Chapter 17 Declan
SEVENTEEN
declan
Leon has no business calling my wife. We fucking spared his life the other night when he showed up with his bullshit excuses about being worried about Marlowe’s well-being. And now he’s sniffing around again? Does he have a fucking death wish?
“Why is he calling?” I ask again, my voice rough. “For the record, I know you didn’t text him the other night when he showed up at our house. He contacted you. And I don’t believe it was just out of concern, either. I think something else drove him to you.”
That might be a little bit of a stretch, but I need to know if she really believes his bullshit, or if there are any other surprises she’s sitting on, like the dead not-cop’s notebook.
Marlowe blinks up at me, pupils blown, lips swollen, hair a wild mess around her face. She looks wrecked and beautiful and utterly confused.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “I didn’t ask him to come that night, it’s true. I was trying to cover for him because I really didn’t know what he wanted. He never got a chance to tell me. But I swear I haven’t… I haven’t heard from him since then, Declan. Not until just now.”
I hate that I believe her.
I hate that I don’t believe anyone else.
“Maybe he was in trouble. Maybe he needed help. Maybe he just—” She cuts herself off with a sharp sigh. “I really don’t know.”
She’s telling the truth.
Or she thinks she is.
And I hate that I’m questioning everything—Leon’s angle, her mam’s lies, her da’s disappearance, the cartel, this mysterious Mario. Every thread tangles together, and somehow Molly’s right in the center of it, no matter how much I try to keep her out.
I tuck myself away, needing distance before I do something stupid like ask more questions I won’t like the answers to.
I pocket the phone without answering. “You don’t call him back. Not until I say so. Understood?”
Her nostrils flare. “I’m not a child you can order around.”
“Understood, Molly?”
A beat. Then a tight nod.
I don’t like this. Hating her is easier. Wanting her is easier. This sick twist in my gut where I’m half jealous, half suspicious—this shite is new. And I don’t like new.
So I do what I’m good at.
I shut down before I start asking stupid shit, like who she’d choose if she had the chance, and focus on where the fuck Ernie is with my money.
Con, or Ernie, whatever name he’s using this week, owns a string of run-down apartment buildings where everything happens except ordinary people living quiet lives.
He’s been a problem from the start. A beating from Seamus and me that took him months to fully recover from was meant to send the message.
Don’t be late paying the Murphys. If you are, be ready for the consequences.
But Con’s a screwup. And he’ll keep fucking us over if we give him more chances.
So now, we’ll just take his properties and get rid of him.
That’s what I should be thinking about right now.
But all of that pales next to fucking Leon calling my ballerina.
I lead her out of the bar and into the backseat of the waiting car, and then we head home. Her signature scent of roses and peonies tussles with the angst and anger coiling my gut. She doesn’t look at me once. Just walks straight upstairs without a word once we get home.
“Everything all right?” Callahan asks, shrugging into what I call his bone-smashing jacket. It’s the suit he wears when he wants the world to know who’s in charge.
Seems I’m not the only one dealing with payment problems tonight.
“Con didn’t show up with the money,” I say.
“I meant the lass.”
“Trying to work out if she’s a damn liar or not,” I say lightly. “But hey, at least she’s fun.”
I grin, because it’s easier than admitting anything deeper.
Lucie Joy steps inside with my niece and nephew on either side.
I take Tallulah from her and bounce her until she’s full-on belly giggling.
I grin. Still got it. Females of all ages fall at my feet.
Granted, Tally would be falling to her hands and knees and painting the floor with her dinner, but my point stands.
“Me! Me!” Raff yells, grabbing my leg. “Spin!”
I do as commanded, spinning them both until Lucie calls time. She leans in and kisses my cheek.
“Careful now, Lucie Joy,” Cal warns, voice a low, warm growl. “Or I’ll take it out on Dec. I don’t like you getting cozy with him.”
“Ignore him,” she tells me, eyes smiling and worried at the same time. She hands the kids to Cal, and the way he talks to them, so softly and full of love, makes something twist tight in my chest.
Lucie continues to stare at me.
“What?” I ask.
“She’s gorgeous, Dec,” she says.
“Who?”
“Seriously?” Lucie rolls her eyes. “You know I know you best, outside of Callahan. And you like her.”
That’s where she’s wrong. “It’s more of a hate thing, Luce.”
“Call it what you want, I can see it clear as day. But Dec, she’s high society. A dancer. And she’s trouble.”
