Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Bryan
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat.
It’s been four years since I stepped foot inside Ashwin’s . Four years since I sat at the corner booth with Yasmine’s ankle brushing mine beneath the table and her laugh lighting up the whole bloody room. Four years since I tasted her mother’s lamb vindaloo and swore it was better than sex.
They were so damn good to me.
Riya treated me like a son. Ashwin used to rib me like I was already family. I was home in that place—fed, loved, teased, and nurtured in a way I had never felt after Ma died.
I didn’t just love Yasmine—I loved them .
And I abandoned them.
My fingers clench tighter around the steering wheel, the leather groaning beneath the pressure. Yasmine made me promise. No disappearing act, Bryan. Don’t pull away from them. They’ll need you, and you’ll need them.
But I broke that promise—I broke so many promises.
Because walking into that restaurant after she was gone felt like dragging my heart across broken glass. Everything reminded me of her. Riya’s smile. Ashwin’s mannerisms. Her ghost haunted me in every fucking corner of that restaurant.
And then time passed.
And the guilt festered.
The longer I stayed away, the harder it became to go back. The harder it became to be that Bryan again—the one they loved. The one Yas loved.
I’m not him anymore.
I’m the Dublin Beast now. The enforcer. The criminal. My name makes people whisper and cross the street. My fists settle scores, and it never even occurred to me that it shouldn’t feel so good.
If they watch the news, they’ve seen the stories—they know .
They’re probably glad Yas died before she saw what I would become. But if she hadn’t died… would I be this man? Would I have turned this brutal? This cold?
Or would her love have saved me from the blood and anger and anchored me in the light?
I’ll never know. Life’s a fickle bitch. A twisted game of ifs and whens and maybes.
I flex my hands and release the wheel, shaking them out. My palms ache from the tension, from holding too tight for too long.
Strongest man in Northside, they say.
Could snap a man’s neck with one hand. Take down three without breaking a sweat. Made of iron and ice.
So why does walking into that restaurant feel like the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do? Tag told me to figure out what’s weighing me down and fix it. Well, the grief and self-loathing I carry for abandoning Yasmine’s wish and her family’s need is a huge fucking weight.
I suck in a breath through my teeth and growl under it, low and ragged and full of frustration.
“Enough. Get the fuck out and say hello.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove the door open and swing out onto the street.
The restaurant looks the same. A little older. The paint could use freshening. The windows are fogged with spice and memories. The lights glow warm behind the glass, like always.
The soles of my boots echo on the sidewalk as the metal chain hanging from my pocket sways and jingles against my black jeans.
I walk toward the door, one heavy step at a time.
If I don’t do this now, I never will. I owe them at least this much. If they slap my face and tell me to get out, at least I’ll have my answer.
The brass bell over the door announces my arrival and I step inside, the scent of cumin, turmeric, and simmering curry hitting me like a freight train of memory.
It’s warm in here—humid from the kitchen, filled with the sound of clinking dishes, soft conversation, and that old Hindi playlist Yasmine always used to tease Riya about playing in the background.
The restaurant hasn’t changed much.
The walls are painted a deep marigold yellow, the edges trimmed in carved dark wood. Tapestries hang near the windows—faded now, but still beautiful.
Tables are tightly arranged, linen cloths crisp and clean, every one of them set with care. Strings of fairy lights snake around the edges of the ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the space.
It’s full and welcoming, like it always was.
Two families wait near the hostess stand, children bouncing impatiently. A young girl—probably no older than sixteen—is behind the counter, arranging menus with a kind of focused nervousness that reminds me of Yas when she used to work the front.
And then I see her .
Riya.
Yasmine’s mother is checking on a table near the back, sari wrapped expertly around her delicate frame, her thick braid streaked with more silver than I remember. Her posture is proud, but her face—still soft, still maternal—turns as though she feels me watching her.
Our eyes lock.
She freezes.
My breath catches.
Slowly, she straightens, handing a guest a napkin with the grace of someone trained in hospitality and love, then starts walking toward me.
