Declan
I walk away from her like a man fleeing a crime scene, but every step feels heavier than the last. The corridor seems too narrow, the lights too bright, the world too sharp for the kind of chaos unraveling inside my chest.
The moment sears itself behind my ribs. Her breath trembling against mine, the furious heat that belonged nowhere near us and yet ignited anyway.
I should have been stronger. I should have been colder. I should have been the version of myself I’ve spent years refining—the one who sees threats, not temptations; angles, not lips; leverage, not longing.
Instead, I became the kind of man who lets his guard slip because a woman he’s spent years resenting finally cracked open a door he’s been pretending doesn’t exist.
No. It doesn’t.
Because five months ago I stood in a room with my brother and told her to pick. Out loud, in front of witnesses, while men who worked for both of us watched. Liam or me. I did it because I was losing and I wanted to watch her choose me where everyone could see it.
She looked at me for a long time. Long enough that I understood what I’d done to her. Then she said his name, and she was right to say it, and I have hated her for being right every day since.
The words echo in my skull, looping and looping until I feel like I’m suffocating on them.
I push through the stairwell door, the slam echoing up the concrete walls, and descend fast enough that my boots thud like gunshots.
I need distance from her; I need cold air and something that shakes me back into the man I’m supposed to be.
On the last step, and I stop so suddenly it pitches me forward. I brace both palms against the rough concrete wall. My breath drags hard through clenched teeth.
“Idiot,” I hiss, a whisper meant only for myself. “Absolute fucking idiot.”
The anger, when it comes, is volcanic—years of restrained emotion erupting like it’s been waiting just under the surface, ready to punish me for losing control. I slam my palm against the wall again, harder. The jolt stings, but it anchors me. Pain usually does.
She can’t be the thing that breaks me. Not when she’s already tangled too deep in something I’m trying to unravel.
I shove away from the wall, shoulders tight, fists aching.
My lungs burn like I ran ten streets in one breath.
I don’t stop moving until I’m outside, the cold air slicing against the heat of my skin.
The city stretches in front of me—harsh, loud, dangerous.
It feels better than the office, where her scent still lingers in the air and temptation whispers at the edges of logic.
I need clarity. I need information. I need a target I can put my hands around.
It takes me until the following evening to admit where that is.
I spend the day not calling her. I run the manifests again. I let Ryan chase his trace. I tell myself twice that the casino is a bad idea, and the second time I'm already reaching for my keys.
So, I plug the address into my GPS and prepare for a drive.
I don’t tell Liam where I’m going. He’d never approve such a thing.
If he finds out, I’d rather ask forgiveness and have something to show for it than try to get his permission like I’m below him.
And this is me being proactive.
I stop only once along the way, my head filled with a focus on the road, music, and the plans when I get to the casino.
The Russian-owned casino stands like a monument to vice—three stories of neon arrogance perched on the edge of the industrial district in Queens. Its lights flicker steadily against the bruised night sky, promising distraction, danger, and anonymity. Perfect for what I need tonight.
I park two blocks away, slip into a jacket that hides weapons and intentions equally well, and make my way through the alley entrance instead of the main doors. Russians respect caution. They respect shadows. They respect those who understand the value of being unseen.
Inside, chaos greets me like a familiar enemy.
The air is thick with smoke and desperation; chips clink against felt tables; laughter spikes sharp and manic.
A drunk at the poker table slams his fist against the edge.
A woman in a glittering black dress whispers something poisonous into a dealer’s ear.
Two men argue in Russian near the bar, voices low but tense.
This place is a hive—every person buzzing with greed, fear, or secrets.
I move through it like I belong. I’ve been here enough times to know which corners hold the watchers, which tables hide the runners, which hands grip the guns. I don’t linger anywhere long enough to become a pattern.
I’m searching for one man in particular. A bookkeeper who moves money for people who move worse things, and who has spent three years pretending he doesn’t know what the money buys.
Grigor.
He’s easy to find. He always is. He loses just enough at blackjack to stay welcome and never enough to be worth guarding. When I spot him he’s hunched over a table with a half-burned cigarette hanging off his lip, breaking at least two casino rules and one fire code.
I slide into the empty seat beside him, resting my elbows on the table. Grigor startles so violently his chips scatter.
