Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
DECLAN
“Are you sure you're okay to be here?” Seamus asks, giving me that look.
I know it like the back of my hand—I spent enough of my youth on the receiving end of it.
He was always the grown-up in the room, even before he had any business being one.
I can still see him knocking heads together: mine, Cavin's, Ashland's.
“No.” I shake my head. “I won't be an eejit about it. I'll take care of what I need to. But I had to get out of that fuckin’ hospital room.”
After giving me a long look, he nods. “Understood, brother. Just don't overdo it. Are you still going to New York?”
“Looks like,” I say, trying to school my features.
Seamus studies me for a moment, then sets his hands flat on the desk. “I know you made this promise to me, Declan, but I have to tell you—I'll never take it for granted. I'm very grateful for what you've done.”
Praise from Seamus is a sparing thing, and it holds weight accordingly. “Aye. Thank you.”
“And I have good news.”
He flips open a file on his laptop and turns it to face me. “Valentina's family has come through. Unlike what happened with the Kavanaghs—” A few keystrokes, and the screen changes. “They've already moved this much into our coffers.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. That is a fuck ton of money we can't say no to.
“Excellent,” I say, trying to put as much fake enthusiasm into it as I can.
Yeah, I want to know that what I'm doing is worth something, but what I would really love to hear right now is that Valentina's family has botched everything and the wedding is off, not that the alliance is in better standing than it was before me.
But I know what this money means. I knew when I shook on it.
The Espositos don't just bring capital to the table—they bring reach.
Legal reach. The kind that moves paperwork no Irish barrister has managed to shift in six years.
Torin's name was part of the terms, buried halfway down a list of concessions, like it was an afterthought.
It wasn't an afterthought. It was the first thing Seamus asked for. If the Espositos can move that paperwork, they can move other things too. And if Lorenzo Esposito is half what his reputation suggests, having the bridge is worth more than the alliance itself.
But this is the job I agreed to. This is what it looks like when it works.
“Haven’t told Torin yet what we stand to win with this exchange.” I can tell by the guarded look on Seamus’s face that he doesn’t quite believe it himself. “And he has some concerns.”
“What kind of concerns?”
“He wasn't too happy when I told him who you were getting into bed with.” I try to hold my expression, but I'm not quite sure I manage it because Seamus gives me a curious look. Of course what he means is figurative, but I hate the idea of it all the same.
Seamus leans back, and something shifts in his expression—the easy brotherliness draining out of it, replaced by something older and more careful.
“Been gathering intel from America. The Rossis in Boston and the Romanovs in New York both corroborate that her family’s been in New York since before our fathers were born.
They built their operation on the docks, back when that meant something.
Extortion, racketeering, union strong-arming, the kind of thing that doesn't make the papers because the right people are paid to keep it that way. There were three murders attributed to her father alone, back in the nineties. Nothing proven. Nothing ever is, with them.” He pauses.
“And Valentina’s brothers aren't any softer.”
“So it's best to stay on the in-laws' good side, is what you're saying,” I offer, with what I hope is an optimistic smile.
Seamus lets out a short laugh and scratches his brow. “You might say that. I just don't want to see you get into trouble. It would be in everyone's best interest, mostly yours, if you get along with the family.”
“Understood. I know how to play the long game.”
“Honestly, Declan, I know you do.” He says it plainly, without flattery. “It's why I thought you were best for this. I don't think there's a single man in this family better suited for it.”
Well, bollocks for me.
He walks me through a few more screens. I may be marrying a woman I can barely stand to be in the same room with, but at least the sacrifice will be worth it. At least it means something and will put everyone in a better position.
Especially my family.
Especially Bridget.
That was the part Seamus agreed to.
When I sat across from Seamus and told him I'd take whatever match he proposed without resistance, I had one ask. One.
Bridget stays untouchable. Permanent protection. Off the board, off the books, forever.
Everything else came after.
The thought settles somewhere in my chest that I don't examine too closely.
“Thank you, Declan. You know my father's health is failing.” Seamus's eyes droop, and he steeples his fingers, resting his chin on top.
“The doctor says it's congestive heart failure.
He's lived a good life, but this is genetic. He has time ahead of him yet, but we have to make sure the family is in good standing for when something does happen. And something always does, eventually. You know that as well as I do.”
