Chapter 15
Hospitals always smell the same—bleach and sorrow, like someone bottled the ache of every goodbye and pumped it through the vents.
Time moves wrong inside places like this.
Either it crawls in agonizing inches or slips past in a blur, never in between.
I pull the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my forehead and step up to the reception desk, already feeling the weight of eyes I can’t risk catching.
“Can I help you?” the nurse asks. Her voice is polite but detached, like she’s said those words a thousand times today already.
Her gaze flicks to the visitor log, scanning. “Name?”
The pause is short but it feels like a lifetime. I swallow, let the alias sit on my tongue like it belongs to me. “Dani Rivera.”
I’ve practiced it enough. Memorized the backstory until it’s second nature. Distant cousin. Lives out of state. Flew in as soon as the news hit. I even picked up a sympathy card from a gas station rack, something small to make the lie believable if anyone bothers to ask.
She studies me for a moment longer than I like, then hands over a sticker badge with D. Rivera scrawled across it in rushed handwriting. “Take the elevator to the eighth floor. ICU’s to the left.”
I nod and walk away, every instinct screaming not to glance over my shoulder. The elevator ride feels endless, the walls pressing closer the higher I go. When the doors finally open, the smell is sharper here—more sterile, more final.
I follow the signs until I reach the room. 718. My pulse is a drum in my throat. I hesitate, my hand on the doorframe, and knock softly before pushing it open.
And then I see him.
The man lying in that hospital bed doesn’t look like my brother.
Declan was larger than life, broad-shouldered and unshakable, the kind of man who could scoop me up and toss me over his shoulder during water fights at the lake until I shrieked with laughter.
This man looks hollowed out, as if someone carved away half of him and left only the shell.
His skin is pale, sallow under the harsh hospital lights.
Thin tubing curls beneath his nose and loops around his ears, feeding him oxygen in soft, steady streams. Bandages wrap tight around his torso, and the hand I used to cling to as a child lies limp and lifeless against the sheet.
The doorway steadies me when my legs threaten to give. I grip the frame until my knuckles ache, trying to reconcile the image in front of me with the brother who never let me fall.
Movement pulls me back. Kelly rises from the chair beside his bed, her brown curls yanked into a knot that’s already loosening, her blouse wrinkled, her eyes rimmed in red.
Exhaustion hangs on her shoulders, but when she sees me, something sparks.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, and before I can prepare for it, she’s crossing the room and wrapping me in her arms.
I stiffen, caught off guard by the sudden embrace, but I don’t push her away. There’s too much grief between us for that.
“You came,” she whispers against my shoulder.
I nod once when we pull apart. My voice is strained. “Only for him. What happened, Kelly?”
Her gaze drifts back to Declan, softening with a kind of helpless fury.
“I told him not to go. He wasn’t under protection anymore.
He told your father he wanted out, that he wanted a life away from all of this.
Lachlan gave him one last mission, promising him freedom if he did it.
And this…” Her voice cracks. “This is what it cost us.”
“God damn it.” The words scrape out of me, bitter and sharp. “My father isn’t a man you can trust.”
Her shoulders sag as she looks at her husband again, tears sliding down her cheeks. “We know that now.”
The guilt tastes like metal on my tongue. “Kelly, I’m so sorry. Declan deserved better than this.” My throat tightens as I point toward him, broken and still. “Can I talk to him?”
She nods and gestures to the chair beside the bed, her hand brushing the air in quiet permission. “I’ll give you a minute.”
When Kelly slips out, the room shrinks around me.
The only sounds are the steady beeping of machines and the soft, uneven pull of Declan’s breathing.
I lower myself into the chair, every movement heavy, and stare at the hand lying limp on the bedspread.
For a long moment, I hover, afraid that touching him will make it real, and will confirm just how fragile he’s become.
Finally, I curl my fingers around his, the familiar shape of them both comforting and devastating.
He doesn’t stir.
My throat closes tight, but I force sound through it. “Hey, D.” The words scrape out, barely more than air. I clear my throat, try again. “I’m here. You got yourself shot and scared the hell out of everyone, so…good job with that.” My attempt at levity falls flat in the sterile quiet.
Still nothing. His hand stays heavy and unresponsive in mine.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” I whisper, pressing my palm over his. The apology feels too small, too late, and the guilt that’s been gnawing at me for years tears deeper into the raw edges of my chest.
My eyes burn, and I blink hard, but it doesn’t stop the sting.
I haven’t cried since the night I climbed out of that window seven years ago—not when I slept in the backseat of a broken-down car in Kansas, not when I opened a death threat in L.A.
from a man who thought I owed him my body, not even when I found out my mother’s grave had been left to crumble into moss and anonymity.
I didn’t cry then. I wouldn’t give anyone that power.
But now? Sitting here with the one person who ever loved me without condition, I feel my ribs strain against the dam I built. Every memory of Declan—braiding my hair, sneaking me out to the lake, swearing he’d protect me—presses against the cracks until I can barely breathe.
“I shouldn’t have left you in that house alone,” I choke out. “I should’ve taken you with me. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve—” The words break apart, shredded by regret.
And then, the smallest twitch. His fingers shift under mine, almost imperceptible, but enough to stop my heart cold.
“Declan?” I lean forward, clutching him tighter, desperate for more. “If you can hear me, I swear to you, I’m not leaving again. Just hang on. Please. Don’t leave me. I can’t lose you too.”
I don’t hear the footsteps behind me until they’re too close.
Too steady. Too sure. There’s a rhythm to them and it sets every nerve in me on edge.
By the time the voice follows, the hairs at the back of my neck are already standing.
I was too overcome with the sight of Declan to remember that you never sit with your back to a door.
