Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
New York—12 years ago
Declan was six whiskeys deep when Chris clapped him hard on the back.
“Welcome home.”
Declan kept his gaze on the tumbler in front of him, as his best friend hopped onto the next stool.
“How the hell did you find this place?” Chris asked, looking around the dim room barely lit by neon beer signs on the wall.
“No one knows me here.”
Chris smirked. “That’s for sure. What are you wearing? Did you piss off the housekeeper, and she burned your clothes?”
Declan wore the same jeans, T-shirt, and boots that had been his uniform for the last week. The last thing to let go of. One last hold to the past before he forced himself back into the slick designer world he was bound to. He snorted. Pathetic.
Declan shot the remains of his drink, and the bartender immediately filled it without a word.
Chris peered at him. “Are you okay?”
“Grand,” he slurred slightly.
“You look like you’re ready to rip someone apart.” Chris’s expression changed. “You aren’t planning on getting in a fight, are you?”
Declan picked up his glass between two fingers and dangled it in front of him. That actually sounded like a pretty great idea. Maybe physical pain would finally be the thing to dull whatever devastation was happening inside of him.
He glanced at the other patrons in the bar, hoping someone would give him an excuse to give into the storm that raged in his blood.
“Dec, I was kidding.” Chris looked worried.
Declan sighed. There were times Seamus’s hot-headed, hit-first-think-later company was preferable. His brother never shied away from a good fight and would understand if Declan took on every fucker in the place.
He bared his teeth at the glass before tipping it up again. Then again, Seamus’s penchant for poor decisions was exactly why the pain rooted deep in his soul would never go away.
“Why don’t we go get something to eat?” Chris shifted to get up.
“No,” Declan tapped the counter, and the bartender refilled his glass.
“You’re too big for me to carry out of here.” Chris chuckled, but his worry rang through the sound.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Dec, you’re my best friend. I’m not leaving you wasted in some dive bar. C’mon. Let’s go back to my place. You can drink yourself senseless there.” He glanced at the bottle still in the bartender’s hand. “Something that isn’t going to poison you.”
Declan had been drinking steadily for the last few days, anything to quiet his thoughts—the knowledge of what could never change. His mind swam in whiskey, but somewhere in his liquor-soaked brain he knew Chris was right.
He sat up straighter and pulled a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. He held them out, and when the bartender reached for them, Declan plucked the whisky bottle out of his hand and stood.
“Passing out in a bar would be irresponsible for a man in my position.” Declan huffed a laugh before heading to the door.
“Hey!”
Declan heard Chris making excuses to the angry bartender, as he pushed open the door to the parking lot and blinked at the sudden light.
“Fuck. Is it still daytime?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Chris groused, jogging to catch up to him. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed, when Declan slumped against the top of Chris’s small sports car, and the whiskey bottle banged the window.
“Sorry.” Declan managed to seat himself in the low-slung seats, even though he had to fold his body in half to get in. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and took a long swig as Chris pulled out onto the road.
“Why aren’t you at work? I called your office yesterday, and they said you hadn’t come back yet.”
“Tomorrow. I told them tomorrow.” Declan didn’t want to talk about work. For the first time in his life, it didn’t interest him in the slightest.
“Drink with me,” Declan slurred when they reached Chris’s apartment. He tapped his bottle against the drink Chris poured for himself from his own bar. “Slainte.”
They drank in silence for several minutes before Chris retrieved a bottle from the bar, poured himself another, and placed an empty glass in front of Declan. Gulping the last of his bottle, Declan set it down with a clatter and sighed when Chris immediately filled his glass.
“Did something happen in Ireland?”
Declan locked his back teeth against the image of laughing, sapphire eyes and a perfect smile currently torturing his brain. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head.
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No.” The weight of what he’d lost sank onto his chest, the pressure unbearable. “Is it your dad? I know he was pissed about you going to Dublin,” Chris said carefully.
Declan snorted but shook his head.
“Did Seamus’s problem not work out?”
Declan didn’t share with either Chris or his siblings exactly what his brother had done before he left. He wanted to talk to Rose. He could tell her anything.
But he couldn’t.
She was gone.
He was alone.
“Dec?” Chris hesitated. “I get that you don’t like talking about your family in Ireland, but… I’m going to be honest…. You look awful. Literally the worst I’ve ever seen you.” He took a breath. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I understand more than most about the pressures of your life.”
