Chapter 19 Declan
NINETEEN
declan
“Look who came, Molly girl, the first in a legion of your exes.” I eye Leon, fighting the fury creeping up the back of my throat.
After all, I told her to invite him.
“Fuck you,” he growls at me.
“Not interested.” Does he think I’m scared of him? Hell, Lola in a bad mood is scarier than this fucking guy.
But Molly steps between us.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I’m not about to let my unwarranted rage undo the good work I’ve done tonight.
“And also, not a very nice thing to say.” I smirk at him. “You can’t blame me for being jealous. Marlowe’s a catch.”
“We’re. Friends.” Leon glowers. “I protect my friends.”
“By disappearing off the face of the earth?”
Letting myself get out of hand is a dangerous thing to do. I can’t. Not here, not tonight. But I don’t like this guy. There’s something off about him.
“I’ve been trying to find her father.”
It’s the perfect opening about this elusive Mario, about the stalker. The fucking note burning a hole in my pocket. About why he was at that shoot-out in Queens.
But I can’t bring any of that up here. That’s a type of suicide. So instead, I trust my instincts.
They don’t trust him, so neither do I. But it does seem like he cares about her, unfortunately.
Molly pushes farther in between us, her hand on my chest, trying to hold me back.
Already we’re garnering unwanted attention, and Cal’s eyes burn holes in my spine.
So I turn up the charm. And although it almost kills me, I back off, just a little. “Marlowe worries about you, too,” I say. “I come off strong because I’m protective and someone threatened her.”
His eyes widen as he whips around to look at her. “What? Are you okay, Marlowe? I knew you weren’t safe here—”
“She’s fine,” I interrupt. “Just a silly note from an overeager fan, I’m sure. I just needed to make sure you had her back. I see you do.” Fuuuck, this fake shit really is destroying me. “We should talk, you and me. And you’re welcome here in our home whenever you like.”
I wrap an arm around her, wishing I’d filled each of her holes with toys before the party.
There are some fabulous double dildo panties I got her that would keep her plugged up and me in control of her pleasure by using an app on my phone.
They’re vibrating dildos, the kind of invention I can get behind. Pun intended.
Leon does his best to ignore me. And I help him out by kissing my fake bride with the kind of thoroughness that should win me awards. Then I leave them alone, but not before I see him slip her a small package that makes my stomach twist and turn.
“Good man.” Cal slaps me on the back.
They’re still close and my leg muscles tighten, as if to say where the fuck are we going?
“I should—” I start.
“You should not,” Seamus says, coming up to us. Ava doesn’t though because she’s hawkishly watching the party—from the inoffensive string quartet Molly talked me into hiring to all the guests, well known to us and not.
They really are the powerhouse couple of crime. And child-free tonight, since they have their nanny watching Natasha. The fact that Ava wanted to name her Natasha isn’t lost on any of us, either. Of course, my assassin sister-in-law would name her offspring after Marvel’s badass Black Widow.
Torin watches Harry just as intently as she scouts the room for wounded mafia doves in trouble. Harriet’s not reckless, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying about her.
I slide my glance back to Leon and Molly and grit my teeth. “I should.”
Ah, it’s all shite, that’s what it is. I force myself to move around the room, letting my brothers do the work.
I shut down any questions from curious people. I do it carefully, and with seeming ease, ready to take note of anything that snags my suspicions. The party’s a mix of regular people, mafia, a few cartel, courtesy of Ava, and the assortment of ballet donors.
While there’s not a single person pushing to find out our entire story, which would scream of intent to take Molly down legitimately, our guests seem curious about us as a couple. Totally natural and understandable. Of course they want to know.
And everything on my end is on brand.
No one’s going to even sniff a crack in our so-called marriage’s legitimacy.
But it doesn’t bring us any closer to the one—or ones—who put the hit on her.
Could be mafia or cartel.
Anyone with a grudge against her family.
Or a stalker, except he’s dead, and stalkers don’t generally put out hits, do they? They also don’t send creepy notes, either.
At least, the dead ones don’t.
But thoughts of Milo Marcello niggle at my brain. Cloris has plans to marry Marlowe off to him, but he doesn’t seem to want her, which makes me suspicious. Sure, he’ll take her, but when he gets what he wants—money, riches, power, gold, a virgin at midnight with super powers—I’m betting he’ll walk.
Like I said, fucking suspicious.
