if she cries?"
"Then you figure out why." Zola moves past me, heading for her bedroom. "Check her diaper, see if she's hungry, make sure nothing's hurting her. She's pretty good at communicating if you pay attention."
"I don't speak baby."
"You'll learn." I press a kiss to Maeve's head, breathing in that particular scent that's just hers—baby soap and something sweet. "And if something goes really wrong, you call me. But nothing's going to go wrong because you're not an idiot and she's not that complicated."
"You say that now." Stellan reaches for her, lets me transfer her into his arms. She goes easily, one sticky hand immediately grabbing his shirt. "What if—"
"Stellan." I step closer, drop my voice. "You've handled men twice your size trying to kill you. You've talked your way out of situations that should've ended with bullets. You've never backed down from anything in your entire life. You can handle one nine-month-old for a few hours."
"She's not trying to kill me though." He adjusts his grip, getting her settled properly. "That I know how to deal with. This is different."
"It's easier." Zola reappears wearing a sundress I've never seen before—dark green with thin straps, hitting just above her knee. My mouth goes dry. "Just keep her safe and don't let her eat anything that's not already approved. Her schedule's on the fridge."
"Schedule on the fridge, don't let her die, call if emergency." Stellan's bouncing Maeve gently now, more natural than he probably realizes. "Anything else?"
"Yeah." I move close enough that Maeve can't hear the edge in my voice. "She better have the best night ever with you. I want her laughing, content, sleeping peacefully. If I come back and she's been crying or upset or traumatized in any way, you're dead. Clear?"
"Crystal." But there's almost fondness in the way he says it. "Get out of here before I change my mind."
I steal one more moment with Maeve, pressing my lips to her forehead. "Be good for Uncle Stellan, love. He's going to take excellent care of you."
She makes a questioning sound, like she's not entirely sure about this arrangement. I don't blame her—I'm not entirely sure either.
"Declan." Zola's by the door, holding a light jacket. "We should go."
I force myself to step away, to let Stellan have her. He's competent, capable, and genuinely cares about keeping her safe. This will be fine. Probably.
"Only a few hours." I grab my keys. "We'll be back by ten."
"Take your time." Stellan's already settling onto the couch, Maeve content against his chest. "We'll be fine. Won't we, kid?"
Maeve babbles something that could be agreement or could be the start of a meltdown. I choose to believe it's agreement.
Zola loops her arm through mine, physically pulling me toward the door. "Let's go before you change your mind."
I don't tell her where we're going. Just drive through the city as evening settles in, windows down and warm air rushing past. She's watching the streets slide by, probably trying to figure out my plan based on direction.
"We're heading toward South Philly." She shifts to look at me. "What's in South Philly?"
"Dinner." I take a left on Ninth, navigate through the familiar maze of narrow streets. "Best Italian food in the city that's not some pretentious place trying too hard."
"You took me to that fancy place once." Her voice goes soft with memory. "Angelo's. I was wearing that black dress you bought me and felt completely out of place."
"You looked incredible." I remember that night—her uncomfortable in expensive surroundings, me trying too hard to impress her. "But yeah, that wasn't us. Too much crystal, not enough substance."
"Unlike whatever hole-in-the-wall you're taking me to now?"
"Trust me." I park on a side street, kill the engine. "You'll love it."
Rosa's is tucked between a shoe repair shop and a corner store, easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for. Red and white checkered tablecloths, photographs covering every available wall space, the smell of garlic and tomatoes hitting the moment we walk through the door.
"Declan Wolfe." Rosa herself appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She's got to be pushing seventy but moves like a woman half her age. "You didn't tell me you were bringing a date."
"I wanted to surprise her." I pull out a chair for Zola at a table near the back, away from the handful of other diners. "Rosa, this is Zola. Zola, Rosa makes the best carbonara you'll ever taste."
"He's right about that." Rosa studies Zola with sharp eyes that miss nothing. "But tonight I'm thinking osso buco. You like braised meat?"
"I like anything that tastes good." Zola settles into her seat, already more relaxed than she ever was at Angelo's.
"Smart girl." Rosa nods approvingly. "I'll bring wine. You eat what I make, no arguments."
"Yes ma'am." I've learned not to argue with Rosa. She'll feed you what she thinks you need, and she's never wrong.
After she disappears back to the kitchen, Zola leans forward. "Does she know who you are? What you do?"
"Everyone in this neighborhood knows what I do." I pour water from the carafe already on the table. "Rosa's nephew got into trouble with some guys from North Philly a few years back. Stellan and I handled it. She's been feeding us for free ever since, even though I always try to pay."
"And she just refuses the money?"
"Every single time." I shake my head. "Says keeping her nephew breathing is payment enough."
Zola's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "You saved someone's life and your payment is pasta?"
"Best pasta in the city." I correct. "Worth more than money."
Rosa returns with wine, two plates of caprese salad I didn't order, and a look that says we're eating what she brought or else. The tomatoes are perfect—fresh and sweet, the mozzarella creamy, everything drizzled with olive oil and balsamic.
