Page 3 of The Endless Want

The lie tastes metallic.

I end up at Kavanagh’s, a bar Mackenzie and I claimed as neutral territory months ago—far enough from Costello business to feel like freedom, close enough that we can still get home before Liam notices we’ve disappeared.

Mackenzie’s already there, perched on a stool with her phone in one hand and a martini in the other, curls escaping the clip she never bothers to fix. Half the Costello men think she’s decorative because she manages Liam’s calendar and smiles at the right people. The other half have watched her memorize a room in under a minute. She spots me and grins.

“Well, if it isn’t the Queen of Controlled Rage.” She slides a drink my way. “Gin or gasoline. Dealer’s choice.”

I drop my bag on the bar and down half of it before answering. “Rough night.”

“That bad?” She swivels toward me, giving me the full interrogation look. “Let me guess—Declan?”

I raise a brow. “When is it not Declan?”

“Touché. Did he at least throw something this time, or did he go for the slow-burn passive-aggressive routine?”

I laugh despite myself. “A bit of both. He accused me of being Liam’s messenger.”

“Well… you are Liam’s assistant now.”

“Mackenzie.”

She smirks over her glass. “Fine, fine. But you’ve gotta admit, there’s something almost endearing about how much that man hates authority.”

“Endearing isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Then what is?”

I think about it—about the way his voice dropped, the flash of betrayal behind his eyes, the memory of his hand on my arm years ago, before everything broke. “Exhausting.”

Mackenzie laughs. “You’ve been saying that since we met. Still haven’t learned.”

“Apparently not.”

She leans in, tone softening. “You still care, though.”

I open my mouth to argue, then stop. The truth sits too heavy on my tongue. “I care about the family. About keeping us alive.”

“Sure.” She takes another sip. “And if Declan got himself shot tomorrow, you wouldn’t feel a thing?”

I glare. “He’s part of the family.”

She just smiles that knowing smile that makes me want to throw my drink at her.

“You should’ve seen him tonight,” I say finally. “He’s… angry, but not just about the Italians. It’s deeper. Like he’s carrying something he can’t drop.”

“Probably guilt. Or grief. Or whiskey. Usually a combination of all three.”

“He looked at me like I was part of the problem.”

Mackenzie’s voice gentles. “He looks at everyone that way, Ailish. But with you… maybe because you’re the only one who ever stood up to him for real.”

“Maybe.” I trace the rim of my glass, watching the condensation smear under my finger. “But standing up to him feels a lot like losing ground.”

She tilts her head. “And yet you keep doing it.”

“Someone has to.”

“Liam doesn’t pay you enough for emotional babysitting.”