26. Declan
DECLAN
The warehouse reeks of rust and old blood, and the man at my feet isn't moving anymore. His breathing's shallow, rattling, but he's still alive. That's more mercy than he deserves after skimming from three different shipments.
I shake out my hand, knuckles split and throbbing, and turn to where Ronaldo is trembling against the wall. He's younger, barely twenty, and he watched me put his partner down without blinking.
"You understand what happens if I find out you're involved?" My voice is flat, conversational.
"I—I didn't know." Ronaldo's voice cracks. "I swear, I didn't know he was—"
"But now you do." I take a step closer and he flinches. Good. Fear keeps people honest. "So you're going to tell me exactly who else knew about it, and you're going to do it quickly because I'm tired and I want to go home."
Stellan's behind me, already calling for cleanup, his voice low and efficient as he coordinates the disposal. He's better at this part than I am—the logistics, the covering tracks. I'm better at the message-sending.
Ronaldo spills everything in under five minutes. Names, dates, amounts. By the time he's finished, he's crying, and I'm mentally cataloging which of our distributors need to be reminded what loyalty means.
"Get him out of here." I tell one of our guys, and Ronaldo practically runs for the door. Then I'm left with just Stellan and the unconscious body between us.
"That was efficient." Stellan says, crouching down to check Tommy's pulse.
"I'm motivated." I flex my hand, wincing at the sting. My knuckles are going to be bruised tomorrow. Zola will notice. She always notices, even when I try to hide it.
"Motivated to get home to your girls." Stellan stands, pulling out his phone to make another call. "You're getting domestic in your old age."
"I'm thirty-one."
"Ancient." But he's almost smiling, that rare crack in his usual cold demeanor. "Go wash your hands. You've got blood under your nails."
I head to the industrial sink in the corner, scrubbing my hands under water that runs rusty before clearing. The blood swirls down the drain and I focus on getting every trace of it gone. Can't go home to Maeve smelling like violence.
"I've been thinking we should throw a dinner party." The words come out before I've fully thought them through.
Stellan looks up from his phone. "We?"
"Zola and me." I dry my hands on my jeans, turning to face him. "Invite people over. Make it a thing."
"A thing." He repeats slowly, like I'm speaking another language.
"Yeah." I'm working through it as I talk, the idea crystallizing. "Last time—when we were together before—we stayed in this bubble. Just us. Didn't integrate our lives, didn't let people in. Made it easy for her to think she could walk away without destroying anything."
Stellan's quiet for a moment, considering. "You think that's why she left? Because you kept things separate?"
"I think it's part of it." I lean against the wall, exhaustion settling into my bones now that the adrenaline's fading.
"She thought she was saving me from having to choose.
But if our lives had been more tangled, if everyone we knew was connected...
maybe she would've seen how impossible that was. "
"So you want to tangle things now." Stellan pockets his phone. "Make it harder for her to run."
"I want her to see what I'm trying to build." I correct. "A life. Not just stolen moments but something real. Where her friends know me, where my people know her, where Maeve has a family that extends beyond just the three of us."
"Four." Stellan says it quietly.
"What?"
"Four of us." He meets my eyes. "I'm not going anywhere either."
Something warm settles in my chest. "Yeah. Four of us."
"It's not a bad idea." He finally says. "Dinner party. You cook, I'll tolerate people, Zola can see that you're serious about this."
"You'll bring someone?"
"Jamie, probably." He shrugs. "I don't do dates, but I can't be the odd man out. Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't poison anyone with your ambitious menu planning, and he always helps me keep you in line."
"Fuck off." But I'm grinning now, energy returning. "I'm a good cook."
"You're an adequate cook who thinks he's good because one woman used to compliment your pasta."
"She loved my pasta."
"She loved you." Stellan corrects, and there's something almost gentle in his expression. "Still does, even if she hasn't said it yet."
I know. I can see it in how she looks at me, how she lets me stay, how she's stopped flinching away from the word family when I use it. But hearing her say it—that's going to be different. That's going to mean she's stopped protecting herself from me.
