18. Declan
Declan
The speakeasy has never looked more claustrophobic.
Dim gold lights burn along the mirrored back bar, catching the edges of glass and liquor like fractured sunlight. Jazz seeps from hidden speakers, low and sultry. The room smells faintly of smoke and citrus and money—fresh bills tucked into pockets, passed through palms, exchanged without a word.
The Italians have been clapping themselves on the back for their role in the redesign since the night we opened the doors.
My men are stationed along the walls, sharp-eyed and expressionless. The night should feel like a victory. A step forward. A sign that the Irish are still biting down hard enough to break bone.
Instead, my pulse won’t settle because Ailish is here thanks to an assignment from Liam.
He thinks it’s safer, and while technically I agree, I don’t want her under my roof like this right now.
I see her before she sees me, which is both a blessing and a curse.
She’s talking to one of the bartenders—Mira, a small woman with bright eyes and a sharper work ethic than most of the men here.
Ailish is dressed professionally, but it doesn’t help.
Nothing helps. She still looks like trouble the second she walks into a room.
Trouble wrapped in intelligence and stubbornness, and the kind of fire that won’t extinguish even when someone tries to drown it.
I tell myself she’s just here for logistics. That Liam put her on club duty because it’s controlled, contained, safer than running supply checks or moving product or anything with open terrain. And I tell myself it’s temporary.
But the truth is simpler. She asked to be here with me. Liam told me she mentioned smoothing things out. I don’t want things smoothed out. I want her gone. As far from me as she can get, for her sake and for mine. But she isn’t leaving.
She sees me then. Her spine straightens. Her eyes flicker with nerves she tries too hard to hide. And she starts walking toward me.
I turn away first.
Childish, maybe. Petty, definitely. But necessary. Because I’m one wrong breath away from grabbing her shoulders and demanding why she keeps putting herself in my orbit after I’ve given her every reason to stay out of it.
Instead, I move into the far corner of the floor, where I can watch the room and pretend I’m busy.
“Declan.” Her voice slides up behind me.
I don’t turn. “You’re supposed to be shadowing the operations lead for the night.”
“I can multitask.”
Her tone is clipped, but there’s something softer beneath it. A plea. An attempt. I don’t want to hear any of it. I don’t want to feel any of it. “You shouldn’t be here,” I say flatly. “There are other assignments.”
“This one is safer.”
“For who?” I ask. “Because already, you’ve become a distraction.”
I shouldn’t have said that. I know immediately that I shouldn’t have, but it’s too late. Her breath catches, barely audible over the music, and when I finally glance at her, she’s staring at me like I’ve personally insulted the core of who she is. “Let me talk to you alone,” she murmurs.
“No.”
One word. Hard enough to bruise.
Her jaw tightens. “We can’t keep doing this—”
“We aren’t doing anything.”
That one hits harder. I can feel the air shift as she reels, as if I’ve cut whatever rope she’d been climbing. Her fingers curl around the clipboard she’s holding until the edges dig into her palm.
“Fine,” she whispers. “Have it your way.” She walks off. And I hate how my entire body follows her with its attention, the way a compass needle obeys iron. I hate how every step she takes pulls something in my chest tighter, harder, until the pressure feels dangerous.
I force myself to turn back toward the bar. I speak to two of my men. I check the cash till. I nod at the Italian liaison who’s pretending to enjoy his overpriced whiskey. I do everything I’m supposed to do. And still I feel her.
Half an hour passes like that. Me circling the room, pretending she’s not in it.
Her trying at intervals to get within speaking distance before I move away again.
It’s childish, pathetic, and unworthy of the man I used to be.
But the alternative is letting her open her mouth and say something that will undo me.
My control is paper-thin. She doesn’t need to know how thin.
A waitress leans over to whisper something to the bartender. A table breaks into careless laughter. The room dips into that late-night rhythm where everyone seems looser and more indulgent.
Then Mira approaches me. She’s one of the few employees allowed to dance during certain hours—a soft seduction the Italians insisted on to ‘balance atmosphere with exclusivity.’ She moves with an easy, practiced confidence.
“You look like you’re two seconds away from exploding,” she says lightly.
“Doing my job,” I mutter.
She tilts her head. “Want a distraction? On the floor, I mean. You barely ever take part. Makes the girls nervous. They think you don’t like them.”
I’m about to dismiss her when my eyes land on Ailish.
She’s standing near the front entry, giving orders to two of the newer workers, posture stiff, shoulders rigid. But her eyes—those give her away. They track me like she can’t help it.