“I can handle trouble.” I pause, because if there’s anyone I trust to call me on my bullshit, it’s Lucie. “You don’t like her.”
“I do. At least, from what I’ve seen of her so far,” she says honestly. “But girls like that are long-term trouble. So help her, do what you need for the family business, and then…”
She glances at Cal.
“What?” I push.
“Decide if that kind of trouble’s worth it to you,” she says quietly. “Because that kind of trouble is a lifetime commitment. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Good.” She smiles. “I’m meeting Ava and Harry at Dirty Harry’s. I might ask Marlowe if she wants to come. There’s an adoption event with the animals…”
“Ava wants to go to that?” I ask, surprised.
Lucie grins. “Ava’s into pets now. Two of the menagerie here are hers, remember?”
She kisses Cal and they somehow manage to make it look obscene, not bothering to care that there are children present. When they’re finally done mouth-fucking each other, she gathers the kids and heads upstairs toward Molly’s room.
And me?
I head out to deal with Con.
Alone. Because this is my fucking battle, and as much as my brothers disagree, I don’t need three fucking babysitters breathing down my neck..
“You should whore her out. Sweet fuckin’ piece like that.”
The words cut deeper than any blade, and my fist slams into Con’s face before he finishes the last syllable. His teeth scrape against my knuckles and it’s satisfying as hell.
He spits out two teeth and a ton of blood.
The strip club I tracked him to is bratva-owned. Maybe he thought he was safe under the guise of Russian protection. He’s not. One of Ava’s clients runs this place. They rely on her smuggling routes. They rely on us.
According to unwritten rules, we don’t walk in here. If any of our boys want to blow cash in this joint, they can, but if they stir up shit, they’re on their own.
Debts are debts, especially the kind you dig yourself into.
Con spent our money on tits and drugs. Not his money. Ours.
And tonight, thanks to Ava, this place is mine. As long as none of the Russian girls get hurt and I pay for the mess and clean-up, they’ll turn the other cheek.
I roll up my sleeves. The brass knuckles are red and slick, same as my hand. I grab his collar and smash my fist into his face again. His head snaps back. Blood sprays over the sticky table.
“You pay up when it’s due, Con,” I growl. “And more importantly, you don’t talk about my girl like that.”
“I’d rape the shit out of her ass,” he spits.
I grab his hand and slam it flat on the cracked wooden tabletop. Then I pull a knife out of my pocket. It’s a Belfast souvenir, more art than weapon, but deadly all the same. I flick it open and bring it down, hard, slicing into his flesh. The blade lodges into the wood.
He howls.
Everything in me is focused on not killing him too fast. On savoring the question: how slow do I want this to be?
I could end him with one clean flick of my blade. My breath comes hard and fast. My whole body hums.
He feels it. He tries yanking his hand free, but I pull the knife from the table, spin it, and drive it down again…this time straight through his wrist.
He yells louder, reaching for his gun with his free hand, forgetting I already kicked it away when I jumped him.
I fist what little hair he has and wrench his head back so he has no choice but to look at me.
“Next part I slice off is your shriveled dick,” I tell him calmly.
“I always fancied being a butcher. Might be time for some practice. After I’m done?
” I lean close, my breath hot in his ear.
“I’ll bury this knife up what’s left of your shaft and into your belly.
Not for craic. For the shit you spewed about my wife.
Anything you want to say before we get started? ”
“This isn’t you, Declan,” he pants. “You’re…fair.”
“It is me.” My voice is ice. “I’m fair. Not soft, you shite.”
“C-come on, you can’t blame a man for wanting to—” He stops, swallows, thinks he’s found a way out.
He hasn’t. “For wanting to collect the bounty on her head. A redhead? It’s gotta be her.
And that Cinco bastard said she, your wife, wanted to set the cartel up, so he was offering more than the bounty—”
I punch him in the throat, feel the cartilage and bone give way as I crush his hyoid. I twist his neck in one brutal jerk, breaking it.
He slumps over. Done.
Someone behind me starts clapping slowly. “That’s some good craic right there,” Seamus says. “Though he might’ve been worth more alive.”
I grit my teeth. Of course he’s here.
He walks over to the girl cowered in a corner and presses a wad of cash into her hand. In the background, the bearded Russian owner is on the phone, eyeing Seamus’s bundles of money like they’re foreplay.
The girl bolts.
I pull my knife from Con’s wrist and kick the body off the chair. It hits the floor with a dull thud. “What are you doing here?” I ask.