Chapter 13 Declan
DECLAN
Ilean back in the seat of my Rolls-Royce Wraith, watching rain bead and streak across the windshield. The novelty's already worn off. It always does. Cars. Women. Victory. I consume, burn through it, and move on.
Just like the cocaine high that the Wall Street bastards pay triple for, everything good becomes ordinary if you have enough of it.
Except lately, there's one area where the burn's been slower.
At the meeting today, Callum stood at the head of the table, Dad's spot, his face carved from stone as he stared me down. Our father is still sick, which means Callum is acting Don until further notice, but the transition's been happening for months now. Today felt different.
"Dec, I don’t mean to come at you like this, but how are your routes getting hit. How did we lose four million in product and a ship that cost twice that?"
Keira sat beside me, her fingers tapping nervously against her coffee mug, red hair pulled back tight in a ponytail.
She's always at my side during meetings. It's the twin thing, she always says, but really it's the fact that we were allowed to bond, while our older brother was forced to lead.
I told my brother what he didn't want to hear, that I'm working on it.
Thankfully, the Bonventis and Kastaris gave us a pass.
History buys leniency. We helped Enzo Bonventi bury someone, and Keira and I helped Calli with that situation a few months ago.
But one more mistake and it won't matter. They'll want their money.
Either way, it seems like everyone is handling things, doing their parts. And me? I'm bleeding money and hiding evidence.
I still haven't told them about the feather spray-painted onto the hull of our burning ship, or the one found in Knox's mouth in an alley. They only know about the one on the driver Callum told us about.
Fuck.
I lean forward and grip the steering wheel hard, my hands shaking. The feather is eating at me. I should have told Callum, should have connected the dots for him. But something held me back. Pride, maybe. Or the fear if I say it out loud, the whole thing will start unraveling.
I hate being the second son. The spare. The one who gets the scraps of responsibility while Callum carries the family name on his shoulders.
I never really wanted the throne. Not if it meant burying my brother, but sometimes, sometimes I want what he has because I think I could do it better.
Shit, I don't know.
But we're family, so I play my part. The wealthy playboy with the fast cars and even faster women. The underground king. The enforcer with the bloody knuckles who makes problems disappear, pushes pharmaceuticals for the family, all while keeping my smile that hides how fucking exhausted I am.
As my dad says, the reckless son with just enough restraint to be useful.
I crack my neck and slide out of the car.
The warehouse door opens before I reach it. Shane nods once as I step inside. Three men are waiting. Blindfolded. Gagged, with their hands zip-tied behind their backs.
The men who fucked up royally, and now they're going to pay for it.
I check my watch. 8:17 PM.
Cutting it close.
"These the ones?" I ask Shane, my voice firm.
Shane nods. "Anders was on watch when the sabotage happened.
Simon was running security and says he stepped away for a smoke when our visitors arrived.
And Tommy there—" he kicks the third man who grunts, "he was supposed to be looking over the cargo but claims food poisoning caused him to be in the back throwing up over the side, so he didn't see anyone. "
I walk in a slow circle around them, thoughts running through my head.
"You know what this cost us?" I ask, but no one answers. They can't. Their mouths are full of cloth.
I pull my Glock and rest the barrel on the shoulder of the one on the left. He flinches.
"You three fucked up. And you know what happens when you fuck up? I lose money. When I lose money, I get angry. When I get angry..." I pause and press the barrel of the gun hard into the side of a man's head, "people get hurt."
Just as I am about to pull the trigger, I stop myself and step back. Executing them would be too easy.
I fire three shots in rapid succession, one into each man's right knee. They shake and scream through the cloth, and one of them collapses fully to the ground.
"See," I say as I look down and see one of the men has pissed himself.
"Jesus," I say, pointing at it with my gun, looking back at Shane and a few others of my men.
Shane laughs. He's seen worse. We both have.
I check my watch again. Damn. She's probably there by now. Ringside. I can picture the way she crosses her arms when she's bored, the tightness in her mouth when she's pretending not to watch me.