Her gaze never leaves mine. Each step she takes feels like a weight lifted from my chest—and a heavier one laid in its place.
When she reaches me, she says nothing.
“Riya, I’m sorry. I?—”
She steps forward and pulls me down to wrap her arms around me, holding tight.
I sink into the embrace like a starving man.
She smells like home.
After a long moment, she eases back, cupping my cheeks with both hands, her fingers warm and trembling slightly.
“ Mera beta, ” she murmurs, her voice thick. “Come. Sit. You must eat. Look how big you’ve gotten. You must feed that body.”
My throat tightens. I nod once and follow her, letting her guide me to a quiet table near the window, the same one I used to share with Yasmine.
I drop into the chair, feeling too big for the space now. Like I don’t fit anymore, physically or otherwise.
“Don’t move,” she says firmly, pressing a hand to my shoulder. “I’ll get Ashwin.”
She disappears through the swinging doors into the kitchen, her pace suddenly quick.
I don’t know if I’m shaking or if it’s the table under my hands. Either way, I fold my fingers together to still them. Then the doors swing open again—and there he is.
Yasmine’s father, Ashwin.
He’s thinner than I remember. The black in his hair has surrendered to gray. But his eyes—the same dark, kind eyes his daughter inherited—go wide when they land on me.
I stand automatically.
He comes to me without hesitation, and before I can speak, before I can offer some half-assed apology, he pulls me into a tight embrace.
“ Bryan, ” he says gruffly, like my name is both a question and an answer. “It’s been too long, son.”
I nod against his shoulder, swallowing hard. “It has. I’m sorry about that.”
He pulls back, claps a hand to the side of my face the same way he did the day he gave me his blessing to date Yasmine. He doesn’t say where the hell have you been , or why did you vanish, he just gives a small nod and steps aside as Riya returns.
She’s carrying a plate the size of a small country.
Rice, lamb, naan, roasted vegetables, a dish of bright orange curry I don’t even recognize. The colors are vibrant. The smell is intoxicating. The love is unmistakable.
She sets it in front of me and sits across from me with a sigh, folding her hands on the table like nothing’s changed, like we’re just picking up where we left off.
“Now tell me,” she says, her eyes glistening. “How are you, mera beta ?”
My son.
And just like that, the walls inside me crumble.
And, for the first time in four years, I don’t try to stop them from seeing what’s broken.
* * *
I climb into the driver’s seat of my Hilux and the door shuts with a quiet thunk . For a long minute, I don’t move.
I just sit there, breathing...
Letting the warmth from the restaurant cling to me like the scent of spices still woven into my shirt.
I’m full— properly full. My stomach stretched from too much lamb, too much naan, too much of Riya’s insistence that I “looked thin” even though I outweigh half the Quinn security team and Devils MC.
But it’s not only my gut that’s full.
It’s my chest. My ribs. That hollow place behind my sternum that has ached since the moment Yasmine died—it’s not empty tonight. Not entirely.
Riya said she’s proud of me, but I’m not sure I deserve that. I apologized to her, sick about how long it took for me to come back.
And she’d said, “It only proves how deep your love for her went. It broke you and it took a long time for you to find your way back.”
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I have been broken this whole time, walking around, my heart shattered into sharp and jagged pieces. The blood and violence only masked the pain I couldn’t face. And now… I’m holding a fucking letter.
I glance down at the pale yellow envelope, my name lovingly written on the front in Yasmine’s loopy handwriting. I lift it to my nose to smell it, hoping to find Yasmine’s floral scent, but it’s been too long in Ashwin’s to smell like anything but Indian cuisine.
Riya kept it tucked in a wooden box in the back office and promised Yasmine to give it to me once it seemed I was ready to heal.
But she never got the chance.
Or maybe Yas knew it would take me years.
I hold it between my fingers, my heavy heart thudding an aching rhythm. If it were possible, I’d swear it wants to burst right out of my chest.
The paper of the envelope is soft. Worn. It feels like it belongs to another lifetime. Another man. One I’m not sure I remember how to be.
