Chapter 6 Declan
DECLAN
Callum is pacing in front of the long dining room table like he owns the air in the room. Maybe he does. Being the firstborn Killaney comes with a crown none of us asked for.
"We lost another shipment," he says, taking a sip from his glass. "Third in two months. That's not a coincidence."
The family conference room feels too stuffy, even without the old man.
"Then what is it? Because I'm handling my end. East Coast distribution is cleaner than it's ever been."
"I'm not saying it's your fault," Callum says. "I'm saying we've got a problem."
"Do we?" I ask, leaning forward. "I mean, shit happens."
Callum slams his palm on the table. "Yes, we do, Declan. And who the fuck is ballsy enough to come after us, huh? This family hasn't suffered shipment losses like this since 2017."
I consider what he said. A stat I maybe should have known, but didn't. "Okay, so we've got a rat," I say, finishing my drink. "Find it. Kill it. Problem solved."
"It's not that simple," Keira says, chiming in. "The shipments were hit on three different routes, so that's three different crews. Nobody knew all those details except us."
Callum rubs his face, frustrated. "I've got men doing recon at the docks, more eyes on the warehouse. Nothing. No footprints. No trace. Whoever's hitting us knows how to disappear."
"What's Dad think?" I ask.
The room goes silent for a moment.
"He's not himself," Callum finally offers.
"What does that mean?" Keira asks.
"Last week he completely forgot who we were meeting with, and yesterday, I saw him cough blood into his napkin at dinner. He tried to hide it, but I saw. He said it was nothing. Then left."
I stand abruptly. "I'm sorry, so what are you saying?"
"Yeah, Callum, did you call Dr. Mills?"
He shakes his head. "Mom did. He's having testing done now," he says and takes a drink. "That's why he's not here."
"Oh, fuck Dr. Mills." I pace the length of the table. "He's been giving the same six-month prognosis for two years now."
Callum watches me, his eyes giving away nothing. "Maybe, and like always, we need to consider all possibilities. And more importantly, we need to secure our operations before we lose more product and more men."
I stop at the window, looking out at the Boston skyline that feels like it belongs to us. To the Killaneys. We've bled for every inch of this city.
"Well, like you said. Who the fuck would be dumb enough to come at us?"
Neither of them answers. I turn back and look at my sister, and then both of us look at Callum.
"Is there something you aren't telling us?" Keira asks.
"No, that's the rule between us. All or nothing. You're here, so it's all," he says and turns to me. I speak before he does.
"I'll look into the shipments," I say. "Is there anything I have to work with besides lost inventory?"
Callum thinks for a moment. "The last hit, the driver was found with a black feather in his hand. I don't know if that means anything, but…" he trails off, sipping his whiskey.
"Wait. Did you say feather?" Keira asks, leaning forward, confused.
Fuck. My stomach drops. Just like Knox.
"Could be coincidence," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Maybe, but when have you ever believed in coincidence?" Callum asks.
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair. "I need some air."
"Declan, wait, I —" Keira says.
"Like I said. I'll look into it," I say, cutting her off.
I slam the door harder than necessary on my way out.
The gym smells of sweat, disinfectant, and rubber mats. Home. More than any mansion or safehouse, this is where I feel like myself.
It's late, which is how I like it. No idiots trying to impress their girlfriends or shoot TikTok’s while swinging five-pound weights like they're training for war. Just the regulars now who have special access, men who bleed for sport and work for pain.
I change and wrap my hands slowly, like a calming ritual as my mind races. Black feather. Just like the one stuffed in Knox's mouth. Her, and now my father's health. The last is too much to think about right now.
The punching bag swings with the first jab. I follow with a cross, then a hook. The impact radiates up my arms. I need this. I start bobbing and weaving, and before I know it, I'm sweating.
The cut above my eye starts to itch, and I pat the area with my gloved hand a few times to calm it down. It's healing nicely, but not without constantly reminding me of the day I saw her.
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me pause mid-combination. In the back by the storage closet, I catch a glimpse of dark hair, a woman's profile. She's kneeling over a duffel, rummaging through it.
I watch her as she stands and sorts through what looks like a medical supply cabinet. I don't think she's noticed me.
I don't know what the hell she's doing here tonight. Maybe she's stocking for the next fight. Or maybe she's fucking haunting me on purpose.