Aye. I do.
We've been dodging bullets for years. Seamus secured the Kopolov alliance when he married Zoya—a messy affair, but it landed right in the end.
Ashland put to rest everything that had to do with the Crowning business when he married Bianca.
And now it's my turn. It was inevitable. It was bound to come around eventually.
“It's the younger ones I'm most worried about,” Seamus says.
Bronwyn. Daire. Colm. Lochlan. They've got years ahead of them, and no suitable arrangements in place yet. The sooner the family is settled—properly settled, bonded by blood and alliance and by the particular gravity of shared stakes—the safer all of them are.
“I understand.” I don't mention that rumor has it Bronwyn does indeed have a suitor. That's the family’s business to manage, not mine, and I am not in the habit of borrowing trouble when I have more than enough of my own.
When I leave, I can’t shake the feeling I’m walking myself to the fucking guillotine.
I meet Aunt Caitlin in the hallway. Her silvery hair’s in a messy bun, and she’s wearing her signature faded dress and sun hat, which tells me she’s been in the garden, her favorite place to be.
“Declan?” she says, her smile bright. “You're alright?”
“Aye,” I tell her. “You? Seamus told me about Uncle Keenan.”
“Aye,” she says. “He’s lived a hard life, my husband, but we have good doctors who promise us a solid prognosis. He’s not going anywhere for a long time yet.”
I nod, not sure what to say when she changes the subject.
“Your fiancée is lovely.” She says it warmly, but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's worried. So are Mam and Da.
“Thank you.” I keep my own smile easy. I'm not going to complain about the choices I've made. Not now, not here.
“It'll be nice having an American in the family,” she says, and I wish she would stop. I don't want any of Aunt Caitlin's endless positivity right now. She's one of my favorite people in the world, but I can't stand it, not today.
“Check the cake!” Bronwyn's voice carries from the kitchen. “I’m up to my elbows in paint!”
“Right, love,” Aunt Caitlin says, then gives me a quick hug and heads off. I know Uncle Keenan's health declining the way it has weighs on her, but I also know Seamus will get him the help he needs. It's his job, and Seamus never fails at his job.
My phone vibrates with a text, and I look at it, hoping. I texted Bridget first thing this morning, but she hasn't responded. It's probably just as well that she hasn't. I know she's got responsibilities. I know that our friendship—
Friendship.
Christ, can I even call it that anymore?
Valentina
Your tux fitting is at noon in Dublin. Please wear actual shoes
Soon enough, this woman and I are going to have a conversation about who is the head of this house. I may not be as hardheaded as my brothers and cousins, but fuck it, I won't have a wife who bosses me around either.
Of course. Not prone to going into Dublin barefoot.
Valentina
You know what I mean.
I know exactly what she means—she wants me in those stiff-as-cardboard dress shoes instead of the trainers I wear every day. She can fuck off.
If I weren’t recovering, I’d meet Cavin at the gym. Lift something heavy, get some of the aggression out. He still hasn't told me what the feck is wrong with Bridget. Not a flare-up, she'd said. Then what the hell is it?
Maybe I need to ask her directly. Right. I’ll ask her myself. If she won’t answer my texts, I’ll find out where she is.
So I make a call to her guard.
“Sir?”
“Are you with Bridget?”
“Always, sir.”
Jealous of the bastard. “Where are you?”
“She's in Dr. Rosenberg's office, sir.”
Right. I'd actually been contemplating paying the doctor a visit myself—nothing threatening, necessarily. Of course, I know exactly where his office is. I've taken her to so many appointments I could navigate there in my sleep—where to park, which alleyway, which exit she'll come out of.
Rosenberg's office sits just inside Dublin, on the edge of Ballyhock, flanked on either side by the kind of glass-and-steel high-rises that make the older parts of the city look like a different country entirely.
When I reach the door, I wonder what Valentina would say.
What Seamus would say. What my father would say if I sat down across from him and told him the truth of it.
Maybe that's the conversation I actually need to have.
Christ, I’m engaged to the wrong damn woman.
Then I open the door and see her, standing at the exit, only a few feet from her car.