"Come on." Stellan heads toward the door. "I'll drop you at your car. You need to get home before Zola wakes up and wonders where you are."
We're almost to the exit when I remember Tommy, still unconscious on the concrete. "What about—"
"Already handled." Stellan doesn't break stride. "Jamie's on his way. He'll deal with it."
Which means Tommy will wake up in a hospital with no memory of how he got there and a very clear understanding that if he ever steals from us again, he won't wake up at all.
I make it back to the bookstore just after four in the morning, letting myself in with the key Zola gave me last week. The apartment above is quiet, just the soft sound of Maeve's breathing from her room and the familiar creak of floorboards as I navigate in the dark.
Zola's curled up on her side, one hand under her pillow, and she doesn't stir when I slip into bed beside her. I'm careful not to wake her, just settling close enough to feel her warmth, letting the tension from the warehouse bleed out of me.
This. This is what I was violent for tonight. This quiet peace, this safety, this home.
I fall asleep breathing in vanilla and coffee, her scent covering the last traces of rust and blood.
When I wake up a few hours later, Zola's gone but I can hear her downstairs, talking softly to Maeve. I shower quickly—scrubbing away the last evidence of last night—then pull on clean clothes and head down.
Zola's at the coffee maker, Maeve on her hip, and she looks exhausted. "Morning."
"Rough night?" I cross to her, kissing her forehead, then Maeve's.
"She was up at two, wouldn't settle until almost four." Zola hands me the baby, rubbing her eyes. "I'm running on fumes."
"Go back to bed." I settle Maeve against my chest, and she makes a happy sound, grabbing at my shirt. "I've got her."
"You just got here—"
"And you just spent half the night awake." I turn her toward the stairs. "Go sleep. I'll handle the morning shift."
She looks like she wants to argue, but exhaustion wins. "Wake me if you need anything."
"Won't need anything." I kiss her properly this time, slow and thorough despite Maeve's presence between us. "Love you."
"I know." She says it softly, then heads upstairs before I can push for more.
Maeve babbles at me, patting my chest with her sticky hands, and I look down at her. "Your mama's stubborn. But we're wearing her down, aren't we?"
She grins, showing off her few teeth, and babbles something that sounds almost like agreement.
I get her breakfast sorted—mashed banana and tiny pieces of toast, the way she likes it—and settle her in the high chair. While she eats, I start making coffee properly, the good stuff Zola pretends not to care about but always drinks when I make it.
"So here's the thing." I tell Maeve, who's watching me with those huge brown eyes. "I want to throw a dinner party. Get your mama's friends over, let everyone meet properly. What do you think?"
She smacks her tray, sending banana flying.
"I'll take that as enthusiasm." I wipe up the mess, then lean against the counter. "I think it'll be good. Show her I'm serious about all of this. About building a life that includes everyone."
Maeve makes a demanding sound and I hand her more toast. She's a tyrant when she's hungry, reminds me of someone else I know.
By the time Zola comes back down three hours later, Maeve's been fed, changed, and is currently demolishing a stack of board books on the floor. I've made breakfast—proper breakfast, not just coffee and hope—and the bookstore's ready to open.
"You're going to spoil me." Zola says, but she's already reaching for the plate I made her.
"That's the plan." I watch her eat, satisfied when she actually finishes everything. "I wanted to ask you something."
She looks up, wary. "What?"
"I want to throw a dinner party." I say it casually, like it's not a big deal. "At my place. Invite your friends, give everyone a chance to meet properly."
"A dinner party." She repeats slowly.
"Yeah. Nothing fancy, just dinner. I'll cook.
" I'm watching her carefully, trying to read her expression.
"I want to get to know Naomi and her family.
And I thought—we kept everything so separate before.
When we were together the first time. Maybe that made it easier for you to think you could walk away. "
Her eyes go sharp. "Declan—"
"I want to tangle our lives together." I say it directly, no room for misunderstanding. "I want your friends to know me, want my people to know you. Want Maeve to have family beyond just us three."
