33. Declan #2
It’s the right choice. Her lips tug upward, faint but real. “Good,” she says. “I want to feel like myself.”
We leave out the back to avoid the guards stationed at the front. The evening air is cool, not cold, and when Ailish falls into step beside me, it strikes me how natural this feels.
The restaurant is one of those blink-and-you-miss-it places at the end of a narrow street—no sign, no windows, no promises.
Just a door with chipped paint and a man near it who knows me well enough to nod without questions.
Inside, the lighting is warm and dim, the air thick with spices and simmering broth.
But it’s not the restaurant itself that matters.
It’s the stairs.
The host leads us up a single narrow flight, then through a kitchen passage that smells of garlic and heat, and finally out onto the roof.
The rooftop is small, barely wide enough for three tables, all shielded from the street by low walls lined with crawling vines.
Above us, the city glows in fractured amber.
The hum of traffic rises below like a lullaby.
Ailish stops at the threshold. “Declan… this is beautiful.”
“It’s quiet,” I answer. “We needed quiet.”
There’s one table set for two under a string of dim lights. Nothing fancy. Nothing designed to impress. Just a place where no one can interrupt us.
She sits, smoothing her dress over her stomach, and I take the seat across from her. The server brings water and disappears again without speaking. This place is built on silence.
Ailish looks around, exhaling slowly. “How did you even find this?”
“I used to come here with Finn,” I say, surprising even myself with the admission. “Before… everything.”
She nods, her expression softening. “He’s good for you. Even if you two pretend you hate the idea.”
I smirk. “Don’t tell him that.”
A beat of silence follows—comfortable, warm. She looks down at her water glass, tracing the condensation with her thumb. “Declan?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
“What do you really think of all this? The baby. Me. The fact we’ve managed to ruin each other and somehow still…” She trails off, searching for a word that doesn’t cut. “Still end up here.”
I lean back in my chair and let the evening breeze run across my arms. “I think we’ve both been doing the wrong dance for a long time.
You and Liam—your alliance—it made sense on paper.
You were the only one who could keep him balanced.
The only one who knew how to speak his language without letting him bulldoze everyone. ”
“That’s not what you thought before,” she says softly.
“No. Before, I let my pride talk.” I let out a breath. “And when you lie to yourself long enough, the lies start sounding like facts.”
Her throat works. She doesn’t interrupt.
“You made a choice,” I continue. “And I wasn’t part of it. I didn’t want to look at why. Because if I did, I’d have to admit that maybe you didn’t trust me. Or maybe I never gave you a reason to.”
Ailish’s eyes widen, and something like shock flickers through them.
I press on before she can speak. “I didn’t want to listen to Liam. And you listened to him because someone had to. If you hadn’t stepped in, we’d be ash on the docks or buried in the walls of some warehouse by now. You didn’t betray me. You kept the Irish alive.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She looks shaken in a way I can’t quite decode, like she expected me to say anything but that.
Finally, she whispers, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say something like that.”
The server appears with two steaming plates, placing them down quietly before retreating. Ailish touches her fork but doesn’t lift it. She’s staring at me like she’s trying to understand the shape of something new.
I break the silence first. “Ailish… I’m not saying I handled things well. I didn’t. But I’m trying now.”
“I know,” she murmurs. “I can feel the difference.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Have you forgiven yourself for everything that happened?”
She closes her eyes for a moment, then shakes her head faintly. “Not fully. But I’m trying too.”
We eat slowly. The conversation drifts between business and old memories, skipping the jagged parts for now.
After dinner, she moves to the low wall, resting her hands on the stone railing as she looks out over the city.
Her back is to me, her hair catching the faint rooftop breeze.
I step behind her, careful not to stand too close.
“You ever think,” she says quietly, “that maybe we weren’t meant to do things the easy way?”
“No,” I answer. “I think we were meant to do things the right way. We just didn’t know how until now.”
She laughs softly—gentle, warm, real.
After we finish our time on the roof, I drive her back to the townhouse. She doesn’t ask me to come inside, and I don’t push. Her fingers linger on the car door before she steps out, like she wants to say something more. She doesn’t. She just gives me a small nod and disappears into the building.
It takes me a long time to start the engine.
The next morning, I wake with the strange sensation of having slept deeply—peacefully—something that hasn’t happened in months. I don’t dream of Russians or gunfights or the way Ailish once walked past me without meeting my eyes. I dream of nothing at all. Just darkness and rest.
By the time I shower and dress, the weight of responsibility settles back onto my shoulders, but it’s different now—less like a chain, more like armor I’m choosing to put on.
I make coffee, drink it standing at the kitchen counter, and think about the rooftop, the way Ailish looked in the city lights, her hand drifting toward her stomach like she was reminding herself that she isn’t alone anymore.
I think about the way she listened to me, the way she looked at me, the way she didn’t flinch when I admitted the hardest truths.
I think about the baby.
And that’s what pushes me toward my phone. Liam answers on the second ring. His voice is low, composed, already tired and already ready for war. “Declan.”
“Got a minute?”
“Depends,” he says. “Are you calling to fight with me or work with me?”
“Work,” I answer.
“Alright then,” Liam murmurs. “Talk.”
I take a breath and lean my hip against the counter. “Five months ago I decided that reaching for Ailish while Conor had my job would look like I was reaching for yours.”
Liam doesn’t respond immediately. I can hear him thinking, tapping something lightly on his desk, maybe a pen, maybe a knife. With him it’s always a toss-up.
“I know,” he says finally.
That stops me flat. “You knew.”
“Declan, I’ve known since you stopped being able to say her name in a normal voice.” A pause. “I was curious how long pride was going to cost you.”
I run a hand over my jaw, grounding myself.
“It’s cost me enough. I’m not doing this in hallways anymore.
I want it said out loud. To the family, to the Rossos, to whoever’s still keeping score.
That she’s carrying my child. That I’m standing next to her, in the open, and anyone with a problem about either one can bring it to me. ”
The silence stretches, and this one is different. Heavier. Charged.
“Declan,” Liam says, low and careful.
“I’m not asking lightly,” I press.
“And I’m not asking for the role to be handed to her. I’m asking what the rules are. What the price is. What I need to do.”
Liam exhales once, slow and controlled. “You really want the answer to that?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” he says. “Then listen carefully.”
I straighten, every nerve on alert.
“Don’t ask,” he says quietly, “unless you’re ready to bleed for her.”
I swallow hard. “I am.”
“We’ll see,” Liam murmurs. “Finish your mission today. Then come back with a clear head. We’ll talk.”
“Understood.”
The line clicks off.