3. Declan
DECLAN
The meeting is set for noon at a restaurant that's neutral territory and public enough to discourage bloodshed. Cormac drives, his jaw tight as he navigates through downtown traffic. He hasn't said much since last night. None of my men have. They're waiting to see what I'll do.
Waiting to see if Lachlan made a mistake.
The thought sits heavy in my gut as I adjust my tie in the rearview mirror.
I'm wearing one of my expensive suits again, the armor I need for meetings like this.
My tattoos are hidden beneath the crisp white shirt, my copper hair combed back, though the stubble is already showing on my jaw again.
The suit feels strange across my shoulders, and although I look as good as I can, I feel like a fraud.
"You want me to come in with you?" Cormac asks as he pulls up to the curb.
"No." I check my watch. "Stay close with the others. If I'm not out in an hour, assume it went badly."
His expression darkens. "Boss—"
"I'll be fine." I force confidence into my voice that I don't entirely feel. "Enzo Capetti isn't going to kill me in the middle of a restaurant. Bad for business."
Cormac doesn't look convinced, but he nods. I step out of the car into the chilly air and head inside.
The hostess recognizes me immediately—or rather, she recognizes what I am.
Her smile is professional but wary as she leads me through the dining room to a private section in the back.
The restaurant is half-empty at this hour, the lunch crowd not yet arrived, and our footsteps echo on the marble floors.
Enzo is already seated when I arrive with a glass of red wine in front of him, his posture relaxed and confident. Two men stand behind him—silent, watchful bodyguards. He doesn't stand when I approach or offer his hand.
The insult is deliberate.
"Mr. Murphy." His voice is smooth, with just a hint of an Italian accent. No different from how it was at the party, despite the change in circumstances. "Thank you for joining me."
"Mr. Capetti." I take the seat across from him. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
A waiter appears immediately, pouring water into my glass and offering a wine list. I wave it away. I need to stay sharp for this. Enzo watches me, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"You wanted to discuss last night's... unfortunate incident," he says, swirling the wine in his glass.
Unfortunate incident. Like it was a fucking accident. Like two of my men didn't burn to death in a warehouse he ordered destroyed.
I force myself to keep my expression neutral, even though I want to shoot this man where he sits.
No… better, I want to strangle him with my bare hands.
Light him on fire so he can scream the way my men did.
"Your man confessed. We have proof—text messages with coordinates and timing.
The attack was orchestrated by your family. "
"Alleged attack," Enzo corrects smoothly. "And even if such an attack occurred, I'm sure you understand that in our world, these things happen. Territories overlap. Misunderstandings arise. Surely a man of your... experience understands this."
The pause before experience is a calculated reminder that I'm new to this. That I don't actually have any experience running a mafia organization.
"Two of my men are dead," I say, my voice low. "That's not a misunderstanding."
"Two soldiers," Enzo says, taking a sip of his wine. "In a business where soldiers die. You're upset, I understand. But let's not pretend this is anything other than the cost of doing business in my world."
My world. Like I'm a guest in it. Like I don't have a right to be here.
My hands clench under the table, but I force them to relax.
Getting angry won't help. Showing weakness won't help.
I need to be smart about this. Strategic.
I was furious last night when I called, more so than I should have been.
I reacted like the president of a motorcycle club, not the boss of a major criminal organization.
"What you did could start a war between us," I say carefully. "I'd like to prevent one."
My men won't be pleased with that, especially not after what I said last night.
But I lay in bed after I got home and tallied up the cost. Lachlan left me with resources, money, connections, and a good number of men following me as well as allies to call on, but the Capettis have more.
Not to mention other organizations that might take the uproar as a reason to test boundaries further and try to involve themselves for their own interests.
A war means more blood, and a lot of it. I don't want that, no matter how angry I am or how much I want vengeance. But I also refuse to let the Capettis walk all over me.
Enzo's eyebrows rise slightly. "Prevent one? Mr. Murphy, you demanded this meeting. You threatened me on the phone. And now you want to talk about prevention?"