"Four." She corrects softly. "Stellan's made that pretty clear."
"Four." I agree. "So what do you think?"
She's quiet for a moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Naomi's with Nilos. Wouldn't that be... complicated?"
"Nilos works for Ares." I shrug. "We're cordial. I'm not going to start shit at a dinner party in my own house."
"But—"
"I really want this, love." I move closer, taking her hand. "I want to show you that I'm serious. That this isn't just us existing in a bubble. That we're building something real."
She studies my face, searching for something. Whatever she finds must satisfy her because she finally nods. "Okay. We can do dinner."
"Yeah?" I can feel my entire face light up, can't help the grin that spreads. "You mean it?"
"Don't make me regret this."
I scoop up Maeve, spinning her gently, and she shrieks with laughter. "We're having a dinner party, sweetheart. Everyone's going to come over and look at how cute you are."
Maeve babbles excitedly, waving her arms, and Zola's watching us with this expression—soft and terrified and hopeful all at once.
"I love you both." I tell them, and Maeve pats my face like she's agreeing.
The next few days, I'm genuinely excited in a way I haven't been about anything in years. I plan the menu carefully—nothing too complicated, but impressive enough to show I put in effort. Stellan mocks me mercilessly when I show him the list, but he also agrees to come and bring Jamie.
"You're like a suburban dad planning a barbecue." He says, reading over my shoulder. "It's disturbing."
"Fuck off." But I don't really care. I want this to be perfect.
Zola helps me coordinate schedules—Naomi and Nilos can make it, plus Naomi's son Jordan. Stellan's bringing Jamie. It'll be intimate, manageable, the kind of gathering where actual conversation can happen.
The night before, I'm in my original house—the one I couldn't let go of, couldn't sell, couldn't change—preparing.
I've cleaned obsessively, making sure everything's perfect but not touching the small things that still carry traces of Zola.
Her favorite coffee mug in the cabinet. The throw blanket she used to curl up with.
The way the books on the shelf are organized because she reorganized them eight years ago and I never changed it back.
When Zola and Maeve arrive early the next evening, Zola freezes in the doorway. I watch her take it in—the familiar kitchen, the living room that hasn't changed, the small details that prove I never really moved on.
"Declan." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "This is…"
"I always loved this house." I take Maeve from her, settling the baby on my hip. "And I never could let you go."
She's looking around like she's seeing a ghost, touching the counter gently. "You didn't change anything."
"Didn't want to." I move closer, free hand finding hers. "Bought other houses over the years. Newer, bigger, supposedly better. But I never let anyone else here. Couldn't stand the thought of someone else touching things that still felt like ours."
"That's not healthy." But she's leaning into me, fingers tight around mine.
"Probably not." I kiss her temple. "But it was true."
Maeve makes a demanding sound and Zola takes her back, holding her close. "I can't believe you kept it exactly the same."
"I kept a lot of things exactly the same." I tell her. "Including how I felt about you."
She doesn't answer, but she doesn't pull away either. Just stands there in the kitchen where I used to cook for her, holding the baby who's become ours, looking around at the life we used to have.
The doorbell rings and I force myself to move, to shift into host mode. Stellan's first, Jamie trailing behind him looking amused. Then Naomi arrives with Nilos and Jordan, and everyone's introducing themselves, and my house is suddenly full of people and noise and life.
Zola's watching me from across the room, Maeve still on her hip, and I catch her eye. Mouth love you where no one else can see.
She doesn't say it back, but she smiles. Soft and real and maybe—finally—starting to believe this could actually work.
I head into the kitchen to start final dinner preparations, Stellan following to help, and for the first time in eight years I'm looking at my future and seeing something other than emptiness.
People are settling into the living room, conversation starting to flow, and I think maybe—maybe—we can actually do this. Build something real. Something permanent. Something worth fighting for.