Declan
There’s a report open in front of me—financials, route adjustments, requests from the Italians—but I’m not reading a single word.
I’m thinking of her.
And I hate that I’m still that man, months later.
My fingers drum once against the desk before I stop myself. Uncontrolled movements are a weakness. Ailish has always been the exception. She chips at the walls I build without realizing she’s doing it. Maybe she would’ve back in the Spring, if I’d said the thing I nearly said.
The thought pulls me back—so far back I can smell the paper toner and the faint citrus of her perfume.
Five Months Ago
It was the week after everything settled, when the house was still full of people who’d decided to stay, and the whole place had the strange tender quiet of a family that had almost lost something and knew it.
Liam had given Conor the thing that used to be mine.
Nobody said it out loud. Ailish knew anyway, the way she has known things about me since she was ten years old and decided that not being invited somewhere was our error rather than hers.
She sat on the edge of my desk that night, sorting vendor contracts spread between us.
Her hair was pulled back, but pieces had escaped and were curling near her jaw.
Every so often she bit the inside of her lip while reading.
I have known about that habit for twenty years and I still couldn’t watch it without looking too long.
I shouldn’t have been staring.
“You’re missing two pages,” she said, without looking up. “Liquor shipments by supplier.”
“The supplier sent the wrong packet twice. I’ll deal with it.”
“You’ll deal with it.” She turned a page. “You’ve dealt with everything alone since the wedding.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been demoted.” She said it the way she says the weather. “There’s a difference, and you’re the only one in this house pretending there isn’t.”
With anyone else I’d have made them bleed for that. “Say what you came to say.”
“I came to sort contracts.” She set the packet down. “And to sit in a room with you, because you stopped coming to dinner and I stopped pretending I hadn’t noticed.”
The quiet went on a beat too long.
“Get me the missing sheets,” she said, “and I’ll redo the inventory logs. They’re a disgrace.”
“You don’t have to offer.”
“I know.” Softer. “I want to.”
“Why?”
She looked up, and her eyes were clear and unguarded in a way that no one else in my life has ever risked with me. “Because you look like you need someone to. And because it’s me, so it doesn’t count as charity.”
For a second I almost told her. That I’d known her since she was a child following us over a wall.
That somewhere in the last few years it had stopped being that, and I couldn’t name the day it changed.
That the reason I’d stopped coming to dinner was sitting on the edge of my desk with ink on the side of her hand.
I think you matter too much already.
But Conor had my job and Liam had my leash, and a man in that position doesn’t reach for the one person his brother trusts more than he trusts anyone. It looks like a move. It looks like leverage. I decided I’d rather lose her than be seen taking her.
So I picked up the packet and told her the vendor was a thief.
She let me have the exit. That’s the part I can’t get out from under. She watched me take it and she let me, and neither of us ever mentioned it again, because nothing had happened.
The memory tastes like whiskey and regret. It burns in the back of my throat.
I lean back in my chair and exhale, jaw tight. Back then, I could afford to say nothing. Now I can’t afford to feel anything at all.
Especially not for her.
Every thought of Ailish tonight puts a fresh knot in my stomach. Her being followed, toyed with, and manipulated by someone who knows how to weaponize fear—it’s like watching someone walk the edge of a cliff blindfolded. And Liam wants to handle this by “waiting for more proof.”
He used to be decisive. He used to strike first. Now? He’s diluted by alliances, juggling politics, and thinking about optics. It’s infuriating.
If Ailish gets hurt under his watch, I’ll never forgive him.
Or myself.
I reach into the bottom drawer of the desk and pull out the bottle I keep for nights like this. The whiskey glints warm even in the dim lamplight. I pour a glass—too much, but I don’t stop. The first swallow goes down smooth enough that I barely taste it. The second hits harder.
By the third, the heat loosens something in my chest that shouldn’t loosen.
I lift my phone and make a call I shouldn’t make. “Pull two men from the north docks,” I tell the lieutenant on duty.
“Sir? Kellan has those routes protected. Italians want eyes on—”
“Pull them,” I repeat. “I want them at the new property.”
There’s a pause. “You’re redeploying? Now?”
“Yes.” My voice sounds flat and cold, even to me. “Consider it proactive oversight.”
It’s not oversight. It’s panic disguised as strategy.
I hang up before he can argue. The whiskey keeps burning its path through me, and the office feels too tight, like the walls are pushing inward. I grab my coat and the bottle, ignoring the half-finished paperwork.
Time to inspect the new acquisition. Or drink until I can’t think. Whichever comes first.
The pub sits five blocks south of the river—brick exterior, iron-framed windows, soft yellow light glowing through the glass.
On the surface, it’s nothing more than a neighborhood bar built for craft beers and small plates.
The Italians loved the location: close enough to industrial traffic to be useful, far enough from any territory to seem neutral.
Below it lies the real operation—the speakeasy, still unfinished, but already designed with purpose.
Vices packaged for profit. Rooms that would eventually host high-tier escorts approved by the Italians.
A back corridor intended for quiet narcotics exchanges.
Money laundering layered beneath legitimate receipts.
I step through the pub’s main door. Warm air hits me—roasted malt, woodsmoke, and the low murmur of conversation. The bartender nods in recognition. He’s new, but he knows who signs his checks.
I head straight to the back, past the staff-only sign that means nothing to me. The private stairwell leads underground. My footsteps echo softly, the whiskey warming me in a way that should worry me but doesn’t.
Downstairs, the speakeasy is half-built: polished bar top not yet installed, shelves waiting for liquor shipments, booths still wrapped in plastic. A few workers linger, but the space is mostly quiet.
This is supposed to be my project. My responsibility. My proof that I still know how to run things without Liam micromanaging me.
But all I can think about is Ailish.
I sink onto one of the barstools, elbows braced on my knees. I take another swig from the bottle. Too much. Way too much. The burn crawls into my chest, coiling there like a fist.
What the hell am I doing? My head drops forward.
Five months ago, I walked away from the truth because it was easier. Now, I can’t walk away. Now, every step she takes feels like a countdown. And I’m going to tear apart anyone who lays a hand on her.
Footsteps scrape behind me—one of the men I called off dock duty.
“Boss? You needed us here?”
I lift my head, my voice steady despite the alcohol. “Lock down this place for the night. Nobody in or out without my say.”
The man hesitates. “Is something happening?”
“Something’s always happening,” I mutter.
He nods, not fully understanding but knowing enough not to ask.
As he steps away, I rest both hands on the bar, staring at the unfinished room that will soon become another artery in our growing network.
I should be thinking about logistics, staffing, supply lines. Everything feels like it’s shifting under my feet, and for the first time in a long while, I’m not sure I can keep my balance.
But I know this much: Whoever is hunting her is already dead. They just don’t know it yet.