“Are you a member of the family, sweetheart?”
Thick Southside drawl. Equal parts charm and threat. The kind of voice that used to crawl down the back halls of clubs and alleyways when business was handled off the books. My lungs lock tight. That voice drags me straight out of the present and into a past I’ve spent years trying to bury.
I turn slightly, dread twisting sharp and hot through my gut.
Joey Garrity.
Fuck.
One of my father’s old enforcers. Crew muscle—never the brains, but loyal. Brutal. Sharp enough to remember a face even after years, even after layers of reinvention. The kind of man who’d never forget the boss’s daughter, no matter how much she tried to disappear.
He squints at me, suspicion narrowing his eyes, and I feel it—every second of his scrutiny a spotlight burning through my skin. My pulse hammers against my ribs, but I force my shoulders to stay loose.
“Yeah,” I say, sliding a faint smile into place, one I don’t feel. “Distant cousin of his wife.” I flick my hand in the vague direction of the hallway, casual, dismissive. “Heard about the shooting. Flew in this morning.”
Joey steps closer, close enough that I catch the stench of stale coffee and menthols clinging to his jacket. His gaze never wavers. “Where from?”
“San Diego.” The lie rolls off my tongue smooth as whiskey. “Name’s Dani Rivera.”
Something flickers across his face then—uncertainty, doubt. The moment stretches, razor thin, and I grip it like a lifeline, praying he lets it drop. But then his head tilts, the corner of his mouth twitching as if recognition is clawing its way to the surface.
“You look familiar,” he mutters.
I shrug, keeping my expression bland, my smile steady. “Maybe I just have one of those faces.”
But his eyes narrow further, and I see it hit him—the glint of recognition sparking in the dark.
“Nah,” he says, voice weighted with certainty now. “It’s the eyes. Got that Irish fire.”
Goddamn it.
I force a soft laugh, taking a careful step back, praying he doesn’t see the tension coiled down my spine. “Could be. But I’m heading out—early flight back.”
He shifts forward, subtle but enough to make every hair on my arms rise. The air between us sharpens.
“What’d you say your name was again?”
I don’t give him the chance to dig deeper.
I pivot, smooth and steady, walking like I own the hallway instead of running from it.
Every step is a countdown. Don’t rush. Don’t break.
Don’t let him smell fear. I don’t let my stride quicken until I’ve cleared the corner, and I don’t breathe until the elevator doors finally slide shut in front of me.
Then I collapse against the wall, palms braced, chest heaving like I just sprinted the whole damn city. My pulse is a drum in my ears, sweat prickling at the back of my neck. That was way too fucking close.
I can’t afford to be seen again—not by anyone who knew the girl I used to be. Not until I know what I’m walking into, not until I understand if this hit on Declan was just another street war flare-up or something far darker. Because deep down, I already feel it gnawing at me.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t bad timing or a careless slip. Someone knew he’d be vulnerable. They knew where he’d be, when he’d be there, and that he wouldn’t have protection. That kind of precision doesn’t just happen.
Someone still wants the Kavanagh name erased. And if I don’t move fast, they’ll bleed it out of Chicago—one sibling at a time.
I step into the hotel room and close the door behind me, the muffled city noise still seeping through the walls like a pulse I can’t escape.
Chicago. The pace is the same—fast, relentless, unforgiving—but I’m too wrung out to care.
Seeing Declan hollowed out in that bed drained me more than I want to admit.
But now there’s no room left for grief. Now it’s about survival.
I toss my bag onto the bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes, a sigh escaping before I can stop it.
Coming back here wasn’t just dangerous—it was expensive.
Uprooting myself overnight gutted what little cushion I had left, and I need cash, fast. But it has to be the right club.
I need somewhere discreet enough to keep me out of Lachlan’s orbit but exclusive enough to pull in real money. In and out, no questions asked.
Dropping onto the edge of the mattress, I pull out my phone and run a quick search for men’s clubs in Chicago.
No time to waste with trial and error, not when every shadow could be carrying Brotherhood eyes.
The screen fills with names—some that reek of desperation, some that might pass if I had no other choice. Then one jumps out at me.
Monarch.
I click the link, and the page blooms to life in black and gold. Sleek. Luxurious. Not the kind of place that caters to sloppy drunks or corner hustlers, but to men who want to spend money just to prove they can. Exactly what I need.
The photos confirm it: women on stage in high-end lingerie, poised and unshaken under the lights, her confidence as much of a weapon as her body. Men rain bills at her feet, greedy for a taste of something they’ll never have. Everything about it screams power and money—and money is survival.
Perfect.
The number glows at the bottom of the Monarch site, and I dial without a second thought. The line rings twice before a woman answers, her voice crisp and efficient, the kind that’s used to handling the same request over and over.
“Monarch. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” I say, pitching my tone casually. “I was wondering if you’re hiring dancers.”
There’s a pause—paper shuffling, maybe keys clicking. When she answers, her tone is practiced but not unkind. “We’re always looking for talent. What’s your experience?”
I sink back against the bed, the phone warm against my ear, and let the answer roll out smoothly. “I’ve worked in a few clubs,” I say. “But I’m looking for somewhere more exclusive. Somewhere with a clientele worth my time.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Monarch is exclusive. We cater to select clients. I can schedule you for an interview. Are you available tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works,” I reply, steady. “What time?”
She gives me the details, her voice clipped with efficiency, and just before I can end the call, she adds, “Be prepared. We expect the best.”
A small laugh slips from me, sharp and certain. “Understood.”
When the line clicks dead, I set the phone aside and let out a breath. Tomorrow, I’ll walk into Monarch with a new name and the same armor I’ve carried for seven years. The shadows will be mine to move through. The money will follow.