"Oh, fuck Dr. Mills." I pace the length of the table. "He's been giving the same six-month prognosis for two years now."
Callum watches me, his eyes giving away nothing. "Maybe, and like always, we need to consider all possibilities. And more importantly, we need to secure our operations before we lose more product and more men."
I stop at the window, looking out at the Boston skyline that feels like it belongs to us. To the Killaneys. We've bled for every inch of this city.
"Well, like you said. Who the fuck would be dumb enough to come at us?"
Neither of them answers. I turn back and look at my sister, and then both of us look at Callum.
"Is there something you aren't telling us?" Keira asks.
"No, that's the rule between us. All or nothing. You're here, so it's all," he says and turns to me. I speak before he does.
"I'll look into the shipments," I say. "Is there anything I have to work with besides lost inventory?"
Callum thinks for a moment. "The last hit, the driver was found with a black feather in his hand. I don't know if that means anything, but…" he trails off, sipping his whiskey.
"Wait. Did you say feather?" Keira asks, leaning forward, confused.
Fuck. My stomach drops. Just like Knox.
"Could be coincidence," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Maybe, but when have you ever believed in coincidence?" Callum asks.
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair. "I need some air."
"Declan, wait, I —" Keira says.
"Like I said. I'll look into it," I say, cutting her off.
I slam the door harder than necessary on my way out.
The gym smells of sweat,disinfectant, and rubber mats. Home. More than any mansion or safehouse, this is where I feel like myself.
It's late, which is how I like it. No idiots trying to impress their girlfriends or shoot TikTok’s while swinging five-pound weights like they're training for war. Just the regulars now who have special access, men who bleed for sport and work for pain.
I change and wrap my hands slowly, like a calming ritual as my mind races. Black feather. Just like the one stuffed in Knox's mouth.Her, and now my father's health. The last is too much to think about right now.
The punching bag swings with the first jab. I follow with a cross, then a hook. The impact radiates up my arms. I need this. I start bobbing and weaving, and before I know it, I'm sweating.
The cut above my eye starts to itch, and I pat the area with my gloved hand a few times to calm it down. It's healing nicely, but not without constantly reminding me of the day I saw her.
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me pause mid-combination. In the back by the storage closet, I catch a glimpse of dark hair, a woman's profile. She's kneeling over a duffel, rummaging through it.
I watch her as she stands and sorts through what looks like a medical supply cabinet. I don't think she's noticed me.
I don't know what the hell she's doing here tonight. Maybe she's stocking for the next fight. Or maybe she's fucking haunting me on purpose.
I throw another punch, harder this time, making sure the heavy bag swings far enough to catch attention. She doesn't look up.
For the next few minutes, I demolish the bag, techniques getting sloppier as frustration builds. Each time I glance toward her, she's still there, determinedly ignoring me. Stacking gauze. Acting like I don't exist.
She grabs a container from a high shelf and shifts her weight to reach it, the edge of her shirt riding up to reveal a pale strip of skin above the waistband of her jeans.
My punch misses.
The bag swings wide, and I stumble half a step.
