Declan
The tail appears on a Thursday. I’m standing outside the back entrance of the speakeasy, rolling my shoulders after a night that ran too late and ended too early, when a flicker catches at the edge of my vision.
A shadow where it shouldn’t be. A figure who pretends he isn’t watching me.
Whoever this is, he’s new. Too eager, too taut around the edges. Not subtle enough to be Italian, too rigid to be Irish. So when he crosses the street and pretends he’s looking at the shuttered bakery window, I feel every muscle in my spine settle into a cold, deliberate line.
Russian. I walk. He follows, which is a bold move. Unless they think I might be meeting Ailish.
I don’t speed up. I don’t slow down. I give him time to settle into the rhythm of pursuit, time to believe he’s unspooling me.
And every step I take conjures the memory of Ailish’s scream, the bruises on her ribs, the way she looked at me afterward—shaken, small, then furious.
The way she’s been avoiding me since. The way she’s been breaking and pretending she isn’t.
What they did to her plays like a film that never ends. And then the tail makes a mistake. He checks his phone.
A tiny flick downward, but it’s all I need to confirm he’s receiving instructions from someone else. Someone close. That’s when I decide this man isn’t walking away.
But they’ve forgotten something fundamental. I don’t take messages. I return them.
I cut down the alley between the hardware shop and the empty pub. My boots hit wet pavement, echoing off stone. He hesitates at the entrance—one second too long—before he follows.
I can feel him behind me. Hear the soft exhale. Hear the shift in his stance. He thinks he ambushed me.
Maybe he just wants to rattle me or get information. I can’t even tell what game they’re playing. But this battle will be won by me, and they’ll be getting a hell of a surprise.
I turn around slow, letting the moment stretch, and watch realization sweep over his face like shadow cutting across a field.
“You’re not very good at this,” I say.
He doesn’t respond. Russians rarely do. They don’t speak unless spoken to by their own. They don’t improvise. They repeat orders like a prayer.
I step closer. He steps back. The city hums somewhere far away.
When he reaches for his coat, he makes it a warning. I make it his last mistake.
I move quickly—faster than he expects, faster than he’s trained to counter.
I take his wrist, twist, and force him to drop whatever he thought he’d use on me.
His breath rushes out in a grunt as I slam him against the brick wall.
The impact reverberates up my arm, but it’s his sharp intake of air I focus on.
His eyes flash with fear. He knows me. They all do. This poor newbie wasn’t told what he was getting himself into.
I lean in. “You’ve been following the wrong Irishman.”
He tries to struggle. It’s half-hearted, desperate, panicked. And in that panic, I see the truth—his orders weren’t reconnaissance. They were pursuit. But pursuit of whom?
I tighten my grip until he chokes on his next breath. I lower my voice to a quiet, lethal growl. “Who sent you?”
He refuses. So I do what I came here to do.
It’s quick. Clean. A sound more than a sight, a finality more than a spectacle.
His body hits the pavement, and I don’t waste a second looking at it. I step out of the alley and into the open street where two old men are smoking, a younger couple shares an umbrella, and a bus brakes at the curb.
People see me. They see the alley behind me. They see the shift in my shoulders, the set of my jaw.
Let them. This message is meant to travel. The Russians wanted escalation? They’ve got it.
I wipe my hands on my coat and walk straight back to the compound.
I push through the doors into noise and stale air, and Liam is waiting in the office, arms folded, jaw clenched tight enough to crack his teeth. The second he sees me, he pushes away and strides over.
“You disappeared off-grid again,” he snaps under his breath. “And Conor said you stormed out like you were hunting someone. Am I supposed to guess what the hell you’ve done?”
I almost tell him the truth dipped in sharpness, but I force myself to rein it in. Ailish’s voice slips through my head, a strange anchor I don’t know whether to resent or cling to.
I take a slow breath. “Had a tail.”
His expression shifts—not surprised, just irritated in a way that masks worry. “And?”
“And it’s dealt with.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “By ‘dealt with,’ you mean you made another public display?” I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
A breath leaves him, long and aggravated, and then he mutters, “Jesus, Declan. You know the Italians are monitoring everything. Appearances matter. Control matters.”
“Then get a grip on your borders,” I say. “If I can spot a Russian operative shadowing me, so can anyone else. Unless you enjoy being spied on.”
Liam’s eyes darken, but under the irritation, I see something like worry. A crack in the steel. He lowers his voice. “Conor’s been telling me you’re… slipping.”
I bark a laugh. “Conor’s been telling you everything lately.”
“He’s watching your blind spots,” Liam snaps. “Because someone has to.”