"So." Zola takes a bite, closes her eyes briefly in appreciation. "This is what casual but nice means to you."
"Would you rather be somewhere with sixteen pieces of silverware and a sommelier breathing down your neck?"
"God no." She's already reaching for more bread. "This is perfect."
We fall into easy conversation—nothing heavy, nothing complicated. Just trading stories about our week, laughing over Stellan's increasing competence with Maeve, debating whether Rosa's going to bring us dessert whether we want it or not.
The osso buco arrives and it's everything Rosa promised—meat falling off the bone, sauce rich and complex. Zola makes a sound that's borderline obscene and I have to remind myself we're in public.
"Okay." She points her fork at me. "You win. This is the best Italian I've ever had."
"Told you to trust me."
"You did." She takes another bite, savoring it. "Where'd you find this place?"
"Stellan actually." I lean back, watching her enjoy the food. "About five years ago. We were handling business nearby and he was starving, just walked into the first place he saw. Rosa took one look at him, told him he looked half-dead, and force-fed him three courses."
"Of course she did." Zola's smiling now, real and warm. "Does she feed every dangerous criminal who walks through her door?"
"Just the ones she likes." I steal a piece of her bread, duck when she swats at my hand. "She's particular about who gets the good treatment."
"And we're getting the good treatment?"
"You are." I nod toward her plate. "I'm just benefiting by association."
Rosa proves me right by bringing out tiramisu we absolutely did not order, along with two espressos and a look that dares us to refuse. We don't. The tiramisu is perfect—not too sweet, the coffee flavor strong and the mascarpone light.
When we finally leave, Zola loops her arm through mine like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Where to now?"
"One more stop." I guide her back to the car. "Best ice cream in the city."
"Have you tried them all?" She sounds skeptical.
"I think Stellan has." I open her door, wait until she's settled before closing it. "You'll love it. The kind they make fresh every day."
I drive us to Northern Liberties, to a small shop called Sweet Cream tucked away on a quiet block. The line's always out the door but it moves fast—they only make six flavors at a time, rotating based on what's in season.
"Brown butter pecan." Zola reads the board, standing close enough that I can smell her vanilla and coffee scent mixing with the sweet cream and sugar in the air. "Honey lavender. Blackberry lime. These all sound incredible."
"Get whatever you want." I'm already ordering salted caramel for myself. "Or get multiple, I don't care."
She ends up with honey lavender and blackberry lime—two scoops in a waffle cone that smells amazing. We take our ice cream and walk, heading toward the river where I know a spot that's usually empty this time of night.
The park's technically closed but I know which gate has a broken lock, know the path that leads to a secluded area right on the water. Know I can handle any trouble that comes our way.
Trees overhead filter the city lights, the sound of the river covering the traffic noise. There's a bench that's probably older than we are, weathered but still solid.
Zola settles onto it, tucking her legs underneath her. The dress rides up slightly and I force myself to look at the water instead.
"This is nice." She licks ice cream off the side of her cone. "How'd you find it?"
"Used to come here when I needed to think." I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush. "After you left, I'd drive around the city for hours. One night I ended up here, walked along the river until I couldn't feel my fingers anymore."
Her expression goes soft, sad. "Declan..."
"I'm not telling you to make you feel guilty." I keep my voice even. "Just being honest. This place got me through some hard nights. Figured it was fitting to bring you here now."
"It's beautiful." She looks up at the sky, at the stars barely visible through the city's light pollution. "Feels like we're somewhere else entirely."
"That's why I like it." I take a bite of my ice cream, let the sweetness coat my tongue. "Feels separate from everything else. No work, no family, no expectations. Just space to breathe."
We're quiet for a while, just eating our ice cream and watching the water move past. Zola finishes hers first, wiping her hands on a napkin before leaning back against the bench.
"I had a great time tonight." She turns to look at me. "Really great. Thank you for this."
"This is all I ever wanted." The words come easier than I expected. "You smiling, laughing at my terrible jokes, eating good food without worrying about anything else. Just you happy and here with me."
"I am happy." She reaches for my hand, threads our fingers together. "Happier than I've been in a long time. Probably since before I left."
"Then let me keep making you happy." I squeeze her hand. "However long it takes, whatever you need. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." She's looking at me now with something warm and vulnerable in her eyes. "I think I'm finally starting to really believe that."
"Good." I want to kiss her—have wanted to kiss her since I picked her up tonight—but I'm waiting. Waiting for her to choose, to close the distance, to show me she wants this as much as I do. "I want you to know how much I love you."
I don't expect her to say it back. I understand she needs time. Instead, she does the one thing I was hoping for, leaning in and pressing her lips against mine.
It's careful at first—tentative, like she's testing to see if this is real. Then I'm pulling her closer, one hand sliding into her hair while the other wraps around her waist. She tastes like honey lavender and blackberry, sweet and perfect and entirely her.
The kiss deepens and it's like coming home after eight years of wandering lost. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer like she can't get enough.
I pour everything into it—every year I spent missing her, every night I lay awake thinking about her, every moment I've been back in her life wanting exactly this.