17. Declan
DECLAN
Ican't go home.
The thought loops through my head as I walk away from the bookstore, as I climb into my car, as I sit gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hurt. If I go back to that house right now—if I see Bianca's smug face—I might actually kill her.
Not hypothetically. Not as a figure of speech. I might genuinely wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until she stops breathing.
The rage is different from anything I've felt before. It's not the cold calculation I use at work, not the detached efficiency of handling problems. This is hot and visceral and consuming, and beneath it is something worse: the look on Zola's face when she told me to get out.
I can't lose her again. I can't.
But Bianca went to her. Somehow found out about the bookstore, about Zola, and decided the best course of action was to stake her claim like Zola's some kind of territory she needs to defend.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
It buzzes again. And again.
Finally, I look. Three texts from Bianca.
Bianca: Where are you?
Bianca: We need to talk
Bianca: Don't ignore me, Declan
I turn the phone off.
The drive to Stellan's takes twenty minutes, and I spend every second of it trying to calm down enough that I won't do something stupid. By the time I'm standing at his door, I can almost breathe normally.
He takes one look at my face and steps aside. "What happened?"
"Bianca." The name comes out like a curse. "She found Zola."
Stellan closes the door behind me, his expression going carefully blank in that way that means he's already thinking five moves ahead. "Found her how?"
"Went to the bookstore. Told her to stay away from her husband." I move into the living room, needing to pace, needing to do something with the energy crawling under my skin. "Mentioned the baby."
"Fuck." Stellan rubs a hand over his jaw. "Did Zola—"
"She kicked me out." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Told me to leave. And she was right to do it because I should have told her about Bianca the first day I walked into that bookstore. I should have explained everything instead of—"
"You were trying to fix it first." Stellan moves to the bar cart, pours two glasses of whiskey without asking if I want one. "You didn't want to tell her about your sham marriage until you could also tell her you were ending it."
"Lot of good that did." I take the glass he offers, down half of it in one swallow. The burn helps, focuses the rage into something sharper. "Now she thinks I'm some cheating bastard who's been lying to her for weeks."
"Have you tried calling her?"
"She told me to get out, Stel. She screamed it. Made Maeve cry." That memory alone makes me want to put my fist through something. "I'm not calling until I can actually fix this."
Stellan settles into the armchair, studying me with that calculating look that means he's already working through options. "Then we handle Bianca first. Get you free of her, then you deal with Zola."
"How long will that take?" I drain the rest of the whiskey, set the glass down harder than necessary. "An annulment, divorce proceedings—"
"Or we speed things up." Stellan leans forward. "I found out who the father is."
Something in his tone makes me pause. "Who?"
"Dorian Vale."
The name takes a second to register. Dorian Vale—midlevel enforcer for the Morellis, Bianca's family. Works collections mostly, has a reputation for being charming and reckless in equal measure. And apparently stupid enough to knock up his boss's daughter while she's married to someone else.
"How long?" I ask.
"Since before your wedding, from what I can tell. Maybe longer." Stellan picks up his own glass, swirls the amber liquid. "She's been careful, but not careful enough. They meet at his apartment in Manayunk, always when you're working late. Which is every night, so."
"Her family forced the marriage." It's not a question. Bianca never wanted me—she wanted the status, the connection, the legitimacy. But her father saw an opportunity to strengthen ties with the Wolfes and took it, regardless of what his daughter actually wanted.
"Probably." Stellan shrugs. "Doesn't matter now. What matters is we use this."
"How?"
His smile is sharp and calculating. "Poker game."
The game is set for tomorrow night.
Stellan makes the arrangements while I pace his living room, trying to figure out how to explain this to Zola once it's done. Trying to find words that will make her understand that Bianca was never real, that the only thing that's ever been real is what I feel for her.
"It's at The Brass Lion," Stellan says, hanging up his phone. "Back room. I've got Dorian confirmed, and I told Bianca's father we need to discuss some business. He'll come."
"And Bianca?"
"Bring her." Stellan meets my eyes. "Make it look normal. Like you're trying to include her in the family business, like everything's fine between you."
The thought of spending an entire evening pretending makes my skin crawl, but I nod. "When?"
