Comfort Food & Consequences
Chapter forty-nine
Declan
I’ve had more turkey than a man should reasonably consume in one sitting, an obscene portion of something glorious called candied yams, and just enough sweet tea to drown a horse.
Add to that the growing headache from the army of ponytails Gladys’ daughter, Julia, has knotted into my hair, and I’m not exactly at my sharpest. And yet, I’d still rather endure this than answer Xavier Darcy’s wife, who’s spent the better part of the afternoon asking if I’m connected to the Agassi Crime Syndicate in Italy.
For the record, I was always told to never answer that question—and for my own safety, and my wife's, I'm avoiding eye contact with the short-haired woman at all costs.
Nevertheless, my first American Thanksgiving isn’t nearly as grim as I imagined.
In fact, it’s…good. Warm. Loud and a little hectic, full of laughter, food, and family in a way I hadn’t realized I missed.
And yes, a part of me wishes I could take Marlow home to meet my father and my nonna.
But I don’t mind that, for now, the days begin and end with just her.
I don’t mind that she’s my family now.
Maybe it’s the way she’s finally letting me take care of her.
Maybe it’s the way she trusts me with her secrets, piece by fragile piece.
Or maybe it has everything to do with how our mornings usually start—with my wife firmly planted on my face.
Whatever it is, something about this wild, unexpected marriage, about the way we’ve stitched ourselves together, feels like magic.
Like it was always meant to be. And that, without question, is something I can give thanks for again and again.
Speaking of Senora Agassi, I seem to have lost track of her. She’s been working the room and it’s been torture keeping my eyes off of her. Call it separation anxiety, but I like having eyes on my wife. Knowing where she is and that she’s safe.
I weave through the banquet hall, first finding Tatum with a drink in hand. “Have you seen Marlow?”
Tatum shrugs. “She went that way, I think.”
That way leads me toward the kitchens, where I catch Coach Saunders—of all people—slipping out of the men’s room wearing an apron. Yes, it’s unsanitary, but she also moves too quickly, her smile genuine but too practiced, like she’s covering something up. Wonder what I’ve just missed?
“Everything okay, Coach Saunders?” I ask, brows raised.
She lifts her chin. “Cooking emergency.”
“In the men’s room?”
“Exactly!” She says, shaking her head as she walks away. As if she’s actually just answered my question.
I keep moving, following the quiet hum of voices until I reach the entrance hallway. That’s when I see her. The woman I married and the prick who can’t seem to take a hint.
But she’s not just talking—she’s fighting. Her voice is sharp, laced with all the fire of her bloodline, and standing opposite her is none other than Shaun Kennedy, the bastard with ink on his hands and too much interest in other people’s lives.
She’s tearing into him, the perfect Italian wife in full flight, every gesture sharp enough to cut glass. And it’s killing me not to step in, not to tear him limb from limb for looking at her like that. But I promised her I wouldn’t do anything to expose us. Not until she was ready.
Then I see it.
His hand. Reaching for hers, a cocky smirk carved into his face like he’s toying with her, like he’s flirting.
Something inside me bristles, tightens. My vision narrows.
And then I remember he’s also the reporter who printed the gossip in the first place. He’s the one leaking the rumors that have half this city speculating about my wife. About our secret.
How? Who’s been talking? Not my friends. Not the few teammates who overheard that night at the Supper Club—they’re too loyal, too smart to risk my wrath. No, this stinks of Kennedy digging where his nose doesn’t belong.
And that won’t do.
I step closer, just in time to hear Marlow hiss, “I will end you.”
Shaun chuckles, tilting his head. “You and what army?”
That’s my cue.
“Careful what you wish for, Kennedy,” I growl, my voice low and sharp enough to make him stiffen.
Both their heads whip toward me, startled. Marlow’s eyes flare wide for just a moment—then soften with something else entirely. Relief.
And Kennedy? He pales.
Good.
“This has nothing to do with you, Agassi.” Kennedy tilts his head, smirking. “Or perhaps it does? So many secrets swarming around this team.” His arrogance drips, every word sharpened to wound.
Marlow’s eyes flash. “What the hell do you know?”
Kennedy takes his time, savoring the moment. “Enough. Enough to own the both of you if I wanted. I’ve got tapes—your wedding, your little surprise pop-up visit for the show. All of it.”
Her voice cracks with fury. “How did you even get those tapes?
Shaun just shrugs. “You’ve got forty-eight hours to make a choice. You give me the exclusive—your story, team insider information, everything—stories no other reporter has access to. Or I leak the footage to the wolves.”
He only grins. And then he turns, strolling away like he hasn’t just put a target on his back.
Marlow trembles beside me, her hand balled into a fist. I slip mine into my pocket, already pulling out my phone.
“Declan—who are you possibly calling right now?” she demands, her voice tight with panic.
“My brother,” I answer, my thumb already dialing. “If Kennedy has that kind of access, then he’s connected in ways a normal reporter shouldn’t be. And Niko…” My jaw tightens. “Niko will find out how. And he’ll know exactly what to do.”