Declan squinted at his friend through blurry eyes. Chris was right. Because of Dr. Keller’s relationship with David Bloom, and their own friendship, Chris had a front row seat to the toxic dysfunction of the Bloom family.
“You can trust me,” Chris said quietly, eyes earnest.
Declan still hesitated, staring at his friend. Finally, he heaved an enormous sigh. “It all went to shite.” He took the glass and leaned back on the cushion, resting the glass on his knees. His eyes focused on the dark amber liquid. “You know about my mother’s family... the bars. What you don’t know is there are other less legitimate sources of income… more complicated branches of their business.”
Chris’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Guns, drugs, protection, smuggling… you name it. If there is a way to make money, the McGrath’s have a piece.”
Chris’s eyes grew huge on his face. “Do you mean like the mob?”
Declan leveled a look at his friend, not answering the question, and took another sip. “Seamus’s father’s family is in a similar line of work… but not at the same level.”
Chris’s brows knit. “Was that the trouble he was in?”
“Seamus has never had a proper position in either family. Between him and his cousin Padraig, they’ve pissed off all kinds of important people. I was there to bail him out again, but it wasn’t enough this time. I suppose I knew inevitably the lines would blur for him, and he’d be more of a front-line soldier.” Declan gulped his whiskey to drown his anger at his brother’s stupidity.
“What are you saying? If he is a member of the family, why doesn’t he have a position?”
“My mother is the youngest of seven, so she was never involved with the true day to day of the business. Seamus’s father was close to the Riordan action but not a decision maker. Seamus has had a hard time reconciling the two sides of his blood.” Declan huffed a sad laugh. “He so desperately wants to make a name for himself. Now he has.”
When Chris opened his mouth with another question, Declan took another gulp. “Only Seamus could have fucked it up this bad and ruined me along with him.”
“You aren’t making any sense.”
“Seamus used our uncle’s name, and brokered...” Declan waved his hand, the whiskey making the words hard to find. “An agreement. But our uncles cut him loose after his last disaster, and the Albanians figured out Seamus was promising something he couldn’t deliver. Not the kind of people you want angry with you.”
Declan rubbed absently at the ache in his chest. “I wasn’t supposed to be there, but at the last minute, Padraig had food poisoning, and Seamus thought I’d work as a stand in.”
“You just have to stand there,” Seamus begged. “I need your size. Spread those shoulders of yours and look menacing. It is a simple exchange.”
“Seamus, you said you’d take the job ? —”
“Please.” His brother interrupted. “Don’t make me go alone.”
Every fiber in his body told Declan it was a bad idea. The exact thing his father feared. That his loyalty to his Irish family would put the Bloom Empire, and his own life, at risk. But raw and reckless from leaving Rose only an hour before, and faced with his brother’s panic, he caved.
It would be better if he were there, he’d rationalized. Seamus had a temper, and easy as the exchange was supposed to be, Declan might need to remind his older brother to stay calm.
The drive north to Dublin had given Declan time to think. Looking at his watch, and knowing Rose’s plane was taking off, his heart rebelled at the idea of her being gone.
Why couldn’t they be together? What was the point of being Declan Bloom if he couldn’t have whatever he wanted? He’d find Rose, explain his deception. They would make it work. He would keep her.
It was obvious something was off the minute they entered the empty pub that night. The Albanian contingent was already there, but so were three Russians, easily identifiable by their tattoos.
His body on high alert, Declan met the eyes of the youngest of the Russians, easily ten years younger or more than his companions. There were no visible tattoos across his knuckles, so Declan wasn’t sure what his position in the group was. Intelligent gray eyes met his, and in that stare, Declan saw the same unease he felt.
Ten minutes later, when the Albanian who had been speaking with Seamus, suddenly turned and plunged his knife between Seamus’s ribs, it took them all by surprise.
Declan had been in his share of fights, both in the family pubs and on the rugby pitch, but it was the first time his life hung in the balance.
One heartbeat, he was pulling his brother back away from the knife before the next strike could connect. On the next beat, pain blazed across his ribs, and his gun was out and firing. Before the man’s body hit the ground, someone yelled in a thick Russian accent, “No witnesses.”
Then mayhem.
The next part of the nightmare Declan clearly remembered was the older Russian barking orders, and the younger man shoving Declan toward the door. Declan looked over his shoulder, but Seamus, hand clutched to his side, met his eyes with the hardest look Declan had ever seen on his older brother’s face.
“Run, Dec. Go home. You were never here.”
It wasn’t until they ducked into an alley several streets over and leaned against a brick wall, panting heavily, that Declan realized his companion had blood all over him, and that his own side was dripping.