"Eight tomorrow night. That gives us time to set everything up, make sure the right people are at the table." He pauses. "You sure about this? Once you do it publicly, there's no walking it back."
"I don't want to walk it back." I reach for my jacket. "I want to be free of her so I can fix things with Zola."
"If Zola lets you."
"She will." I have to believe that. Have to believe that once I can explain everything—once I can show her that Bianca means nothing and never did—she'll listen.
Stellan looks skeptical but doesn't argue. "Go home. Act normal. Don't give Bianca any reason to think something's coming."
The house is lit up when I pull in, every window glowing. Bianca's car is in the driveway, which means she's home and probably waiting to ambush me with more manipulation.
I sit in the car for a long moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, trying to find the composure to walk inside and not immediately start shouting.
When I finally go in, she's in the living room with a glass of wine and her phone.
"There you are." She sets both down, stands with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I was starting to worry."
"Don't." I keep my voice flat, emotionless. "We both know you don't actually care where I am."
"That's not fair." She moves closer, and I have to lock every muscle to keep from stepping back. "I know things have been difficult between us, but—"
"I need you to come somewhere with me tomorrow night." The interruption is deliberate, cutting off whatever manipulative speech she's prepared. "Family business. Poker game at The Brass Lion."
She blinks, clearly thrown by the change in subject. "You want me there?"
"It'll look better if you come." I force something approximating politeness into my tone. "Show unity and all that."
Her smile brightens, becomes genuine in a way that makes my stomach turn. She actually thinks this means something, thinks I'm finally giving in to whatever future she's imagined.
"Of course." She reaches for my arm and I let her, even though touching her makes my skin crawl. "What time?"
"Eight. Dress nice." I pull away, already moving toward the stairs. "I have work to do."
I lock myself in the bedroom I've been using since the wedding and pull out my phone. It's still off. When I turn it on, there are no new messages from Zola.
I type out a text anyway.
Declan: I need you to know that everything I told you was true. I'm going to fix this. Please give me a chance to explain once I do.
I stare at it for a long time before deleting it unsent.
Tomorrow. I'll fix this tomorrow, and then I'll find a way to make her listen.
The Brass Lion sits on the edge of South Philly, a restaurant that caters to a very specific clientele. The front is all exposed brick and dim lighting, tables filled with couples and small groups sharing expensive wine. The back is where real business happens.
Stellan's already there when Bianca and I arrive. He's at the bar nursing a scotch, and he gives me a subtle nod as we pass. The private room is through a door past the kitchens, down a hallway that smells like garlic and money.
The poker table is set up in the center, cards and chips already arranged. Dorian's there—tall, good-looking in that polished way that probably works on most women. He stiffens slightly when he sees me, then covers it with an easy smile.
"Wolfe." He stands, extends a hand.
I take it, grip just hard enough to make a point. "Vale."
Bianca's father arrives ten minutes later—Frank Morelli, thick around the middle with silver hair and cold eyes that miss nothing. He embraces his daughter, shakes my hand with careful neutrality.
"Declan. Good to see you."
"Frank." I gesture to the table. "Shall we?"
Stellan arranged the seating perfectly. Me between him and Frank, Dorian directly across where I can watch his face. Bianca settles beside her father, still smiling like this is some kind of social event rather than an execution.
Two of Stellan's guys fill out the rest of the seats—Jamie and Vincent, both loyal, both smart enough to know when to keep their mouths shut.
The first few hands are quiet, everyone feeling each other out. I let Dorian win twice, watch him relax incrementally as the whiskey flows and the conversation stays light.
Then I start pushing.
"How's collections going, Vale?" I ask, casual as I study my cards.
He shrugs. "Fine. Nothing exciting."
"Must keep you busy though." I glance up, catch his eyes. "Out late most nights?"
Something flickers across his face—uncertainty, maybe caution. "Sometimes. You know how it is."
"I do." I fold, lean back in my chair. "Though I'm usually working on legitimate business. Not... extracurricular activities."
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. Frank glances between us, eyes narrowing. Bianca's smile falters.
"Not sure what you mean." Dorian tries for confused but lands closer to nervous.
