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“What happens,” Rian continues, “when somebody comes for him? Because somebody will. In here, or the day he walks out. What do you do then, counselor?”
“The same thing I’m doing now. I stand in front of a judge and take them apart, on the record, where it can’t be undone.” I lean forward. “That’s what I do. I’m very, very good at it. Ask your brother. Ask Cillian Quinn. Better yet, ask the DA.”
The corner of Rian Greene’s mouth moves, and he says, “Welcome to the family.”
Aidan tells me about the time sixteen-year-old Declan tried to sneak out of a girl’s bedroom window and got stuck halfway, because even back then, his shoulders were too damn wide. The fire department had to come. I’m laughing so hard, I’m crying. Declan’s got his face in his hand.
Oh, my God. I have three huge, terrifying, criminal brothers-in-law, and I think… I think I might love them…
When the guard calls five minutes, I don’t want to go. Aidan hugs me again, longer this time. Finn goes for a hug, looks at Declan’s face, and shakes my hand instead with exaggerated care. Rian smiles more warmly.
Then he turns to Declan and winks. “She’ll do, brother.”
Dec doesn’t take his smiling eyes off me. “She sure will,” he replies.
Then we get our last embrace, and hold on for as long as they let us.
Eleven
Declan
The days between visits are fucking brutal. Nobody warns you about that shit. For four years, I did my time like a fucking machine. Wake up, work out, read, eat the garbage they call food, handle business, sleep. Every day the same, and I didn’t give a shit.
Now I get two fucking hours with my fucking wife every other week. Two fucking hours of her soft skin, her sweet scent, her laugh, fuck, that laugh… then they take her away from me, and I get twelve days of fucking nothing. Her scent usually wears off by the third day. By day five, my wolf’s pacing so hard I can’t fucking sit still. By the following week, I’m fucking miserable, and everyone on the block knows to stay the fuck out of my way.
I’m Declan fucking Greene. I don’t fucking pine. I don’t count days like some fucking teenager.
Except, apparently, I do now. Fuck me.
It’s day nine when the Callaghans hit our territory. And not quiet, either. Two of my trucks torched on the Pier in broad fucking daylight, in front of half the waterfront. Thank God, no one’s hurt. But everyone fucking saw it.
So Eamon looked at the body I left him in that alley, and this is his answer, huh? Fuck you, Greene. What you gonna do about it from your fucking hole?
Just wait and see, motherfucker.
Two nights later, one of the Callaghans’ bars burns to the ground. We wait until it’s empty, after hours. But it burns, and it’s on the fucking news.
So it’s war now. And I’m stuck in a fucking cage while my brothers fight and my woman sleeps alone across the fucking city.
I’ve never hated these walls more.
* * *
“Greene. Visitor.”
I’m not expecting anybody.
“Who?”
“You’ll see,” that asshole Pruitt tells me.
He cuffs me too tight and walks me down to the non-contact booths, fucking whistling. And right then, I know. Four years I’ve wondered who’s been paying this piece of shit to make my life a little worse. I’m about to fucking find out.
He opens the booth, and there he is on the other side of the glass. Eamon fucking Callaghan. Silver hair. Navy suit. Little gold cross at his throat, because the piece of shit never misses Mass. Fucking smiling at me like we’re old friends meeting for lunch. I’ve known this snake since we were kids. Our fathers were fucking friends. And the same month I got locked up, he started carving up everything my family built.
I sit. Pruitt chains me to the counter, and then, instead of leaving, he goes and stands in the fucking corner. Like he wants a fucking seat for the show.
“Declan,” Eamon’s voice comes through the vents, as syrupy as fucking honey. “Look at you. You look good, brother! You been lifting?”
