Chapter 26
Connor
Declan’s jaw tightened as he exchanged looks with Rory. “You send your mother off and her dog to the city until this blows over. Give her the penthouse down at the waterfront. And I’ll send two of our most trusted men to Vancouver immediately. They’ll watch over her sister without making contact.”
He turned to Mia as Rory went in search of his mom, his expression still guarded but softening slightly. “What does she look like?”
Mia reached into her pocket and pulled out a worn photograph. “This is her,”
she said, handing it to Declan. “It’s a few years old, but she hasn’t changed much.”
Declan studied the image of a smiling woman with chestnut hair and familiar eyes—eyes that reminded him of Wren’s. “She looks like Wren and you,”
he observed quietly.
“Half-sister,”
Mia explained. “Same father, different mother.”
Wren reached for the photo, her fingers trembling slightly as she gazed at the sister she’d never known. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about her?”
“To protect her,”
Mia replied simply. “The fewer people who knew she existed, the safer she would be.”
Connor cleared his throat. “We’re wasting time. Declan, make the call for Lily’s protection while we start planning our defense.”
As Declan stepped away to arrange security for Lily, Connor spread the estate blueprints across the large oak table. “Alright, let’s get to work. Mia, I need you to mark every potential entry point Matheson’s team might use.”
Mia moved to the table, her professional demeanor slipping into place as she studied the layouts. “They’ll likely come from multiple directions,”
she began, her finger tracing various approaches. “A frontal diversionary attack here, while smaller teams infiltrate from the east and west wings.”
I watched her transform into the killer she’d been trained to be, efficient and focused. Despite everything, I felt a surge of pride—and something deeper, something I wasn’t ready to name yet.
“Connor,”
Rory called as he came back into the room, breaking my trance. “We need to inventory our weapons and distribute them strategically throughout the house.”
“On it,”
I replied, grateful for the task. As I turned to leave, Mia caught my eye, a silent thank you in her gaze. I nodded once before heading to the secure room where we kept our arsenal.
The next several hours passed in a blur. The estate became a hive of controlled chaos as we fortified our position. Security systems were enhanced, weapons cached at strategic points, escape routes confirmed. Through it all, Mia worked tirelessly, her expertise proving invaluable as she anticipated Matheson’s tactics with uncanny precision.
By nightfall, the initial preparations were complete. We gathered in the kitchen, exhaustion evident on everyone’s faces as we ate whatever we grabbed. The tension remained but had shifted from suspicion to focused determination.
“We should get some rest,”
Declan suggested, pushing away his plate of leftover goulash. “Tomorrow will require all our strength and focus.”
I glanced at Mia, who stood slightly apart from the group, the weight of the day evident in the slump of her shoulders. Despite everything, she’d worked alongside us, sharing her knowledge without holding anything back.
“Sleeping arrangements?”
Rory asked, as if he still didn’t trust that Mia wouldn’t slay us all in our sleep.
Declan’s jaw tightened. “Wren and I will take our room. Rory and Kat, you two stick together. Connor...”
He hesitated, his gaze shifting between me and Mia.
“Mia stays with me,”
I said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “If anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me in the morning.”
No one challenged me, though I could feel Declan’s disapproval radiating across the room. Wren stepped forward, her expression troubled as she approached her sister.
“Goodnight,”
she said softly, her voice carrying a mixture of hurt and longing.
Mia nodded, clearly wanting to reach out but restrained herself. “Goodnight Wren. And... thank you.”
As the others filed out, Mia and I were left alone in the kitchen. She leaned heavily against the counter, exhaustion finally catching up with her now that the performance was over.
“You should have told them to lock me up,”
she said quietly. “It would have made them feel safer.”
I moved to stand beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. “Is that what you want?”
She looked up at me, vulnerability naked in her eyes. “What I want doesn’t matter. What keeps them safe does.”
I reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re keeping them safe. They’ll see that soon enough.”
“Connor,”
she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “It’s going to be hard to walk away from you when this is over.”
“Then don’t.”
I led her upstairs to my bedroom. She paused at the threshold, suddenly hesitant.
“I can sleep somewhere else,”
she offered. “I know this is awkward for everyone.”
“No,”
I said, gently guiding her inside. “You stay with me.”
We prepared for bed in silence, the routine oddly domestic despite the circumstances. When she emerged from the bathroom wearing one of my t-shirts, her bruises stark against her pale skin, I felt that same protective surge I’d experienced in the motel.