“One of the tricks is to just stand back and let things unfold. That will get you closer to answers,” Tor says as I walk over to him, watching an old school mafia man.
The family name is one I’ve forgotten and one that Cal definitely knows.
The man is not a threat, but even though he lacks in manpower on the street these days because his son’s taken over, he still commands respect and loyalty.
In other words, if he decides to say there’s reason for the hit, the hit will happen.
Callahan invited him because he believes our newer ways can learn from the old ones.
The man is brutal, heartless and fair.
If Callahan was pure Italian and born seventy years earlier, he’d be that guy.
I see the parallels; how he watches and waits.
And Cal’s definitely aware the moment Marcello turns up at the party, even though he’s talking to one of the dancers.
Ire bubbles in my chest and I frown. It’s Topher, the one who dared touched Molly before we got involved after the night at the truckyard.
But it’s not why I’m frowning. I invited some of them. No, I’m frowning because… “Do they look like they know each other?”
Torin shrugs. “Probably. Topher’s from a well-connected oligarch’s loins by way of his mother and grew up surrounded by bratva.” He slides me a look. “I think he’s harmless.”
“Think is a double-edged sword, Tor.”
“So is your thing with Molly. She’s the reason why you didn’t fuck that girl and nearly destroyed that deal three years ago, isn’t she? Why you almost went to prison?”
“I got arrested. Not the same thing.”
Marlowe’s neck deep in a low conversation with Leon. I nod at them. “And him?”
“Not really anything on paper or police file or deep dive dark web, Dec.”
I grimace. “Roark’s looking into him, but so far nothing.”
“Roark plays by different rules. He’ll keep things to himself if he needs to. He’s one of us, but with his business, he has to be protective of information.” he says to me. “Remember that. Pay attention to what he says and doesn’t say.”
“But you found nothing on Leon Garcia or some mysterious Mario with maybe Irish bottom-feeder connections?”
I earn a sharp look from my brother. “Cal told ye to leave that alone, Dec.”
“Just asking,” I mutter.
“The answer’s no. Not yet.”
Not unexpected. The information we have is piss poor. But wishes are still the work of the fucking devil, and I’ve got a few of those gnawing around the edges of my skull.
“If it helps,” Torin adds, “everyone I think could’ve put a price on her head buys our story.
And trust me, I made those photos scream deep fake.
That, plus the rumors Roark seeded, and the London trip you supposedly took, it all lines up.
Your girl wasn’t at that yard. No one’s come forward to say otherwise. This should hold.”
“Covers one angle,” I say, eyes drifting back to Molly. “But not all of them. Someone else is out there. I can feel it. And we still don’t know where her da is, or why—”
“Go for a fucking walk with me,” Callahan says, coming up beside us. “I need air.”
We leave the warm room and cross the street. The other building looms over us, and we stop at the park bench under a tree and a broken streetlight.
My stomach twists when I look around.
If Molly and I had turned up here at night instead of day that first time, whoever’s hunting her could’ve picked us off easily. That’s what I would’ve done.
A lighter clicks. I realize we’re not alone.
Roark is propped against the tree, silver rings flashing as he takes a drag from one of his Carrolls. He tosses the lighter and crumpled packet to Callahan like they’re sharing an old habit.
I breathe in the smoke. It smells like home, like before prison carved lines into all of us. Somehow it calms the storm in my chest.
“You didn’t need to drag me out of there,” I say. “I can handle it.”
Cal’s mouth twitches. He takes a cigarette and tosses the pack back to Roark. “I know you can. But it’s good to let her stand there alone for a bit.”
“More realistic,” Roark says through the smoke. “You should know, the hit’s on hiatus. That’s the current word. But trickle-down takes time. And there are rogues we need to be aware of.”
“I’m not worried about rogues,” I say. “I’m worried about people with real agendas I can’t see. If I nailed the stalker…” I pull the folded note from my pocket and hand it over. “What the fuck is this? It was left on my car.”
“Trouble,” Cal says. “The deep kind. And you’re up to your neck in it.”
Like he’s never swum in the same shit. I roll my eyes. “We’ll move into the other house. Away from the kids—”
“Don’t be a fucking eejit,” Callahan snaps. “You’re safer with us. In our home.”
I bite back the words I’ll regret. He’s doing what he always does. Protecting the family. I’m part of that, whether I like it or not.
Roark exhales a long line of smoke. “What bothers me isn’t the note,” he says. “It’s that someone thought they could walk up to your car and leave it. Knowing who you are.”