2. Ailish
Ailish
The echo of Declan’s voice still rings in my head long after I’ve left O’Malley’s.
I know very well he won’t say any of this Liam, and I don’t think he’s dumb enough to truly risk the alliance that saved all our asses.
No, this is entirely personal. It’s about choosing Liam’s side over his when Declan left me no choice.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter—that his opinion is just noise—but the truth is, every word hits like a bruise. The man has always known how to find the soft spots and press until something inside me flinches.
Outside, the night wind carries the city’s pulse: tires hissing through puddles, distant laughter from drunks, the low thrum of music leaking from the pub’s basement. I shove my hands into my coat pockets and walk faster. The cold helps. It cuts through whatever heat his temper left behind.
Don’t make it personal, I’d told him. But with Declan, everything is personal.
By the time I reach my car, my jaw aches from clenching. I sit behind the wheel for a full minute before starting the engine, staring at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. My lipstick’s smudged from biting it. My eyes—too bright. Angry bright. I smooth my hair and tell myself to breathe.
“Let it go,” I whisper. “You did your job.”
The lie tastes metallic.
I end up at Kavanagh’s, a bar Mackenzie and I claimed as neutral territory months ago—far enough from Costello business to feel like freedom, close enough that we can still get home before Liam notices we’ve disappeared.
Mackenzie’s already there, perched on a stool with her phone in one hand and a martini in the other, curls escaping the clip she never bothers to fix.
Half the Costello men think she’s decorative because she manages Liam’s calendar and smiles at the right people.
The other half have watched her memorize a room in under a minute. She spots me and grins.
“Well, if it isn’t the Queen of Controlled Rage.” She slides a drink my way. “Gin or gasoline. Dealer’s choice.”
I drop my bag on the bar and down half of it before answering. “Rough night.”
“That bad?” She swivels toward me, giving me the full interrogation look. “Let me guess—Declan?”
I raise a brow. “When is it not Declan?”
“Touché. Did he at least throw something this time, or did he go for the slow-burn passive-aggressive routine?”
I laugh despite myself. “A bit of both. He accused me of being Liam’s messenger.”
“Well… you are Liam’s assistant now.”
“Mackenzie.”
She smirks over her glass. “Fine, fine. But you’ve gotta admit, there’s something almost endearing about how much that man hates authority.”
“Endearing isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Then what is?”
I think about it—about the way his voice dropped, the flash of betrayal behind his eyes, the memory of his hand on my arm years ago, before everything broke. “Exhausting.”
Mackenzie laughs. “You’ve been saying that since we met. Still haven’t learned.”
“Apparently not.”
She leans in, tone softening. “You still care, though.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. The truth sits too heavy on my tongue. “I care about the family. About keeping us alive.”
“Sure.” She takes another sip. “And if Declan got himself shot tomorrow, you wouldn’t feel a thing?”
I glare. “He’s part of the family.”
She just smiles that knowing smile that makes me want to throw my drink at her.
“You should’ve seen him tonight,” I say finally. “He’s… angry, but not just about the Italians. It’s deeper. Like he’s carrying something he can’t drop.”
“Probably guilt. Or grief. Or whiskey. Usually a combination of all three.”
“He looked at me like I was part of the problem.”
Mackenzie’s voice gentles. “He looks at everyone that way, Ailish. But with you… maybe because you’re the only one who ever stood up to him for real.”
“Maybe.” I trace the rim of my glass, watching the condensation smear under my finger. “But standing up to him feels a lot like losing ground.”
She tilts her head. “And yet you keep doing it.”
“Someone has to.”
“Liam doesn’t pay you enough for emotional babysitting.”
I scoff.
We sit in silence for a while, the buzz of conversation around us filling the gaps. The bar smells of citrus and gin and burnt sugar.
Then Mackenzie says quietly, “You still dream about him?”
The question lands too easily. I should laugh it off, change the subject, but something about her tone makes lying impossible. “Sometimes.”
“What kind of dreams?” At least she has the wherewithal not to make it sound dirty. If it was just that, well, I can handle dirty. This is something more.
“The kind that feel real until I wake up.” I swirl what’s left of my drink, watching the liquid catch the light. “Then I spend the rest of the day pretending they didn’t happen.”
Mackenzie nods like she understands. “Closure’s a myth, huh?”
“Yeah. Especially in our world.”
She reaches over, squeezing my wrist. “Just don’t let him see you bleed.”
I manage a smile. “You make it sound like he’d enjoy it.”