“Come here,”
I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding out my hand.
Before she could, a knock sounded on the door followed by, “A word, Connor. In private.”
It was Declan.
I sighed and stood up. “Get some sleep,”
I told her as I brushed my lips over her forehead.
I stepped out into the hall and followed him to the study, bracing myself for the argument I knew was coming. As soon as the door closed behind us, he rounded on me.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
he demanded, keeping his voice low but intense. “Bringing an assassin into our home, into our family?”
“She is saving our lives, Declan,”
I replied evenly. “And she’s risking everything to warn us about Matheson.”
Declan ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. “That doesn’t erase what she was sent here to do. What she might still be planning to do.”
“If she wanted us dead, we already would be,”
I pointed out. “She’s had countless opportunities.”
“Unless this is all part of some larger plan we can’t see yet,”
he countered. “These people are professionals, Connor. Masters of deception.”
I met his gaze steadily. “So was Tomas. He taught us to read people, remember? To trust our instincts. And mine tell me she’s genuine.”
“Your instincts, or your dick?”
Declan asked, his voice softening slightly. “I’ve seen how you look at her.”
I didn’t deny it. “That doesn’t make my judgment wrong.”
He studied me for a long moment, then sighed deeply. “For what it’s worth, I hope you’re right. But if you’re wrong...”
He let the implication hang in the air between us.
“I know,”
I acknowledged. “And I’ll take full responsibility.”
He nodded once. “You best believe you will because if anything happens to my wife, I’ll kill you myself.”
He then reached for the bottom drawer of the desk. “There’s something you should see.” He pulled out a small leather-bound book, its edges worn with age. “This is one of Dad’s journals. Not the black book Matheson is after, but it contains some... interesting information.”
“About what?”
I asked, taking the journal from his outstretched hand.
“About Matheson,”
Declan replied grimly. “And his connection to our family. Dad had dealings with him years ago—before either of us was involved in clan business.”
I opened the journal, quickly scanning the neat handwriting that filled its pages. “What am I looking for?”
“Page 42,”
Declan said. “Dad’s account of a meeting in Ottawa, 1997.”
I flipped to the page and began reading. My blood ran cold as I absorbed the details—a business proposal, a refusal, a threat. The details were sparse, but the implication was clear: Matheson had approached Tomas MacGallan with a proposal involving government contracts, money laundering, and human trafficking. Tomas had not only refused but threatened to expose Matheson if he ever approached the clan again.
“He’s been nursing this grudge for decades,”
I murmured, looking up at Declan. “Waiting for the right moment to strike back.”
“Dad knew he was dangerous,”
Declan said, tapping the journal. “There’s more. Turn to the last entry.”
I flipped to the final pages, dated last year before Tomas’ mind started deteriorating. The handwriting was shakier, less precise… evidence of his failing health. But the message was clear: Tomas MacGallan had known his time was short and had made provisions for what would come after.
“‘The black book must remain hidden,’”
I read aloud. “‘It contains enough to bring down not just Matheson, but half the power structure in the province. I have entrusted its location to only one person—the one who will lead when I am gone.’”
I looked up at Declan. “You.”
He nodded grimly. “Dad told me where to find it the night before he died. Don’t ask me how he even remembered it. Said it was my insurance policy as the new Captain.”
“And Matheson knows you have this information,”
I concluded, the pieces falling into place. “That’s why he wants you eliminated.”
“And now you too, since you’re taking over,”
Declan added. “He can’t risk either of us accessing that information.”
I closed the journal, my mind racing. “Does Wren know about this?”
“No,”
Declan replied. “And she never will.”
“But Mia needs to know,”
I insisted. “This confirms everything she’s been telling us. Matheson’s vendetta is real.”
Declan hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. Tell her what she needs to know—but not the location of the black book. That stays between us.”
“Agreed,”
I said, relief washing through me. “Thank you for showing me this. But I think you need a better hiding spot.”
Just as I finished saying it, he tucked the journal into the front of his jeans.
“Don’t thank me yet,”
Declan warned. “We still have to survive tomorrow.”
As I turned to leave, he called after me. “Connor.”
I paused at the door. “Be careful. Not just with the mission, but with her. People like that—they’re trained to make you feel exactly what they want you to feel.”
I met his gaze steadily. “I know who she is, Declan. I’ve seen all sides of her now.”
“And you still want her,”
he observed, not a question but a statement.
“Yes,”
I admitted. “I do.”