Chapter 30
Declan
“He wants what?” I snap at the trainee cook, Pete, who stands there telling me that Lord Aston Hensworth wants caviar and crackers for lunch, “This isn’t a fucking hotel. There is no fucking menu.”
“I told him all of that. He said he’d have me fired.”
I stare at him for one long second, then put the knife down very carefully because if I keep it in my hand, I might start stabbing entitled little pricks.
I push through the swing door and stalk into the dining hall with my apron still on, towel over my shoulder, and enough bad temper to season the whole room.
Lunch service is half done. Students are eating, talking, pretending this place has always functioned normally. It hasn’t. It probably never will. At the far side of the room, near the windows, Aston Hensworth is presiding over his group of snivelling idiots.
He sees me coming and lifts his chin. “Finally.”
“No,” I say, stopping at his table. I grip the lapel of his designer suit and haul him to his feet. “Not finally. Unfortunately.”
His minions go quiet.
“You’re new,” I snarl into his face, “so you get a warning before I ram your head into the nearest wall. This isn’t some posh café in London. It’s a fucking university dining hall. You eat what is made, or you don’t fucking eat. Got it?”
His face goes red under the expensive haircut and polished entitlement. “You can’t speak to me like that.”
I smile at him without warmth. “I just did.”
He tries to pull free. Bad choice. I tighten my hold until his shoes scrape the floor.
“My father donates to this institution.”
“Congratulations to your father. I sit on the Board here, and my girlfriend owns it. Take it up with her. Her name is Dervla ó Briain-Callaghan-Colthurst.”
A few nearby students choke on their lunch. Good. Let them hear it properly.
Aston squares his jaw like he thinks dignity can save him.
I give him a little shake for emphasis. “Do you understand me, or do I need to get the crayons out?”
His eyes flick around the room, looking for backup and finding none worth having. “Put me down.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Yes,” he grits out. “I understand.”
“Good.” I release him with enough force that he stumbles back into his chair. “Then eat your lunch and shut the fuck up.”
I turn to Pete, who is still standing a few feet away, looking like he’s just witnessed an execution. “If he asks for caviar again, piss in his food.”
A few students laugh. Aston doesn’t. He looks like he wants to sue the room.
I head back towards the kitchen, hearing the murmur rise behind me the second I’m out of Aston’s immediate orbit.
Back through the swing doors, Pete exhales. “Jesus.”
The kitchen is hot and loud and exactly how I like it. Pans going. Trays stacked. Controlled chaos. Better than a classroom. Better than pretending I ever wanted anything quiet.
I get lost in the work, which is better than obsessing over finding Troy. He has been elusive, which is annoying as fuck.
As the lunch shift dies down, Cormac strolls into the kitchen, cutting into my brooding over the man I’m dying to kill, so I know Dervla is safe from him at least. “What?” I ask, finishing the prep for dinner time. Lunch time is over, but dinner starts in a few hours.
Cormac shuts the door behind him and looks around the kitchen with open disgust. “How are you not dead in this heat?”
“Because I’m not weak. Why are you here?”
“Had an interesting conversation with Donal Ryan that I want your thoughts on.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t want to go to Dervla yet, and Aidan will just pound Ryan into the ground demanding answers he probably doesn’t know yet.”
“I’m intrigued. Speak, while I bake this lasagne.”
I shove the tray into the oven and slam it shut. “Ryan’s involved?”
“Not involved,” Cormac says. “Fishing.”
I wipe my hands on the towel over my shoulder and stare at him. “That’s less reassuring.”
He moves closer to the prep counter, lowering his voice even though nobody in this kitchen is paid enough to care what we say. “He came to me after training. Said if he finds Troy first, he wants out of three classes.”
“And?”
“And he sounded confident.”
That gets my attention properly. I pull the towel off my shoulder and toss it aside. “Confident how?”
“Not bluffing. Not trying to impress me. Just certain.” Cormac plants his hands on the steel counter and watches me. “He said he has his ways.”
I think of Donal Ryan with his smart mouth, Cork pedigree, and family stitched into enough dark corners of the country that he could probably hear things without asking twice.
“So, what do you want from me?”
“Just to tell someone who isn’t going to go to extremes to hurry this up a bit.”
“You’re very chatty when you’re stressed, I’ve noticed.”
“Never been this stressed, but with her… it’s different. I want to protect her, and this waiting around bullshit is starting to piss me off.”
“Yeah, I know how you feel. Go to Ryan, tell him he has until tomorrow morning to come up with the goods, or he gets extra classes. How’s that?”
He grins. “Now this is why I come to you. You have good ideas.”
I wave him off and get to work on the steak pie, losing myself in the rhythm of the kitchen again. Chopping. Seasoning. The satisfying violence of a good knife through an onion. It’s the only place I’ve ever found that gives me the same clarity as a fight without the blood on my knuckles after.
