51. Connor
Chapter 51
Connor
The steady hum of the jet does nothing to soothe my nerves. My body is still thrumming with the adrenaline of the last five months—of the blood spilled, of the long nights with little sleep, of watching my brothers fight beside me, proving over and over again why they’re the deadliest bastards I know.
And yet, all of it—every fucking thing we just survived—feels like nothing compared to what I’m about to face.
I pace the length of the cabin, my jaw clenching, fists flexing at my sides. I’m too wired to sit, too on edge to do anything but move.
“Christ, Connor, sit the fuck down,” Nikolai mutters from where he’s sprawled across a leather seat, his head tilted back, a whiskey glass dangling between his fingers. His knuckles are still bruised, a healed cut slicing across his cheekbone, but he looks relaxed. Because of course, he does. The bastard thrives in chaos.
I scowl at him, but I don’t stop. My thoughts are too loud, my emotions too raw. The mission was a success—the Volkovs are gone, their empire wiped off the map, and their allies left pissing themselves at the warning we carved into their bones.
We did our job, we sent our message. But the second I walked into Malachi’s empty room, all that faded into the background. The bloodshed, the victories, the near-deaths—none of it means a fucking thing when I know I’ve lost him.
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands as I grit my teeth. “I’m fucked,” I mutter under my breath.
Across from me, Mihai raises a brow, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re just figuring that out now?”
Konstantin, sitting beside him, snorts and shakes his head. “This is painful to watch.” His Greek accent is heavier when he’s exhausted, his voice a low rasp after the shit we’ve been through.
I snap my glare toward him, but he just smirks, unbothered. The bastard earned his place in this group. He proved himself when he took out Sergei Volkov with his own hands, barely blinking as he wiped the blood off his blade. He’s one of us now, through and through.
Still, I don’t have it in me to joke. Not about this.
“He’s worse than Mihai after Maddy disappeared for a weekend with Chiara on that girls’ trip thing without telling him,” Giovanni adds, stretching out his sore limbs and rolling his shoulders with a wince. His suit jacket is slung over the seat next to him.
Mihai barely glances up. “That’s a fucking insult,” he mutters. “At least I had the decency to get drunk off my ass instead of pacing like a lunatic.”
“Temptin’,” I bite out, still moving, dragging my fingers over my jaw. “But I don’t have time to get sloshed. I’ve got shite to fix.”
“What exactly do you plan on doing when you get to Willow Bridge?” Konstantin asks. “You’ve been spiraling since we left Dublin, but I don’t think you actually have a plan.”
I glare at him again, but fuck, he’s right. I don’t have a plan. I just know I need to see Malachi. I need to fix this. I finally stop pacing and let out a harsh breath before sinking into the chair across from them, my elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
“How the fuck do I fix this?” The words scrape out of me, frustration thick in my voice. I don’t even know who I’m asking. Maybe all of them. Maybe none of them.
Nikolai sighs, and I hear him scratching his fingers over his jaw. “You really want advice from us?”
I lift my head to glare at him. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have fuckin’ asked.”
Giovanni huffs out a tired laugh. “Look, we’re all great at a lot of things. Murder? Fantastic. Torture? Unmatched. Taking out entire families and their allies? Easy.”
“But relationships?” He shakes his head. “Not exactly our strong suit. I had to eat Chiara out in a library—”
“Fuck, G,” Nikolai grumbles and throws his head back at the mention of his stepsister.
“—and fucking chase her down to make her mine.”
Mihai scoffs. “Speak for yourself.”
Gio shoots him a look. “You think you’d still have Maddy if last year didn’t happen?”
Mihai just smirks. “She’s obsessed with me.”
“She’s obsessed with your hair,” Nikolai mutters.
Mihai shrugs. “Same thing.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Can we focus?”
“Alright, alright.” Gio leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “You fucked up.”
“Obviously,” I snap.
He lifts a brow. “And you know Malachi better than any of us. You think he’s the type to let you waltz back in and grovel?”