Something shifts inside me at the thought of her.
Fuck it.
"Change of plans," I say, raising the gun again.
Three more shots. One into each of their heads. The screaming stops as they bow their heads, blood starting to pour from the gunshot wounds.
I holster my weapon, watching the concrete turn red. I wanted to draw it out a bit more, but I have somewhere more important to be.
"Clean this up," I tell Shane, already heading for the door. "Make sure everyone knows what failure looks like."
Shane nods, pulling out his phone to call the cleanup crew. "You heading home?"
"No," I say. "Frank's."
"Frank's? It's a smaller night. Only a few fights. You don't usually show for those."
I shrug and turn to walk out. "New talent. Gotta see who's worth my time."
I lie because the truth is simpler, and more complicated at the same time. Lyra will be there.
I drive over to the gym and park. Once I get inside, I scan the room and find her immediately. She's at the edge of the ring, bag beside her, watching the fight with the detached focus of someone assessing potential injuries rather than enjoying the violence.
Her dark hair is pulled back, a few strands escaping and resting gently on her cheek. She's wearing a plain black shirt and jeans.
She looks at me. Just for a second and stiffens up. Then she turns back to the fight like she doesn't care. The dismissal sends a spike of irritation through me.
I settle in to watch, not the fight, but her. The way she winces slightly when someone lands a nasty hook. The way her fingers twitch toward her kit when blood sprays on the ground.
The tournament ends in a little over an hour. I barely see it.
One of my younger fighters took a bad cut across the cheek, and we're in the back by the lockers to have it checked.
Lyra's crouched in front of him now, patching him up. He says something I can't hear. She laughs.
Then he winks at her as his thumb brushes against her skin.
My vision tunnels, and something hot and sharp twists in my gut.
Before I even realize I'm moving, I'm across the floor. I slam him against the locker wall so hard the metal bends.
"You think she's here for you?" I snarl.
He tries to speak, but I punch him. Once. Twice. A third time.
He drops to the ground, blood leaking from his lip.
I grab him, hauling him back up, my hand around his throat. Squeezing.
"You disrespect her again, I will rip your tongue out and feed it to the fucking dogs."
I let him drop.
"Declan!"
I ignore her.
"You won your fight. Take your money and get the fuck out of here. Go," I say, trying to pick him back up.
"Declan," Lyra hisses, grabbing my arm. "Stop it."
The fighter looks between us. "Whatever, man. She's not worth this shit."
It's the wrong thing to say.
I lunge at him again, and Lyra gets in between us.
"Declan, stop!"
One of my men comes up and pushes the fighter out of the room. I turn and look at Lyra.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she demands, storming toward me.
I straighten, adjusting my jacket. "I thought he was disrespecting you."
"No, he wasn't! He was getting stitched up and made a joke! Jesus Christ, you nearly killed him!"
She tries to shove past me, and I grab her. "Where do you think you're going?"
"To go check on him," she says.
"Leave him. I tell you what to do."
She stops and looks at me. "Excuse me?"
"I protect what's mine. If I thought he was disrespecting you, then that's what he was doing."
"Whoa, whoa. Wait, I'm sorry. I am not yours," she says, each word precise. "I work for you. That's it," she says, crossing her arms.
I take a step forward, smelling her scent. "Yes, you work for me. That's close enough."
Her eyes flash with rage. "No, it's not. You don't own me, Declan. No one does. Not anymore."
She turns and picks up her bag and walks toward the door. "Find someone else to stitch up your messes, Declan. I'm done."
"We had a deal," I call after her.
She pauses at the door, not turning around. "Deal's off. Whatever you thought this was, it's over."
Then she's gone, slamming the door behind her.
I stand in the empty locker room, breathing hard. Not from beating the fighter, that barely qualified as exercise. No, this is something else. Something I haven't felt in a long time.
I know if I follow her, I won't stop at just an apology.
Because I'm not sure I could.