That’s a lie. I like the blood on my knuckles. But this is a close second.
Pete is quiet beside me, which is how I prefer him. He learns fast and doesn’t ask stupid questions. Two qualities that will keep him employed in this kitchen indefinitely.
By the time the steak pies are in, and the smell has gone from raw to something that might actually convince people this place is functioning like a normal university, I’m almost calm.
Troy Kavanagh sits in the back of my head like a splinter I can’t get to.
When my phone rings, I don’t expect it. “Yeah?”
“Where are you?” Aidan’s voice clips out.
“In the kitchen, obviously.”
“Get up here. Now.” He hangs up, and my blood runs cool.
I pull the apron off and toss it at Pete. “Hold the kitchen.”
He opens his mouth.
“Don’t ask.” I’m already through the swing doors.
The dining hall is clearing out, students scraping chairs back, carrying trays.
I cut through them without stopping. Aidan’s tone wasn’t an emergency.
It was worse. It was flat. The voice he uses when something has already gone wrong, and he’s decided how to respond to it before he tells anyone else.
I hit the campus at a run and burst into the Admin building, taking the stairs two at a time.
Dervla is behind her desk. Cormac is in the corner near the window with that stillness that means his body is already deciding what to do before his brain catches up. Aidan is standing in the middle of the room with his phone in his hand.
I stop in the doorway and read the room in under two seconds.
Dervla’s face is controlled. Too controlled. The kind of flat she gets when she is furious and chooses not to show it.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Ryan came through before I had the chance to threaten him,” Cormac says.
“What did he find?” I ask, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind me.
Cormac hands me his phone and shows me a photo. Grainy, taken from a distance, but clear enough. Troy Kavanagh outside a building I don’t recognise. Stone facade. Wrought iron railings. Somewhere old and expensive.
“Where is that?” I ask.
“Merrion Square,” Dervla says. “That’s the Kavanagh family’s Dublin townhouse.”
“He’s at home as of half an hour ago.”
“Coincidence?” I ask.
“Donal Ryan doesn’t deal in coincidences,” Cormac replies. “He deals in currency. He found this because it was findable. Which means Troy isn’t hiding.”
“Or he thinks he doesn’t need to,” Aidan says.
The room goes quiet for a second.
I look at the photo again. Troy is standing on the front steps of the townhouse, phone to his ear, one hand bandaged where Aidan put a bullet through it. Casual. Unhurried. Dressed in an expensive suit and coat, looking the exact opposite of the loser we all know and hate.
“So this is the real Troy,” I mutter.
“Yep,” Dervla says. “Which means my dad was right about him. He has resurfaced for a reason, and it’s not so we can take another shot at him. He’s moving into position.”
“Romans?”
“That was my thought,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter. I took out Brendan. I’ll take out Troy.”
“When?” I ask.
“This is the issue,” Aidan says. “Dervla wants to call him up and bait him.”
I blink. “Okay, and?”
His gaze shoots to mine as Cormac growls. “That is not happening.”
“Why not? It saves us a trip to Dublin, and besides, she isn’t going to be alone like she was with Brendan… not negotiable,” I say to her, hand up.
“I didn’t say anything,” she says. “But this is the easiest, quickest way. He won’t be able to stay away if he thinks I’m inviting him into a position where he can kill me.”
“Do it,” I say before Aidan or Cormac can disagree. I’m done waiting.
She picks up her phone and dials a number.
“What number are you calling?” I ask.
“The main landline of the house,” she says with a smile.
I snicker. “Nice.”
She puts it on speaker, and the phone rings twice before someone picks up.
“Kavanagh residence.”
“I’d like to speak to Troy,” Dervla says, her voice perfectly pleasant. “Tell him it’s Dervla ó Briain-Callaghan-Colthurst calling.”
A pause. The kind that means the person on the other end is deciding whether to be a problem about it.
“One moment,” the voice says.
Then the line changes. His voice is different. Smooth and unhurried, the voice of a man who thinks he is already winning. “Dervla.”
“Troy.” She leans back in her chair. “How’s the hand?”
A beat of silence. “Fine.”
“Fine doesn’t usually mean fine, but I’ll take your word for it. Are you moving into position to take over the Romans?”
“Now, why would you think that?”
I lean forward, hands on the desk. “Because we know how you think, and right now, this is what you want. You aren’t getting it. You know why?”
“Why?” he scoffs as Dervla frowns at me.
“Because it’s mine. I’m the one in charge of the Romans now. You want it, come and get it.” I press the end call button and straighten up. I glance at Dervla, whose mouth is hanging open. “What? It was taking too fucking long. I dangled the bait he couldn’t refuse.”
“Nicely done,” Cormac snorts. “He will be scrambling now.”
“That was the point,” I say with a smile.