She’s pretending to be composed, but I know fear sits somewhere beneath her ribs still, a bruise not visible but just as real. And then something ugly grips me. All I know is that it tells me to hurt her before she hurts me again.
I turn back to Mira. “Fine,” I say. “A distraction.”
Her smile lifts easily. She steps closer, close enough that the scent of her perfume—something floral—drifts toward me. She looks pleased, ready to be a part of what she thinks is harmless flirtation.
And I let her sit in my lap in one of the corner booths. It’s not even remotely tempting as she begins to dance on me, grinding her hips just a little. But I know exactly what Ailish will think when she sees it.
Mira shifts her weight, draping an arm loosely around my shoulders. “Relax,” she teases. “You’re stiff as a statue.”
I force a smirk that feels like glass in my mouth. “Just overseeing the room.”
She laughs softly, leaning closer. Her body is warm, soft in a way that should be distracting. Should be inviting. But all I feel is the echo of something sour rising in my throat.
Then—Ailish turns, catching sight of us. Her face freezes. Her body goes utterly still, the way it did the night she was attacked—shock first, then disorientation, then the instinct to flee or strike.
But instead of any of that, she just stares. Wide, silently wounded. And something in my chest drops so violently I physically flinch.
She says nothing. Doesn’t storm off. Doesn’t confront me. She simply breaks eye contact and walks the other way, disappearing behind the curtain to the staff hallway.
And I feel sick. Mira, oblivious, continues trying to chat and dance, working her seduction on me which is probably great for any other man. But I can’t hear her over the roaring guilt tearing through me like a storm.
My pulse spikes. My breath sharpens. My vision narrows. What the hell did I just do?
I lift Mira gently off my lap before she can react. “Work the room,” I manage, voice low. “I need a minute.” Confusion flickers across her face, but she obeys. I straighten, dragging a hand through my hair. Fury rises—at myself, at the situation, at the feeling of loss I can’t name.
I shouldn’t care that Ailish saw. I shouldn’t care what it did to her. I shouldn’t care about any of this. But the reality is plain and damning: I do care. More than I ever wanted to admit.
I go after her.
The back hallway is narrow and dimly lit, lined with crates and spare bottles and staff doors. I find her in the break room, standing with both hands braced on the counter, her head bowed. She’s breathing too fast. Too shallow.
“Ailish,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t turn. “Do you need something, Declan?” Her voice is calm. Too calm.
I take a step closer. “We need to talk.”
“No,” she says. “You already made it clear you don’t want to talk.”
“That’s not true.”
She lifts her head then, slowly. And the look she gives me nearly breaks my spine in half. It’s not anger. It’s not jealousy. It’s… resignation. A slow, hollow ache. “You made your point,” she says softly. “You don’t have to rub it in.”
I swear every molecule inside me stutters. “That’s not what that was.”
She nods once, not believing me for even a second. “I shouldn’t have come tonight.”
“Ailish—”
“No,” she repeats, more firmly. “You didn’t want me here. So I’ll finish my shift, then speak to Liam about moving me elsewhere.”
My heart bangs against my ribs. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?” she asks, turning fully, her voice cracking at the edges. “Because I’m trying here, Declan. I’m trying to fix things. I’m trying to talk. And you keep punishing me for it.”
Punish. The word lands like a blade. I take a breath, slow and deep, trying not to rupture. “Ailish—”
She lifts a hand, stopping me. “No more tonight. I can’t. I don’t have the strength to keep fighting with you.” She brushes past me. Her shoulder grazes mine, soft and cold.
I don’t follow this time because I’ve already crossed too many lines tonight, and chasing her now would only pull the knife deeper.
When I return to the main floor, the music feels too loud, the crowd too close, and the lights too sharp. My own men glance at me in alarm—they can sense something off. And they’re right.
Something inside me has shifted. And not in a direction I understand.
The rest of the night passes in a blur. I oversee the money. I check the exits. I make sure the Italians get the numbers they want for their reports.
But none of it registers. All I hear is Ailish’s voice echoing again and again:
I’m trying.
I don’t have the strength.
By the time the speakeasy closes and the last patron is ushered out, I’m carrying a guilt so heavy it feels like sand in my lungs.
I stand alone at the bar for a long time, palms pressed flat against the counter, trying to breathe through the mess I created. And then I do the one thing I shouldn’t do.
I reach for whiskey. I pour the drink. Tip it back. The moment the burn hits my throat, I know I’m in deeper trouble than I’ve ever been.