28. Ailish
Ailish
Twelve weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Declan stood in my doorway and looked at a photograph on the floor.
Twelve weeks of him being unfailingly, exhaustingly present and never once at ease.
He hasn’t missed a single appointment. He hasn’t stayed for a single meal.
The Russians haven’t moved in all that time, which Liam keeps calling good news in a voice that doesn’t believe it.
By the time I reach the bottom of the staircase in Liam’s compound, I’m officially at the point where tying my own boots requires a strategy meeting.
By the time I reach the bottom of the staircase in Liam’s compound, I’m officially at the point where tying my own boots requires a strategy meeting.
My belly has grown enough that everyone notices now—security, staff, even the Italians pretending not to stare too long.
There’s no hiding it anymore, and honestly, I don’t want to.
The curve of my stomach is warm, heavy, and grounding. It tethers me to something bigger than the war we’re all drowning in.
Still, pregnancy is a strange duality—half miracle, half misery.
My back aches constantly, and the nausea comes in waves so unpredictable that I’ve learned to carry crackers in every jacket pocket I own.
But in the quiet moments, when the baby shifts or rolls, something inside me goes molten and soft.
I press my palm to the curve of my belly, breathing through the odd flutters that feel like the wings of a trapped bird brushing against me. It’s terrifying and beautiful, all at once.
As I push open the door to the training gym, the hum of energy inside lifts something in me.
Nadia and Mackenzie are stretching on the mats, laughing about something I missed, the air thick with sweat and determination.
Ronan stands off to the side, arms crossed, his expression stern but not unkind.
Ever since Liam mandated the women’s defense sessions, Ronan has taken his role seriously, becoming something between a coach and a guardian. “You’re late,” Ronan says, raising one eyebrow.
“I’m incubating a human, Ronan,” I reply. “Everything I do is late now.”
The girls snicker, and even Ronan’s mouth twitches. He gestures me forward. “Slow drills only. No blunt work.”
“I know the rules,” I say, stepping onto the mat.
The moment I begin stretching, the faint tug in my lower belly reminds me that every movement takes more calculation than it used to.
I settle into a breathing rhythm, adjusting to the shift in my center of gravity. Nadia watches me closely, always ready to swoop in if she thinks I’m overexerting myself. She’s become… gentler since the pregnancy, though she’d deny it to the grave.
We begin with defensive stances, then movement drills—stepping, pivoting, backing out of holds without strain. Ronan moves us slowly but precisely, watching each of us with the sharp-eyed calculation of a man noting who will live and who will die in a crisis.
With me, his gaze is even more intense. I’m carrying something that doesn’t get to be compromised. “Keep your elbows up,” Ronan reminds me as I deflect a half-hearted strike. “Even pregnant, you’re still a fighter.”
My breath is unsteady but strong. “Flattering.”
“No flattery. Fact.”
Nadia steps in to partner with me, her movements careful but swift.
I’m not as fast as I used to be. My body moves differently now, slower around the edges, but my mind is sharper than ever.
I learn quickly how to use weight instead of speed, leverage instead of force.
Every technique feels a little like a promise—I will survive. I will make sure my child does, too.
After nearly an hour, Ronan calls for a cooldown. I’m drenched in sweat, flushed, and more out of breath than I’d ever admit aloud, but I feel solid. More like myself. More like the version of me that existed before the Russians twisted everything sideways.
“You did good today,” Nadia murmurs as we step off the mat.
“Good?” I gasp. “I barely managed to keep upright.”
“That’s pregnancy, not skill.” Nadia rolls her eyes, though her voice is warm. “And you know what I mean.”
Before I can respond, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small package wrapped in plain brown paper. My stomach dips. “What’s this?” I ask.
Nadia thrusts it into my hands. “Open it. Before I change my mind and pretend I never did something so sappy.”
I smile despite myself and tear the paper carefully. Inside is a tiny knitted hat, pale green, impossibly soft. My breath catches. It’s delicate, handmade, a little uneven in the stitching—proof that someone cared enough to sit down and focus on every loop, every fold, every row.
“Nadia…” My throat closes. “You didn’t have to—”
“Shut up,” she mutters. “It’s not even good. I messed up the pattern twice.”
“It’s perfect,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
She shrugs as if the compliment scorches her. “Well. Just… keep it safe. And don’t tell Liam I’m knitting things now. He’ll get ideas.”
Before I can reply, footsteps echo down the hallway. Liam’s voice, firm and clipped, carries ahead of him. “Ailish. A moment?”
My heart sinks. Liam rarely uses that tone unless something serious is on the horizon. I tuck the little hat into my coat pocket, feeling its shape press reassuringly against me as I turn to face him.
He waits until the others drift out. Liam steps closer, eyes scanning my face before dropping to my belly. His expression softens briefly—too briefly—before sharpening again. “We received confirmation,” he begins. “Proof. Solid. Irrefutable.”
“Proof of what?” I ask, though a part of me already knows.
“That the Russians built it,” Liam says.
His voice is low, steady. “Fabricated communications. Your signature lifted off a shipping manifest and reused four times. We handed the full report to the Rossos this morning and Marco walked it up to Vito himself.” He watches me take it in.
“The Italians have withdrawn. All of it. Formally.”
Relief hits me like a wave. My breath leaves in a slow rush and I put a hand on the wall. Eleven weeks of Italians going quiet when I entered a room. “Formally,” I repeat.