“Declan?” he wheezes. “Man, are you insane? You can’t be—”
“Hit,” I tell the dealer, not looking away from Grigor. The card slides toward me. I don’t check it.
“Declan,” Grigor whispers, voice trembling. “Liam—”
“Liam doesn’t know,” I say. “You’re going to act like I’m a stranger until you follow me out of here. Quietly.”
Grigor’s throat bobs. “If they see me—”
“Drink your water,” I interrupt. “You’ll need the clarity.”
He stares at the glass like it might explode. Then he drains it.
Smart.
I stand without ceremony and head toward the back corridor. Grigor follows, his footsteps reluctant but obedient—like a dog that’s learned the leash can hurt more than freedom helps.
The deeper halls are quieter. Cleaner. The air conditioner hums steadily, drowning out the noise from the floor above. I choose a supply room with no cameras—one I scoped out months ago for situations just like this.
The door shuts with a metallic snap. Grigor flinches like the sound hits his nerves instead of his ears.
“What do you want?” he whispers.
“Information,” I say simply. “And you’re going to give it to me.”
“I don’t know things,” he protests. “I’m small-time—”
“You hear things.”
He clamps his trembling hands together. “Not the things you want tonight.”
I step closer. The room seems to shrink around us. “Then let’s start with what you do know.”
Grigor swallows. “The Russians are… uneasy.”
“When aren’t they?”
He shakes his head. “No, Declan. This is different. Someone powerful is moving, and no one wants to be caught on the wrong side.”
“Who.”
He hesitates.
“Dara,” he breathes, and the name comes out like a curse.
It hits me low and sharp. I force my expression to remain still. “And?” I prompt, “What’s her assignment?”
“I don’t know.”
I grab him by the shirt and shove him against the wall hard enough to shake tools off a nearby shelf. “You ran her for six years. You knew what she ate for breakfast.”
“That was before.” His voice cracks. “They moved her off my desk in the spring and nobody told me why. I’ve been getting the same scraps as everyone else since.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I only heard whispers, I swear. She’s… she’s marking someone.”
My blood goes still. “Who?”
“I don’t know the objective,” Grigor stammers. “Only that it’s a woman. Someone visible. Someone important to the Irish.”
The world narrows to a single point. “Name.”
He shakes harder. His voice breaks. “Ailish.”
It’s a knife to the chest.
I stare at him. I don’t speak. I don’t blink. I let silence press against him until he’s shaking like a leaf in winter. “Who signs off on her now?”
“A call,” Grigor whispers. “Someone said her name. Said eyes were already on her. Said she was… ideal for the message they want to send.”
“Message?”
“I didn’t hear more, I swear—please—”
I release him. He collapses to the floor, gasping. He’s lucky I’m not asking more questions.
For now.
The moment I open the door, the casino noise hits me again, louder and sharper—like the building itself is laughing under its breath. I move through it on autopilot. Past the craps tables. Past the bar. Past the guards who don’t recognize what kind of storm is building in my chest.
I step out into the night air.
It’s cold enough to make my breath visible.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone. Anger burns so hot it borders on calm. The kind of calm that precedes violence. The kind that terrifies anyone smart enough to notice.
I open the hidden app. The one that pings Ailish’s phone. The one she never found. Her dot glows blue.
She’s moving. Not toward home. Probably another assignment. Or her just being stubborn about her safety.
My pulse drops into a tight, deadly rhythm.
A feral sound escapes my raw throat. I slam the car door, grip the wheel too tightly, and pull into traffic.
The city becomes a smear of colors through the windshield—streetlights, neon signs, brake lights, the blur of people who don’t know how close they are to losing everything.
My attention is on one thing only. Her. Because who knows how long she has to walk in safety before the next move is made?
I can’t let the Russians get a hold of her or force Liam’s hand against her with suspicion.
I make the drive back in half the time. I check the app again.
The dot moves two blocks. Slows. Stops.
My stomach drops.
I kill the headlights and swing into a narrow side street. I’m out of the car before the engine fully shuts off, boots hitting the pavement hard.
The alley ahead is dark. Too dark. Quiet. Wrong.
I take three steps toward it and hear it.
A scream.
My vision goes white around the edges. There is no thought. No strategy. Only instinct.
I sprint toward the sound like my own life is the one in danger.