"No?" I pick up my whiskey, take a slow sip. "Strange. I figured you'd be pretty familiar with activities that happen outside of work hours. Off the books, so to speak."
Stellan makes a small sound that might be amusement. Jamie deals the next hand with careful precision, his face blank.
"Declan." Bianca's voice has an edge to it now. "What are you doing?"
"Playing poker." I don't look at her, keep my attention fixed on Dorian. "Making conversation. Asking Vale about his schedule since he seems to have plenty of time for... side projects."
"I don't—" Dorian starts.
"You know what I find interesting?" I interrupt, setting my cards down deliberately. "My wife here—" I gesture to Bianca without looking at her "—she's pregnant. Can you believe that?"
Bianca's gone pale. "Declan—"
"The interesting part is that I've never touched her." I let that hang in the air for a beat. "Not once. Not even a kiss. So that baby she's carrying?" I finally look at Dorian, watch the color drain from his face. "Must be someone else's."
"That's—" Dorian tries to stand but Stellan's already moved, a hand on his shoulder pushing him back down.
"Sit." My voice is quiet, conversational. "We're not done talking."
Frank's staring at his daughter with an expression that promises consequences. "Bianca. Tell me he's lying."
"He is!" She's on her feet now, voice shrill. "He's lying, Papa, I don't know why he'd say—"
"Because you fucked up." I cut her off, still calm. Still controlled. "You came to my bookstore—"
"Your bookstore?" Stellan mutters.
"—and tried to stake a claim on a marriage that doesn't exist. Told someone who actually matters to me to back off because you're carrying my child." I lean forward. "Except you're not. You're carrying his."
I jerk my chin toward Dorian, who looks like he might vomit.
"This is insane." Bianca's backing toward the door but Jamie's already moved to block it. "Declan, you're not thinking clearly—"
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." I stand, and everyone else at the table shifts slightly.
"I know you've been fucking Vale since before our wedding.
I know the baby isn't mine because I haven't so much as held your hand.
And I know—" I look at Frank "—that you forced this marriage without bothering to find out if your daughter would actually stay in it. "
Frank's jaw works. He's furious, but not at me—at her. At the mess she's created, the embarrassment she's about to cause his family.
"How do we fix this?" he asks quietly.
"We don't." Stellan leans back in his chair, the picture of casual ease. "We end it. Annulment, dissolution, whatever you want to call it. You won't even have to call her a divorcee. The marriage was never consummated, there's clear evidence of infidelity, and Declan wants out. Clean break."
"What about—" Dorian starts.
"You marry her." Stellan's smile is all teeth. "Congratulations. You wanted to fuck her, now you get to keep her."
Dorian looks between Bianca and Frank like he's trying to figure out if there's any way out of this. There isn't.
"Papa—" Bianca tries.
"Enough." Frank stands, his expression carved from stone. "You brought this on yourself. You will marry Vale within the month. The baby will be legitimate. And you—" He looks at me "—you'll have your annulment. I apologize for my daughter's behavior."
The formal tone says everything: this is business now, not family. Frank's cutting his losses, preserving what reputation he can.
"Appreciate it." I don't extend my hand. Don't pretend this ends with us being friendly.
Frank leaves, Bianca trailing behind him with tears streaming down her face and Dorian following like a man walking to his execution. Jamie and Vincent excuse themselves quietly, leaving me and Stellan alone in the room.
"Well." Stellan gathers the cards, starts shuffling them with practiced ease. "That went better than expected. Nobody died."
"Not for lack of wanting." I'm shaking slightly, adrenaline finally catching up. "How soon can we get the annulment processed?"
"I'll have our lawyer start the paperwork tomorrow. With Frank agreeing and Bianca's clear infidelity, probably a few weeks." He sets the deck down. "But you realize the hard part isn't over, right? Bianca was the easy problem."
"Zola." I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "Yeah. I know."
"You're free now." Stellan stands, claps a hand on my shoulder. "Or you will be soon. So go figure out how to convince the woman you love that you're worth taking back."
I look up at him. "Any advice?"
"Grovel." He heads for the door. "Grovel like your life depends on it. Because based on the last eight years, it kind of does."