She looks… she looks good. There’s color in her face, which is a nice fucking change after the time she’s had. She thanks the person in front of her for holding the door open, her voice warm and easy, the way it always is. “Thank you so much.”
She hasn’t seen me yet. “Bridget.”
She turns at the sound of my voice, and her mouth forms a perfect circle.
“Declan? What are you doing here?” It doesn't look like she's happy to see me—but why does she look guilty?
“You didn't answer my text,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “I heard you had an appointment today. Thought it was about time you told me what's actually going on with you.”
Something shifts in her expression as her eyes shutter, and she looks away. “You shouldn't be here,” she says.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep meaning it.” She pulls the papers against her chest and looks at me with an expression I haven't seen from her before.
It isn't really anger but something that's been building for longer.
“This is my appointment, Declan. This is my body.
You don't just get to turn up and micromanage me.”
“You weren't answering—”
“I wasn't answering because I didn't have anything to say.” Her voice is very even. That's how I know I'm in trouble—Bridget going even is never a good sign. “I'm entitled, like anyone, to not answer.”
Why is she so fucking beautiful when her eyes flash at me like that? I want to pull her into my arms and kiss every word out of her until her eyes go soft and she's my good girl again.
But we have to get to the bottom of this, and I’m not walking away, not again. “That’s where you’re wrong, lass. You don’t get to hide from family.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Even Cavin's worried.”
“I know you're all worried.” She looks up. “But at the end of the day, who's responsible for me? Who is it, Declan?” A beat. “Me. I am. And that means it's none of your business.” Her voice wobbles at the very end, just slightly, and it tells me she wishes it were.
“I'm trying to be kind—”
“You're not,” she cuts in, like she's correcting herself. “I mean, it's kind, what you're doing. I know that. But it's none of your fucking business.” She lifts her chin. “You're engaged.”
My lips press together. She isn’t wrong.
“To another woman. A woman you're going to marry.” She rubs at the corners of her eyes with the heel of her hand, like she's furious at herself for what they're about to do.
“How many weeks away is it now? The wedding?” She shakes her head before I can answer.
“I'm not asking to be cruel. I'm asking because I think you've forgotten, and I need you to remember it right now, standing here, in front of me.”
“Bridget—”
“I'm. Not. Yours.” She says it plainly, like a fact she's been rehearsing.
“We're friends. That's it. That's all we are.” Her eyes are very wide and very bright.
“You turned up to my doctor's appointment because you were worried about me, and I understand that, I do.
But you don't have the right to be worried about me. Not like this. When you agreed to be married, you forfeited that. You gave it up.”
“That's not true.”
“It is.” Her voice is steady, but her chin is trembling as she points her finger at me. It’s the angriest I’ve ever seen her. “It is true. So tell me—what am I to you, then? What exactly?”
I stare at her. I don't have an answer she'd believe.
“You're Cavin's cousin,” she says when I don't speak.
“You're someone I know through the family.
That's what you get to be.” She swipes at her eyes quickly, like she's angry at them for the betrayal.
“Every time you show up, every text, every hospital visit, every time you sit in that chair and bring me soup like you're—” She stops.
Swallows. “It's not fair. Do you understand that?
You're not being kind. You're rubbing salt in a wound that never gets to heal because you keep coming back and reopening it.”
And now she’s crying openly, and I hate myself.
“I know,” I say. Because I do. God help me, I do.
“Then stop.” Her voice cracks—just barely, just once—and she reins it back so fast I almost think I imagined it. “Go home, Declan. Go to your fitting. Go marry her. And stop showing up at my appointments like you have any right to know what happens in that room.”
The silence that follows is enormous.
“Bridget—” I reach for her against every rational thought I have, and when I do, she tries to pull away.
“Don’t—” But the papers she’s holding fall to the ground, along with a small white bottle. We both bend at the same time to pick them up, and my eyes fall on bright-pink letters that take me a few seconds to process.
Prenatal vitamins.
I stare, dumbfounded, at the pamphlets lying like an advertisement beside the bottle. Glossy papers. A smiling baby. “Congratulations! You're expecting! What next?”
Did she… Are these… I stare up at her as she goes as white as a cloud, her anger and resistance melting.
Holy fucking—
“Are you… Bridget, are you pregnant?”