29. Declan
Declan
Finn’s name lights up on my phone just as I’m finishing the last of the intelligence reports.
The sight hits me harder than I expect. It’s been months since we talked properly—months of stilted texts, missed calls, and unspoken resentments stretching thin between us.
I hesitate before answering, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I swipe.
His voice comes through rough but steady. “You alive, brother?”
A dry laugh escapes me. “Barely. You disappearing to the ends of the earth hasn’t helped.”
“I know,” he says, softer now. “And I’m sorry.”
The apology lodges somewhere behind my ribs. Finn doesn’t say sorry unless he means it. And he wouldn’t be calling unless something in the wind felt wrong. The Russians. Ailish. The baby I only learned existed days ago and already think about every waking moment and every dream.
“How are things?” he asks.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. “Chaotic. The Russians are tightening their pattern. We’ve lost two hubs, nearly lost one of our own during a recon drop, and the Italians are still twitchy.”
“Twitchy toward you?”
“Toward the situation. But you know how these things go. Everyone’s watching everyone else.”
There’s a small silence. Then Finn says, “And Ailish?”
My throat tightens. “She’s… pregnant.”
A breath leaves him—sharp and startled. “Jesus, Dec.”
“Yeah.” The word falls flat. “And she doesn’t want to see me right now.”
“She’s scared of you?” Finn asks, tone gentle but unflinching.
“No.” I swallow. “Not exactly. She’s scared with me, I think. Which is worse.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Then, quietly, “You always did love too hard. Hit too hard. Protect too hard. Never half measures.”
“Finn—”
“No, listen.” His tone shifts, warm and solid in a way I haven’t let myself hear in months. “You don’t have to figure it all out in one night. You just have to stop making yourself the villain in a story that hasn’t finished yet.”
A long breath leaves me, shaky and reluctant. “You stood in front of the Rossos for me on four hours’ notice. I never said a word about it after.”
“You weren’t in a state to.” No accusation in it. “I stepped back until you could breathe again, Dec. That was never the same thing as leaving.”
The words cut deeper than I expect. I close my eyes for a moment and let the quiet settle between us, let the years of friendship and brotherhood piece themselves back together in slow, careful stitches.
When I speak again, my voice is steadier. “I want to be part of the offensive team. If we don’t shut down the Russian pipeline at the root, none of this ends. Not for the Irish. Not for her.”
Finn hums in consideration. “Talk to Liam. He’ll listen.”
“Will he?”
“He wants his house in order more than anything. And he wants you back where you belong.”
I nod slowly, feeling something loosen—slightly—in my chest. “Thanks for the call, Finn.”
“Don’t thank me,” he says, lighter now. “Just do the damn work.”
When the call ends, I sit still for several seconds, staring at the dark screen. That conversation shifted something tectonic inside me—something old and wounded that had been calcifying for months.
Forgiveness shouldn’t feel unfamiliar, but it does.
I grab my jacket and head straight for Liam’s office.
The compound feels different tonight. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the extra guards stationed at every corner, or the heavy air that comes when war is close enough to smell. Or maybe it’s because I know something now that I didn’t before:
Liam’s office door is cracked open, light spilling into the hallway in a soft gold wash. He’s at his desk, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed over paperwork that looks half financial, half tactical.
He glances up when I knock lightly on the frame. “Declan.”
“Got a minute?”
He gestures me inside. “Take a seat.”
I don’t. Instead, I stand across from his desk and rest my hands on the back of the empty chair between us. “I want to be assigned to the offensive operations. The ones targeting the Russian pipeline directly.”
Liam leans back, studying me with an expression I’ve seen only a handful of times—when decisions matter enough to fracture groups in half. “Why the sudden shift? You’ve been working your own angles.”
“Not enough,” I say. “My loyalists aren’t enough. The pipeline’s changing routes faster than we can track. Every week we let this drag on, the Russians get bolder. They bombed our hub, Liam. They nearly got Ailish killed twice.”
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
“I’m not asking for permission to be reckless,” I continue. “I’m asking for responsibility. Real responsibility.”
Another silence stretches, long enough for my heartbeat to turn heavy in my ears. Finally, Liam speaks. “If I put you on the offensive team, it comes with a condition.”
I straighten. “Name it.”
“You and Ailish work together,” he says flatly.
The words hit me like a blow to the sternum.
Liam continues before I can respond. “You coordinate on logistics for the raids. You plan the movements together. She handles the strategic funnel and risk assessment. You handle execution. You operate as allies—not rivals.”
It’s a trap. Not a malicious one. Just a deliberate one.
A way to see if we break or bend. I force my voice steady. “You think pairing us is wise given… everything?”
“I think neither of you will survive this war if you keep circling each other like wounded animals,” he says. “And I think Ailish trusts you more than she should, even now.”
A cold ache settles low in my gut. “She shouldn’t.”
“But she does.” Liam folds his hands on the desk. “So let’s give her a reason she was right to.”
His eyes soften just slightly—barely enough to recognize the man beneath the leader. “You’re going to be a father, Declan.”
My throat locks.
He adds, “Whether you think you deserve it or not, that child exists. And every decision you make from this point on affects more than you.”
I look away, staring at the wall of photographs behind him—old snapshots of the brothers, grainy shots of us all at some bar years ago, Liam’s hand on Finn’s shoulder, Conor mid-laugh, me looking like I carried a world on my back even then.
“When does planning start?” I ask quietly.
Liam exhales as if relieved. “Tomorrow morning. Eight.”
“And until then?”
“Go home,” he says. “Sleep. And come back with your head clear.”
I turn to leave, but he stops me with one more sentence. One that shakes something loose in my spine. “Declan,” he says quietly, “Ailish isn’t an obstacle. She’s the reason we survive this.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. Not when something fierce and unfamiliar is blooming in my chest like a bruise and a vow at the same time.
Tomorrow at eight, my new orders will begin. And for the first time in a long damn while—
I’m ready.