Declan
By the time I lock up the speakeasy that night, guilt has settled into me like a parasite that now calls my body home.
The street outside is quiet, wet from an earlier drizzle, neon reflections blurring along the pavement.
My reflection in the window looks like a stranger.
Or maybe it looks like the man I was before I clawed my way out of the darker parts of my own nature.
Either way, he’s someone I don’t want to meet tonight.
My phone buzzes. A text from Conor:
Conor; You coming by? I know that ‘leave me alone’ silence. It means don’t leave you alone.
I huff a humorless laugh. He’s right.
The whiskey in my bloodstream has dulled the edge of my anger, leaving only a thick, lingering regret that doesn’t know where to go.
I text back:
Declan; I’m on my way. Put on pants. Or don’t. I don’t care.
His response is immediate:
Conor; Bring cigarettes. The good ones. And don’t puke on my couch again. Liam threatened to make me scrub your stomach out of the carpet.
I pocket the phone, grab a pack of cigarettes from the bar drawer, and step out into the night.
Conor’s flat sits in an older part of the city, a row of refurbished brick buildings with crooked stoops and iron railings that have survived more winters than any of us have. I climb the steps two at a time, and Conor opens the door before I even knock.
He takes one look at me and sighs. “Oh, perfect,” he mutters. “You’re in one of those moods.”
I push past him and collapse onto his battered sofa. “Shut up.”
“That’s what I meant,” he says dryly, closing the door behind me. “Whiny and self-destructive. Just like the good old days.”
He tosses me a bottle of water, which I ignore, and drops onto the opposite armchair with a grunt. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is familiar—not tense. Then he nods at me. “Spill it.”
“No.”
“Okay,” he says, standing. “I’m calling Liam—”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I snap.
He smirks, satisfied. “So it’s Ailish.”
I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Leave it.”
“No. Because you look like a kicked dog, and that means she said something, did something, or breathed near you in a way your fragile ego couldn’t handle.”
My laugh is sharp, bitter. “My ego’s fine.”
“Is it?” he asks. “Because I heard Mira tried to dance on you tonight.”
I glare at him. “Who told you that?”
“Declan, please. Half the crew saw. The story made it upstairs before the liquor even settled in your bloodstream.”
I sink deeper into the cushions, suddenly exhausted. “It was nothing.”
“I’ll bet it wasn’t nothing to Ailish.”
The way he says it—gentle, knowing—makes something twist under my ribs. I take a long drag from the cigarette I light. The smoke steadies me. Barely. “I didn’t ask Mira to do it.”
“Didn’t stop her, either,” Conor points out. “And you let Ailish see.”
The guilt claws deeper. “She wouldn’t leave it alone. She kept trying to talk to me.”
“And you wouldn’t let her.” He levels a look at me. “Which is your choice. But don’t pretend you didn’t want a reaction.”
I close my eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”
His tone shifts—softening, sharpening all at once. “Declan… you’ve never gotten over her.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says quietly. “Not to me.”
I open my eyes and stare at the cracked ceiling. “She lied to me. She schemed behind my back. She—”
“She also saved your life twice,” he interrupts. “And you know it.”
I inhale sharply, smoke burning in my lungs. Conor leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Let me ask you something. Do you want her safe?”
I give him a withering look. “Obviously.”
“Do you want her close?”
The air thickens. “Conor,” I warn.
“Do you want her as far away from danger as possible, but you follow her with your eyes every time she walks into a room because you can’t help it?”
I drop the cigarette into the glass dish, smoke curling from the tip like a taunt. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“Declan, you look at her the same way you used to look at your first gun—like you don’t trust it not to go off, but you can’t stop touching it either.”
A strangled noise escapes me. “Christ, Conor.”
“You love her,” he says plainly. “You never stopped.”
I sit upright with a violent jolt. “No. I don’t.”
He stares at me for a long, heavy second, then says, “You’re a shit liar.”
I want to punch something—maybe him, maybe a wall, maybe the version of myself five years ago who didn’t see any of this coming. Instead, I sink back into the couch, the cushions swallowing my anger like quicksand.
“Even if I did,” I mutter, hating the crack in my voice, “it wouldn’t matter. She moved on with Liam. She chose his side.”
Conor snorts. “She’s loyal to Liam, not romantic with him. And last I checked, she lies awake at night thinking about someone who isn’t Liam.”
I stiffen. “What do you know?”
“More than you,” he says. “Because you’re too busy hiding from the truth to actually look at her.”
I throw the pillow at him. He dodges easily. “You’re insufferable,” I mutter.
“And you’re in love,” he replies. “So we’re both having a rough night.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. For a moment, the room stays still, quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator and the flicker of the broken lamp in the corner. I close my eyes, letting exhaustion pull at my edges until the world softens.
Without meaning to, I drift.
When I wake, sunlight slices through the blinds at a cruel angle. My mouth tastes like ash. My head throbs in rhythmic pulses behind my eyes. Conor is sprawled on the floor, snoring like a dying engine.
I roll off the couch, grab the water bottle I ignored last night, and drink half of it in one go. The cold liquid brings me halfway back to life.
Work waits. Liam will expect a report. The Italians want numbers. The club needs a walkthrough on the door counts. And I need to make sure we haven't left any cracks for the Russians to slip through.
I’m about to grab my jacket when my phone buzzes.
Loyalist; Boss. Need eyes. Ailish being trailed. Started half hour ago. Unknown car. Eastern European plate. Could be nothing. Probably isn’t.
My heart stops.
Then slams hard enough to shake the breath out of me.
Loyalist; Orders?
Orders.
I know the orders. I know the protocol.
I know I should call Liam.
Alert the Italians.
Send a gather-and-shadow squad.
Follow the cautious, calculated path.
But caution has never been enough when it comes to Ailish.
My fingers fly across the screen.
Declan; Gear up. Two cars. Non-Irish plates. Meet me at the lower docks. Five minutes.
Another text comes through instantly.
Loyalist; On it.
I shove the phone into my pocket, grab Conor’s spare keys off the hook, and head for the door.
I don’t care if this is a false alarm. I don’t care if Liam thinks I’m reckless. I don’t care if every move I make digs me deeper into a hole I’ll never get out of. She’s being tailed. Again.
I’ll burn every street in this city down before I let this happen again.
When I hit the street, I move like a man marching straight into war. Because that’s what this is, and I’m done pretending otherwise.