I take a step closer. “You put him up to it.”
He smirks. “What, you thought Conor suddenly grew an interest in your emotional well-being? You two barely tolerate each other before noon. Yes, I told him to keep an eye on you. Someone needed to. You’ve been running hot.”
I let out a slow, humorless breath. “Funny, because the person I’m running hot about is someone you keep pushing into danger and then blaming when she breathes wrong.”
Liam freezes for the briefest moment. A flicker of understanding. A hint of guilt. Then he masks it. “Ailish is doing exactly what she’s supposed to do,” he says. “And you’re the one who keeps storming in like a goddamn hurricane every time she trips over a crack in the sidewalk.”
“She was attacked, Liam.”
“I know,” he snaps. “And unlike you, I can’t go on a killing spree every time I panic.”
There it is. The truth underneath the truth.
He is panicking. He’s just better at wearing his armor.
He exhales slowly, rubs a hand over his face, and when he looks back at me, the sharpness has dulled.
“Look,” he mutters. “About Ailish… I’m not blind.
I’ve noticed she’s been off. Tired. Distracted.
Jumping at shadows. I’ve been meaning to talk to her about it. ”
Every part of me goes still. Distracted? Tired?
He shakes his head. “I know you care about her.”
I nearly flinch. “I don’t—”
“Jesus, Declan,” he interrupts. “Don’t insult both of us. I’m not stupid.” I clamp my teeth so tightly my jaw aches. Liam softens further. “Just… go easier on her.”
I scoff. “Easier?”
“Yes,” he says firmly. “She’s been carrying more weight than anyone, and I’m not about to lose one of my best strategists because you two can’t keep your history out of your heads.”
History. The word curdles inside me. Liam continues before I can bite back. “And she’s not your responsibility.”
My laugh is sharp, almost bitter. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t start. Not now.”
We stare at each other—two men who share too much loyalty and too many secrets—until he finally sighs. “Just get your shit together,” he mutters. “And stop making scenes that can be traced back to us. The Russians don’t need reasons to escalate. You gave them one now.”
“I told you,” I growl, “he was following me.”
Liam shakes his head. “No. He was watching to see who mattered. And now they know.”
My stomach drops, cold and violent. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” Liam says quietly, “that our surveillance just flagged chatter. The Russians aren’t talking about watching me anymore. They’re talking about leverage. And they mentioned her.”
I feel the floor shift beneath me. Leverage. Ailish.
No. “No,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “They wouldn’t—”
“They know you killed their operative,” Liam cuts in. “Publicly. They know you only ever get that reckless when something personal is on the line. You think they don’t know what a man like you looks like when he’s protecting something?”
He steps closer, voice hardening. “And now they’ll know Ailish isn’t just my strategist.”
He pauses, a finely sharpened look slicing right through me. “They’ll know she’s yours.”
The words hit like a fist. The worst part? He’s right.
I let it show. Somewhere I didn’t mean to. Somewhere in the way I’ve been orbiting her like a star gone mad.
And now the Russians think she’s leverage. Not Liam’s shadow. Not a pawn or a target of convenience. But a weakness.
My weakness.
Liam grips my shoulder. “You tipped them off. And now we’re in bigger danger because you couldn’t keep your head on straight.”
Every breath in my body sharpens into something lethal. “What are they planning?” I demand.
“We don’t know yet,” Liam says. “But we do know one thing: Ailish is no longer safe.”
I swallow. Hard. “She never was.”
“Declan,” he says quietly, “they’re moving her to the center of the board. And once the Russians do that, they don’t play fair.”
I go still.
Liam lowers his voice. “We cannot afford another mistake. So if you care about her—however you care—then you need to calm the hell down and be smart.”
Smart. The word feels like a noose. But Liam’s eyes soften, just a fraction. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
I look at him longer than I mean to, letting that settle, letting the old loyalty breathe for a moment. “Then let’s move.”
But Liam shakes his head. “No. Not like that. You need to wait for my signal. No rogue heroics.”
I almost laugh. “When have I ever—”
He lifts a brow. “Declan. Seriously.”
I sigh sharply. “Fine.”
“For now,” he mutters, “go do something productive. Help with the shipments. Help with the Italians. Keep busy until I call.”
I nod and turn to leave, knowing something inside me has already changed. I can feel it twisting, sharpening, focusing.
The Russians can target me all they want. But targeting Ailish? That’s war.
And whatever Liam thinks, whatever he hopes, whatever he tries to order—I already know one thing with brutal clarity: If they go near her again, if they breathe in her direction, if they even try to use her name in their strategy—I will burn every last one of them to ash.