“Formally,” Liam confirms. “And I’m sorry it took as long as it did.”
For a moment, warmth flickers between us. A fragile, delicate thing. Then his expression shifts, a weight settling into his shoulders. “That said,” he continues quietly, “we need to talk about your position.”
The relief drains out of me. “Liam—”
He lifts a hand, forestalling my protest. “This isn’t punishment. It’s strategy. It’s safety.”
“It’s a benching,” I snap. “You’re taking me off the board.”
“You’re pregnant, Ailish,” he replies. “And they’ve known you matter since before they touched your car.
What they don’t have yet is this.” His eyes drop, briefly, to my belly.
“The day they work out you’re carrying a Costello, you stop being a way to hurt Declan and start being a way to end him.
There is no version of that I can defend against while you’re moving through this city on a schedule. ”
I fold my arms over my chest. It’s partly defensive, partly instinctive—my body guarding my child without conscious thought.
“I’m still capable,” I insist. “Pregnant doesn’t mean useless.”
“I know that,” Liam says quietly. “But right now, capability isn’t the issue. Exposure is. You’ve been hit once and hunted twice. I won’t gamble a third.”
I clench my jaw, heat creeping into my cheeks. “So what? I sit in a locked room, knitting hats with Nadia until this is over?”
“That,” Liam says evenly, “or something worse.”
My stomach twists—not from the baby, but from the truth. This war is escalating. The Russians are unpredictable now, cornered animals lashing out with nothing to lose. I’ve been lucky. Twice. Luck is not a strategy.
Still, surrender tastes bitter. “What role?” I ask, my voice tight. “What are you giving me instead?”
“A secure operations assignment,” Liam says. “Remote intel, strategy support, resource coordination.” He pauses. “And you’re out of your flat. Guards on a door aren’t enough anymore, not with a schedule anyone can learn. Somewhere new, somewhere nobody’s driven you to yet.”
I shake my head. “Liam, I don’t want—”
He steps closer, voice softening. “This is not me doubting you. Or sidelining you. This is me protecting my family.”
My breath catches. “Your family?”
“You,” he says simply. “And the baby. And Declan, whether either of you admits it.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. The world feels suspended, holding its breath with me.
“I’m not hiding,” I whisper. “I won’t live afraid.”
“You’re not hiding,” he replies. “You’re choosing survival.” He waits. Patient. Unmoving. Letting me make the choice myself.
I exhale slowly, a long, trembling breath. Everything in me wants to fight. To be stubborn. To cling to the identity I’ve built through blood and sweat and sacrifice. But one hand drifts down to my stomach, cupping the gentle curve that houses a heartbeat not yet ready for the world.
This isn’t only my life anymore. “I’ll do it,” I finally say. “But only because I’m not risking the baby. Not because I’m afraid.”
“I know,” Liam murmurs. “And that’s why it’s the right choice.” He squeezes my shoulder, a rare, quiet gesture, then leaves me standing alone in the gym with the faint echo of approval trailing behind him.
When the door shuts, the silence settles over me slowly. Heavy. Honest. Final. I’m being reassigned. Repositioned. Protected. And for once, I’m not running from the implication.
I’m embracing it.
Packing is harder than I thought it would be.
My apartment has always been small, cluttered with books and maps, half-finished logistical plans, and mugs I keep insisting I’ll wash later. Now I move through it slowly, methodically, folding clothes and sliding them into a suitcase until it refuses to close.
Every movement tugs at something inside me—my ribs, my lower back, my memories. I pause now and then to press my hand against my belly as the baby shifts. Not painful, just present. Reminding me I’m not packing alone.
The safehouse Liam assigned me is across town, fortified with layers of security that weren’t available when Declan tucked me into his. It’s temporary, but necessary. I keep telling myself that.
I fold another sweater, then sit on the edge of the bed, catching my breath. My hair clings to the back of my neck. Pregnancy overheating—another glamorous perk.
After a moment, I pull open the nightstand drawer and take out a small, folded list I’ve been secretly building for weeks. Names. Potential baby names. Some traditional, some absurd, some sentimental.
I smooth the paper across my knee.
If it’s a girl:
Maeve
Rowan
Saoirse
Lila (Declan would hate it, which makes me love it more)
If it’s a boy:
Declan Jr. (crossed out violently)
Cian
Aidan
Ryan
My chest tightens as I trace a fingertip across the names. I don’t know why picking one is so hard. Maybe because a name makes the dream real. Makes the future real. Makes everything I stand to lose real.
I fold the list again, holding it between my palms for a quiet moment before slipping it back into the drawer. The apartment feels different when I stand—emptier, haunted by the echo of who I was before the Russians made me an enemy and before the baby made me a vessel.
I zip the suitcase, tug it upright, and take one last look around. The desk. The couch. The kitchen counter where I cried the night the test came back positive. The place where I tried to tell Declan and couldn’t. All of it feels like a chapter I need to close gently, not slam shut.
The baby rolls again. I steady myself. “We’re going to outlive this war,” I whisper. “Both of us.”
With the suitcase handle tight in my grip and Nadia’s little green hat tucked deep in my coat pocket, I step out of the apartment and lock the door behind me.
A new safehouse. A new role. A new life growing inside me.
For the first time in months, I feel the faintest flicker of hope—small, like a match in the dark, but enough to guide me forward. And I walk toward it without looking back.