I throw another punch, harder this time, making sure the heavy bag swings far enough to catch attention. She doesn't look up.
For the next few minutes, I demolish the bag, techniques getting sloppier as frustration builds. Each time I glance toward her, she's still there, determinedly ignoring me. Stacking gauze. Acting like I don't exist.
She grabs a container from a high shelf and shifts her weight to reach it, the edge of her shirt riding up to reveal a pale strip of skin above the waistband of her jeans.
My punch misses.
The bag swings wide, and I stumble half a step.
"Fuck," I curse and reset, hitting harder this time.
Finally, she looks at me and looks away.
That's how she wants to play it.
I tear off my gloves, tossing them aside. The wraps come next, unraveling in angry pulls. My knuckles are already raw from days of fighting and training.
I approach the heavy bag again. Bare-fisted.
The first impact sends pain shooting up my arm. The second splits the skin across my knuckles. By the fifth punch, blood smears the black leather.
I hit the bag again. Blood drips onto the floor.
One more punch. Hard enough that I feel a sting.
"Fuck!" I shake out my hand, watching blood spatter across the mat.
"Jesus Christ," she says from behind me. "You're bleeding."
I smile without turning.
She storms over. "Why the hell would you punch the bag bare-fisted?"
I turn to look at her. "Felt right."
She glares at me, grabs my wrist, and turns it to examine the damage.
"Come on," she says sharply, dragging me toward the exam chair. "You can't bleed all over the place. I'll fix you. Again."
I let her pull me, smiling to myself the whole way.
The door swings shut behind us, and I leave a trail of red droplets in my wake.
She pulls up a tray, sets my hand on it, and starts wiping away the blood.
"You shouldn't hit bags that hard if your hands aren't wrapped," she says, turning to grab something.
"You lecturing me on training?"
"No, do whatever you want," she says, slamming a drawer closed. "Just don't make a mess all over my floor."
I hold up my hands, blood slowly running down. "Can you?"
She sighs, clearly annoyed.
I lean back in the chair, eyes on her face. "Why'd you ignore me out there?" I ask, testing her.
"Because I was working," she says, not looking up. "And because I didn't want to talk to you."
"You're a medic at a boxing gym. Treating fighters is your job."
"Treating injuries is my job," she corrects. "Not entertaining bored mafia princes who are trying to get a rise out of me."
"Who said I was bored."
"Your hands. It's self-inflicted. Deliberate. You took your gloves off."
I lean in closer. "So you were watching me."
"No," she says, starting to wrap my hand.
"Then how did you know I was wearing gloves first and then took them off?"
She doesn't answer. I study her face as she works. This close, I can see the faint shadows under her eyes, the tiny freckle just below her left eyebrow, the way her lips press together in concentration.
"Do you still think I want to hurt you?" I ask.
Her eyes look up to meet mine, then back to my hand. "Maybe. I think you blame me for something I couldn't control."
"Couldn't control?" I repeat. "Well, my sister seems to be on your side on that. Me? I'm not sure yet."
"Your sister gets what you don't," she says as she starts to wrap my other hand.
"That so?" I ask, looking at her. "And you're innocent in all this? Ghost Angel?"
Her hands pause for just a fraction of a second before resuming their work. "Where did you hear that name?"
"I have my sources." I watch her face. "They said you can save anyone. That you work miracles."
"Anyone can be saved," she says, reaching for something. "If you're allowed to try."
"Is that your excuse?" I ask.
She wraps the gauze around my knuckles tightly. "It's not an excuse. It's the truth."
"Do you ever think about the ones who’ve died, Ghost Angel?"
She secures the gauze with medical tape. "I remember all of them, Declan. All the ones I couldn't save. And stop fucking calling me that."
She knows my name. Interesting.
"What should I call you?"
"My name."
"Which is?"
She cuts the tape and walks over to the corner of the room. "Thought you had your sources."
I flex my hands, feeling the restricted movement through the gauze and tape.
"I want to hear you say it."
She sighs and presses her lips together for a moment. "Lyra. That's my name. And you're done. You can go."
I nod and stand and just stare at her.
"I don't know what you want from me," she says.
And in truth, neither do I.
I look at my hands.
"You're good at this," I say.
"It's all I've got. Just don't make a habit of getting hurt."
Her eyes hold mine for a second longer than they should.
I nod and leave with more thoughts than I came here with.