Chapter 13
Declan
The conference room table is covered in files, folders, and books. The fan in my laptop works double time as I scroll through my endless feed of emails and memos. My head vaguely aches and my legs are tired from sitting.
I want to get out of this place.
Sometimes I think working behind a desk is killing me.
But this is my role in the family. Someone has to be the responsible one. Cormac, Seamus, and Finn are all good men, but they’d never be able to handle this job. I know it’s entirely up to me.
That pressure doesn’t make it easier.
There’s a knock at the door and Casey pokes her head inside. “Mr. Doyle is here to see you.”
I rub my temples and wave at her. “Bring him in.”
She returns a moment later followed by an older man. He’s wearing a suit and looks uncomfortable. His hair is streaked white at the temples and he’s frowning deeply as he fidgets at the edge of the table.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Whelan.”
“It’s part of the job. Please, sit down.” I nod at Casey. She quickly exits, leaving me alone with Patrick Doyle.
I’ve known him and his family a long time.
They own a string of small dry cleaners scattered throughout New York.
They’re clustered in my family’s sphere of influence, and they’ve been dues-paying members of our clan since before I was born.
He’s not powerful and he isn’t particularly important, but men like him form the spine of what it means to be a Whelan.
Doyle awkwardly takes a chair and sits across from me.
I can tell this is difficult. Years ago, he would’ve held this meeting with my father back at the house, but those days are over.
Now when I speak with men like him, I bring them into the office so they can see what the Whelan Clan is these days.
We’re not a bunch of thugs on the street. Although that’s part of what we are. We’re not old-school pubs and bars, although we own plenty of those.
But now we’re also glass high-rises, cubicles with legit employees, and a fleet of legitimate shipping vessels all across the East Coast.
“I didn’t want to take up too much of your time, Mr. Whelan, but I had to come in.” He opens a briefcase and takes out what looks like old-school photographs. “Two days ago, one of my locations was vandalized.”
“Did you report this to my brother?”
“Seamus assigned a few men to look into it for me, but they haven’t come back with much.”
“Did they help you clean up?”
“Oh, they were great. This isn’t about that.” He clears his throat and tries to smile. “You know, for all the years I’ve known you and your family, I’ve never had to do this before.”
“I know. You’ve been very loyal. Let us help if we can.”
He nods, cringing as he turns the pictures toward me. “You should see what they painted all over my walls.”
The image shows a basic dry cleaner. It was clearly taken from the front and shows the counter and the long row of clothing hanging from the moving hooks. But my eye’s drawn to the walls.
I stare for a long moment, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
My name is written in red dripping spray paint.
It’s all over, on almost every single surface. My name repeated a few dozen times, some small, others huge. Declan, Declan, Declan. It’s bizarre.
“Did Seamus see this?” I ask softly.
“He did, but he didn’t say much about it.”
“I’m guessing it’s all cleaned now?”
“Yes, Mr. Whelan. But I wanted to show you, just in case you knew something about it. I lost two days of business plus thousands in damaged customer clothing. It’s an enormous blow, if I’m honest.”
“We’ll help cover some of the cost, and I’ll do what I can to help your reputation.”
“I appreciate that.” He clears his throat, shifting in his chair. “It’s just that, this is all very strange. Why would someone write your name on my walls?”
“I don’t know.” I push the photo back to him. “But thank you for bringing this to me. I’ll handle it from here.”
Doyle puts the photos back into his briefcase. I walk with him to the door. We make small talk about my family, mostly about my father. I stay with him to the elevator and make sure he gets on before returning to my little command post in the conference room.
I don’t sit back down. I’m way too on edge for that. Instead, I call Seamus on speaker.
He answers right away. “If it isn’t Declan Whelan speaking from on high. What’s the deal today, m’lord?”
I swear, Seamus can’t do a damn thing without turning it into a joke.
“I just spoke with Patrick Doyle.”
“Fucked up what happened to his place. I had some guys look into it, but nobody has a clue who did it.”
“You weren’t going to mention anything to me?”
He’s silent for a moment. I hear street noise in the background and feel a stab of jealousy.
“What’s there to talk about? It was just some bullshit prank.”
“Prank? Seriously?”
“Come on, what else would it be?”
“They wrote my name, Seamus.”
“Well, maybe, or maybe they wrote his youngest kid’s name. You know he’s got a son called Declan, right?”
I frown, furrowing my brow. “I forgot about that.”