"I want to talk about peace." The word feels strange in my mouth, but I push forward. "I want to talk about how we can coexist without more bloodshed. Without more dead men on both sides."
"Both sides?" Enzo leans back in his chair, studying me. "You think you're in a position to threaten my organization? You, who took over the Irish mob from Lachlan Gallagher under... questionable circumstances?"
There's the real insult, the question that's been hanging over me since the day Lachlan handed me everything and walked away.
"Lachlan chose me," I say, keeping my voice steady. "He trusted me to lead. To take care of his people."
"Lachlan abandoned his responsibilities," Enzo says, his voice hardening. "He walked away from an empire he built, handed it to a biker from New York, and disappeared. It left a power vacuum that's made the entire city unstable."
"I've kept things stable—"
"Have you?" Enzo cuts me off. "I think you look like a man who's in over his head. A man playing dress-up, pretending he understands how this world works."
My jaw hardens. The words cut deeply, because that's exactly how I feel most days—like I'm pretending, like I'm one mistake away from everyone seeing through me.
But I can't let him see that.
"I understand enough," I say. "I understand that you attacked my warehouse because you think I'm weak. You think you can push me around and I won't push back. You're wrong."
"Am I?" Enzo's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, Mr. Murphy—how many allies do you have? How many families would stand with you if this turned into a full-scale war?"
I don't answer. We both know the answer is not enough. Possibly none, depending on who will honor Lachlan's decision. The other families are watching, waiting to see if I'll survive. If I'm worth their respect or their alliance.
"I have the Vitale family," Enzo continues, counting on his fingers. "The Rossinis. The Benedettis, the Morettis, and more. I have connections in New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia. If I wanted to crush you, I could do it in a week. Maybe less."
The threat hangs in the air between us. He's not bluffing. He could do it. He could call in favors, bring in soldiers from other cities, and overwhelm my organization before I could mount a defense.
I have to negotiate instead of what I want to do, which is get revenge for my men.
"You could," I agree, bluffing with as much confidence as I can muster, at the world's most dangerous poker table. "But you won't."
Enzo smirks. "And why is that?"
"Because war is expensive. And it draws attention—from the cops, from the feds, from everyone you don't want looking too closely at your operations.
And even if you win, you'll lose men, lose money, lose stability.
" I lean forward slightly. "I'm offering you an alternative, even though I have every reason not to. "
Enzo takes another sip of wine, considering. "I'm listening."
"Peace. Cooperation. We work together instead of against each other. We make money instead of corpses, and stay out of each other's territory."
"You want to negotiate?" Enzo's tone is mocking. "You want to sit down and draw lines on a map like civilized men?"
"Yes." I don't flinch from his contempt.
"That's exactly what I want. It's what worked for me before, with my motorcycle club.
We expanded, we thrived, and we made more money than we ever had working for the Santoros and for our own interests.
I focused on building alliances instead of burning bridges, but…
" I pause. "I wasn't afraid to commit violence when necessary, either.
I'm no stranger to brutality, to get my point across. And that hasn't changed."
"Your motorcycle club." Enzo sets down his wineglass with a soft clink. "Mr. Murphy, do you understand the difference between a motorcycle club and a mafia family?"
"I understand—"
"No, I don't think you do." He leans forward, his voice dropping. "A motorcycle club is a gang. A group of men who ride together, who make money together, and follow whoever's strongest at the moment. There's no history. No tradition. No honor."
The word honor lands like a slap. And it's also bullshit. I feel my jaw clench so tightly it hurts, my hands curling into fists. He's denigrating something he knows nothing about, spouting lies, and I want to shove them down his throat with my fist.
"The mafia," Enzo continues, "is a family. It's generations of blood and loyalty. It's traditions that go back centuries. It's a code that we live by, that we die by. You can't just walk into this world with your working-class biker mentality and expect us to respect you."
I can feel my neck heating. "I'm not asking for—"