“He would.”
We both laugh, but it’s hollow.
The drive home is quiet except for the rain beginning to fall. I pull into my building’s underground lot and cut the engine, sitting in the dark for a long moment.
My phone buzzes. A message from Liam:
Liam; Good work tonight. The Italians are pleased.
No thank you. No how are you? Just business as usual.
I type back Copy that and toss the phone aside.
When I finally make it upstairs, the apartment feels colder than usual. Too clean, too empty. I pour myself another drink and lean against the counter, letting the silence stretch. For a second I almost wish Declan would barge in just to break it.
Then I shake the thought away.
The whiskey doesn’t help. It never does, but I keep drinking anyway because silence is worse.
I move to the window, glass in hand, watching the rain thread down the glass like static. Across the street, a bakery sign blinks CLOSED in angry red letters, then dies completely. The city always looks half-broken after midnight.
I tell myself I should sleep. Tomorrow there’s another logistics briefing with the Italians, another round of polite arguments about shipment schedules and “cost efficiency.”
My least favorite kind of war—one fought with spreadsheets instead of guns.
But instead of sleeping, I find myself pulling an old file from my desk drawer: South Wharf Security Review. Declan’s signature scrawled across the bottom.
My throat tightens at the sight of it. That was the last project we worked on before everything went to hell—before Liam’s coup, before Declan started looking at me like I’d stabbed him in the back.
I trace the ink with my thumb, stupidly gentle, then slam the folder shut. “Get over it, Ailish,” I mutter.
The knock at my door startles me hard enough that I spill whiskey on the counter.
It’s not Declan. Of course it’s not. It’s never Declan.
When I open the door, a delivery kid stands there, dripping wet and holding a brown envelope. “For Miss Keane,” he says. No return address. Paid in cash.
I sign for it, tip him, close the door, and tear it open. Inside is a single sheet of paper—security schematics for the new club in Southie, annotated in Declan’s handwriting. He’s made corrections, improvements, little arrows with notes like ‘Check alley cam angles—blind spot here.’
So he is working. And he’s still better at this than anyone.
I should feel relief. Instead, I feel a punch of something else—guilt, maybe. Or the reminder that no matter how much he hates me, he still cares enough to fix my mistakes.
“Infuriating bastard,” I whisper, but the corners of my mouth betray me.
I decide it’s time to put away the drinking and sad memories and go to bed. It’s not like I won’t dream of him anyway.
The rain hasn’t stopped the next morning; only softened into a gray drizzle. I head to the docks early to check on the new security setup before Liam arrives. Work keeps my hands busy, my thoughts mostly clean.
The air smells of salt and diesel. Men in reflective vests shout over the sound of cranes. I move through them easily, clipboard in hand, invisible in plain sight.
I’m reviewing camera placements when a familiar voice cuts through the noise behind me.
“You missed a blind spot.”
I turn. Declan stands there with an umbrella hanging half furled at his side, doing him no good at all. Hair damp, coat collar turned up. The sight of him hits harder than it should.
“You fixed it,” I say.
He shrugs. “Didn’t want the Russians sneaking up on your shiny new project.”
“That’s considerate of you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
His tone’s casual, but there’s something in his eyes—sleep deprivation, regret, maybe both.
“Liam will be here soon,” I warn. “If you’re planning to start another argument, make it quick.”
“Relax, princess.” His mouth quirks. “I’m just here to check my work.”
“I’m not a princess, Declan.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You sure bark orders like one.”
I inhale slowly through my nose. “You ever get tired of acting like an ass?”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
The urge to throw my clipboard at him passes almost as quickly as it arrives. Instead, I step closer, matching his height with the defiance he hates so much.
“Why send me the plans anonymously?” I ask. “Too proud to admit you still give a damn?”
His jaw tightens. “I give a damn about not getting us all killed.”
“Right. The noble martyr routine.”
He opens his mouth to fire back, then stops. For a heartbeat, there’s silence except for the rain tapping metal. We just stand there, staring, the ghosts of old arguments flickering between us.
“You used to trust me,” he says finally, so low I almost miss it.
“I used to have a reason to.”
That lands. I see it in the twitch of his jaw, the flicker of pain he hides behind sarcasm. He steps closer, too close, and snaps the umbrella open over us both. It isn't big enough for two. Rain runs down the back of my neck anyway.
“Careful, Ailish,” he murmurs. “You’re standing awfully close for someone who picked a side.”