I should open it.
I should honor Yasmine’s love and read whatever last piece of her she left behind. But my hands won’t move.
What if hearing her thoughts shatters what little bit of myself I’ve pulled back together?
What if her words were time sensitive and me waiting so long ruined her thoughts for me?
Another thing for her to be disappointed about.
Time passes as the evening grows dark outside my windows. The streets grow quiet. And still, I can’t bring myself to break the seal.
My phone buzzes in the center console and I jump.
I blink, dragged out of the moment, and slide the letter into the inside pocket of my leather jacket—tucking it close to my heart for when I’m ready.
It’s waited four years—it can wait a little longer.
I swipe my thumb across the screen and lift the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Hey, boss. It’s Drake.”
The sound of his voice eases something tight in my chest. I lean back against the headrest, eyes still on the restaurant windows, and let myself breathe.
“She all right?” I ask, skipping the preamble.
“She’s good,” he says. “Better than I’ve seen her since we got back. She's been relentless, boss. Locked in. Like a bloodhound with a scent. And today it paid off.”
I close my eyes, exhaling slow. That’s my girl.
“What’d she find?”
“She secured the guest lists.” I hear the grin in his voice. “She has the names of the attendees for the dates when her friends and her friend’s sister disappeared. The names on those lists… it's a fucking gold mine. Politicians, businessmen, high rollers. Harper’s about to blow this shit wide open.”
Pride wells up so fast I nearly choke on it.
That’s exactly what I knew she could do. Tenacious, brilliant, dogged as hell. When Harper sinks her teeth into something, she doesn’t let go—not until the truth is laid bare, bleeding in front of her.
Fuck, I miss her.
I can picture the look on her face when she got that list of names, but it would’ve been so much better to have been there to share it.
But I don’t regret giving her space.
The time apart has been an exercise in walking around in a semi-aroused and fully frustrated state, but it’s been good too. Necessary.
I wasn’t whole. I’m still not. Not while I carry Yasmine’s ghost with me, a shield and a wound. I’ve been so tangled up in guilt, memories, and anger, I couldn’t give Harper what she deserved even if she had wanted me.
Which she doesn’t—not after seeing me kill Siobhan.
So, I’m doing this for me. I’ve been lost in another life, but my time with Harper made me realize that somewhere out there, there might be a woman who accepts me for who I am and can love me anyway.
I press a hand against my aching heart. I thought maybe that woman might’ve been Harper. I thought she saw me and accepted me, but when rubber hit the road, my dark side was too much for her.
No fault. No foul. It would’ve been too much for Yasmine, too. I have no doubt about that.
My hand drifts to my jacket, fingers pressing over the letter in my inside pocket. The weight of it burns against my ribs. What did you want to tell me, Yas?
What did you want me to know?
“Are you still there, boss?”
I’m pulled from my thoughts again and give myself an inward shake. Fucking hell. This whole self-reflection shit is very distracting. “Aye, I’m here. Is there more?”
“Uh… I’m not sure.”
I sit up straighter, my pulse kicking it up a notch. “What? What is it? Spit it out.”
Drake hesitates and that hesitation alone sets every hair on my body on edge.
“She, uh…” he clears his throat. “She got this look, boss. After she found those lists. All proud one second and then quiet the next. Sad. Real quiet.”
My heart drops.
“And then she asked me to set up a meet with Tag.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “ What? Why?”
“I don’t know,” he says quickly. “It wasn’t my place to ask. She just said she needed to talk to him.”
Blood thunders through my veins, anger surging through every cell in my body. “And? Did you call Tag?”
“I did. Tag got to the house about half an hour ago. He told me to leave them, so I did.”
Silence stretches between us, taut and dangerous.
I sit frozen in the driver's seat. Why did Harper want to speak to Tag? Does she want to leave? Go back to Liverpool to investigate the list? Would Tag help her? Would he talk to me first?
Turning the keys in the ignition, the engine roars to like. I shift into gear and the screech of my tires echoes off the buildings all around me.
Fucking hell.