My stomach twists and I shake my head. “No.”
Nikolai sighs. “Then don’t grovel.”
I scowl at that stupid as fuck advice. “And what? Just pretend like I didn’t abandon him?”
“Not saying that,” Nikolai says. “But from what you’ve told us, Malachi’s not the type to want pity. He’s a stubborn little shit.”
That makes my lips twitch. Even now, when I feel like I might fucking drown in this, thinking about Malachi’s stubbornness—his sharp tongue, his fire—does something to me.
Konstantin watches me carefully, then leans back in his seat, tilting his head. “You ever told him?”
“Told him what?” I ask and frown.
“That you love him,” Konstantin says simply and I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
A memory flickers in my mind—the words I almost said, the ones I was too much of a coward to admit out loud.
Mihai hums, tilting his head to the side. “Do you see now just how badly you fucked up?”
“I fuckin’ know, alright? I just didn’t realize how badly I fucked up until I walked into his empty room and saw that fuckin’ ring sittin’ there like a goddamn grave marker.”
I twist said ring as it sits on my pinky finger. That Claddagh ring he left behind like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
“He didn’t leave it behind because he didn’t care,” Konstantin says, watching me carefully. “He left it because he cares more than he should.”
I freeze at that and Giovanni nods. “That ring was a message, man. It wasn’t him letting you go. It was him waiting for you to fucking do something about it.”
Fuck.
I shake my head, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Then why did he leave?”
“Because he was a fucking prisoner,” Nikolai deadpans. “Because you gave him a ring, told him he was yours, then left him locked up while you fucked off to war for five months.”
I flinch and watch Konstantin leaning forward, placing his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fingers. The silver rings on his fingers catch the light. I know now he doesn’t wear them for fashion. Every piece of metal on him has a purpose—knuckle dusters disguised as accessories. “Did you ever ask him what he wanted?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out and Mihai clicks his tongue. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Look, you’re my best friend, but you have a habit of thinking you know what’s best for people without actually letting them fucking decide.”
I glare at him. “That’s rich, comin’ from you.”
He smirks. “And yet, I learned my lesson.” He taps the side of his head. “Maybe you should too.”
I stare down at my hands, at the faint cuts and bruises, the calloused skin. My entire body is sore, my mind still wired from everything we did, everything we survived. But nothing— nothing —has left me as wrecked as losing Malachi.
I grind my teeth and look back at my best friend. “So you’re sayin’ I should let him go?”
Mihai holds my gaze. “I’m saying, maybe you should figure out what’s best for him, not just what you want.”
I clench my jaw and look away.
The thought of Malachi not being mine—of not having him in my arms, in my bed, in my life—makes me feel like I’m fucking dying. But Mihai’s right. If Malachi’s free for the first time in his life, am I really about to just claim him like nothing’s changed?
No.
But I’m not walking away from him, either.
“So what the fuck do I do, then?” I ask finally, voice rough.
Mihai sighs. “You go to Willow Bridge, find him, and ask him what he wants. No bullshit, no games, no fucking control tactics. Just ask.”
I let out a slow, steady breath, forcing my hands to stop shaking. “I don’t care what it takes,” I murmur, more to myself than them. “I’m gettin’ him back.”
Mihai nods once, like he expected that answer, then he smirks. “Then stop being a little bitch about it and figure out how.”
I exhale sharply, rubbing my fingers over my brow. “Fuckin’ hell, I hate you lot.”
Mihai watches me for a second longer, then lifts his whiskey glass. “To fixing your fuck-ups,” he says dryly.
Nikolai chuckles. “And to our boy finally admitting he’s fucking gone for someone. Now sit the fuck down and stop pacing before I put a bullet in your knee.”
The others lift their glasses, and I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. I grab the nearest bottle, pouring myself a generous amount before clinking my glass against theirs.
“To fixin’ my fuck-ups,” I mutter. “And to not losin’ the best thing that’s ever fuckin’ happened to me.”
Because Malachi is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ll be damned if I let him slip through my fingers.