“You’re in trouble now.” Declan heard the young Russian say casually through the buzzing in his ears. The Russian flexed his hand and then wiped a bloody palm against the brick. He cast an eye over Declan. “I haven’t seen you before?” His perceptive eyes studied Declan. “You aren’t a soldier.” He cocked his head. “Are you a Riordan?”
Declan shook his head. “I was doing my brother a favor.”
“Me too… sort of…” He snorted, and then stuck out a blood-stained hand.
“Alexei Kovalyov.”
“Declan Bloom.”
An hour later, Declan sat in a windowless room listening to one of his uncles give him instructions while a woman stitched the wound on his side. The overall message was simple: Never speak of what happened. Albanians believe in blood feud, and if they found out his involvement, they would kill everyone connected to Declan.
His uncle explained in a disgusted voice that Seamus had taken responsibility for Declan’s kill shot. Seamus was only saved from retribution by the fact the Albanian struck first. That, along with a hefty bag of cash, would keep the head of the Koci family happy. It was also helpful that, like Seamus, Dituri Koci was operating without family permission.
Seamus would survive.
As his uncle spoke, it occurred to Declan that he should feel some sort of remorse about killing the man, or for the others who had died in the pub. He didn’t.
The only thought ricocheting through his brain was: he’d truly lost her now. A vicious reminder that his life wasn’t the same as hers. The thought that a connection to him would bring her unhappiness was enough to make him ill. How long before his father’s cutting remarks, or the sharks that he dealt with, turned her love to resentment? She deserved so much more than what a life with him would be.
His uncle continued to catalog all the things Declan needed to do and not do to safeguard himself, but his heart only heard one thing.
She’s gone.
“Holy shit!” Chris’s exclamation yanked Declan from his thoughts. His eyes were wide. “Are you saying you kil?—”
“They erased my presence.” Declan’s lips twisted, aware he had just done what his uncle had drilled into him was the most important thing he not do. “Seamus might have done it for me, but Uncle Iain knew it meant that I owed him.” Declan slumped, staring morosely at his drink. “Even with the money my father paid, I’ll never be free of them now.”
He exhaled a sharp breath and tipped his head back to rest on the top of the sofa. “I almost had it all,” he whispered. “A fucking dream right at my fingertips.”
“Huh?”
Declan raised his head, surprised that it felt ten times heavier than it normally did. The room swam in front of him. “Hubris. I’m Declan Bloom. I can have anything.” A laugh broke from him that sounded suspiciously like a sob. He roughly cleared his throat, eyes stinging. “Leaving her in that airport is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. God, the look on her face. We’d agreed… She has dreams… By the time I was halfway back to Dublin, I’d convinced myself that it could work. I’d tell her who I really was. We would make it work. There is no way that the universe would deliver a love like that, only to wrench it away.” His voice cracked.
Declan lifted his glass, almost missing his lips, and finished the drink. “I’ll never be free of this legacy… my father’s, my mother’s, and now my own. Because while the Albanians have made peace with the McGraths, if they were ever to find out the truth...”
“Who are you talking about?”
Declan blinked at Chris, his lids suddenly too heavy to hold open. “Rose. My beautiful, perfect Rose.”
The next day when he woke on Chris’s sofa, he found his friend watching him from the stool in the kitchen. Declan sat up with a groan, his stomach and head objecting to the upright position.
“Coffee?” Chris sipped from his mug. Declan swallowed past the nausea and shook his head.
He didn’t think he’d ever drank as much as he had the night before. Declan scrubbed his hands over his face.
“Thanks for letting me stay last night. I better get home and get cleaned up.”
Declan pulled his boots on and headed for the door. He never lost control like that, and beneath the alcohol still roiling in his belly was the sense of foreboding. He shouldn’t have told Chris about Rose.
“No problem. It sounded like you needed a friend.” Declan’s hand was on the doorknob when Chris spoke again. “I’m glad you told me about Rose. I’d started to think you were incapable of falling in love.”
Declan managed a tight smile before shutting the door behind him. Fuck!
Making a call from the car, Declan had enough time for a quick shower before the doorman called to notify him that his guest had arrived.
Two hours later, he was on his way to the Bloom Communications headquarters, ready to return to life. On his chest, under a protective plastic bandage, was the white rose he’d just had inked above his heart.
Declan might not be able to have Rose in his life, but he would carry her with him forever.
“See You.”
“Maybe.”