“It’s a common name. I didn’t think it had anything to do with you.”
I start pacing, hands behind my back. “Right now, we have to assume everything’s connected. Senesi’s out there poking around.”
“Come on, you think the Butcher of Milan broke into a dry-cleaning place and tagged it up just to get your attention?”
“I’m not sure what he’s capable of these days.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“And this is Vincenzo Senesi we’re talking about. You’re not being paranoid enough.”
Seamus lets out a long sigh. “I’ll check into it from that angle. But I’m telling you, they didn’t leave a shred of evidence.”
“All the more reason to suspect it was him.”
“I hear you. God, I hope this bastard’s not really back. The rumors about him are pretty fucked up.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well, other than the creepy dry-cleaning graffiti, you having a good day at the office, bro?”
“Goodbye, Seamus.”
“What, no small talk? Come on! I want to hear what you’re having for lunch!”
I hang up on him.
Seamus is right. It does seem strange that Senesi would vandalize a dry cleaner just to send me some vague and unclear message. It’s more likely that whoever did it holds a grudge against Doyle’s youngest son.
Except he was so on edge. He seemed almost afraid, like there was something else he wasn’t telling me. If it was just about his son, wouldn’t that have been his first thought?
Instead, he came out here and set this meeting.
Casey appears again a few minutes later. “Your next meeting got pushed out an hour. Want me to order your lunch?”
I nod distractedly. “The usual.”
“Anything else?” She turns to go.
But I call her back. “Hold on a second. I actually do need something.”
She lets the door shut behind her. “What can I do for you, sir?”
I resist the thrill at hearing that title come out of her mouth. I wish I could smother her moans with my thick cock. But that isn’t very professional.
“From now on, I want you to start sitting in on certain meetings.”
“Of course. You need me to take notes?”
“Absolutely not. These aren’t the kinds of meetings that should be recorded.”
Her eyebrows raise. “You’re talking about… family business?” She basically whispers the last two words.
“The room isn’t bugged. You can talk normally.”
“Right. Sure.” She clears her throat. “Why do you want me around for that stuff?”
“My transition into leadership is coming sooner rather than later, and I think you can help with some of this work. I want you to get familiar with what I do for people.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“I solve problems.”
She laughs like I’m joking. But when I don’t smile, her grin fades. “Seriously? I thought you were a criminal.”
“There are illegal aspects of what we do. Many of my solutions involve creative skirting of state and federal laws.”
“Oh, that makes more sense.”
“I need to keep my family members happy. It’ll help having my pretty young wife around.”
“Now I’m a prop?”
“An attractive prop.”
“No thanks. Anything else, sir?”
“You don’t get to turn me down. I’m giving you this order as your boss.”
Her lips quirk. “Then I quit.”
“Stop being petulant.”
“If you want me around, you’ll treat me as your wife, not as your secretary.”
“Here I was thinking our relationship wasn’t even real. What do you care if you’re some pretty prop?”
She bristles slightly at that, smoothing her skirt. “I guess you have a point.”
“Good. The next meeting, stick around.” I slump back down in my seat. I have an hour break, which means I get an hour to return calls and send messages while I eat. There’s no such thing as actual downtime.
But Casey hesitates before leaving. She looks back at me, and I can tell there’s something more on her mind. I wait her out, hoping she’ll just go, but she doesn’t.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, which is a bad sign. “Something’s bothering me.”
“Yes, wife?”
She flinches and shakes her head. “Don’t call me that.” I only stare at her and wait for her to continue. “Fine, okay, you’re such a prick. But I’ve been thinking about my parents. Some of the story Sheila told me doesn’t totally add up. Like, why were they killed? And how is your family involved?”
“There’s not much else to tell you. I don’t know the full story.” Which is partially accurate. The problem is she’s flirting dangerously close to finding out truths I’d rather were kept hidden. Truths Sheila knows better than to ever reveal.
“But you were alive when it all happened, right?”
“I was in my twenties at the time.”
“Old enough to remember.”
“Your parents weren’t exactly running in my circle.”
“You seriously don’t have anything else to tell me?”
I shake my head slowly, holding her gaze. “Not a thing.”
I can tell that frustrates her. She lingers for a few seconds, glaring at me, before turning away. “I’ll have your lunch brought in when it shows up.”
“Thank you, Ms. Brennan.”
Casey leaves, and I sit alone in the conference room surrounded by papers, and I keep thinking about my name spray-painted over and over again, and what that’s supposed to mean.