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Sixty minutes to save them.
Or lose everything.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I feel Evan's small frame shiver against my side as I hold him close, the musty air of the cramped office clinging to our skin. The walls, stained with the residue of cigarette smoke and something darker, tell tales of secrecy and power plays. Declan's on the phone, his voice a low rumble I can't quite make out, but the look in his eyes says it all: he thinks he's won.
"You've got one hour, Constantino. Tick tock," he says, his voice slicing through the tension. He hangs up with a click that echoes off the concrete floor, and his lips stretch into a self-satisfied grin, directed at me.
"Declan, you're chasing shadows," I say, my tone dripping with disdain. "Constantino's not going to come waltzing into your trap like some starry-eyed fool."
Evan's worried gaze lifts to mine, his eyes searching for something solid in this mess. With Declan busy preening over his imagined victory, I lean down to the boy, pressing my fingeragainst my lips, signaling silence. The kid nods, relief flickering across his face before he buries it in my side again.
Declan turns toward me, the light from the bare bulb above casting deep shadows over his bearded face. "You think he won't show? That he doesn't care enough about what we've got here?" He gestures at Evan with a jerk of his chin.
"Men are predictable," I retort, trying to keep my voice steady despite the drumming of my heart. "They think with their fists and their guns, not their heads or their hearts. You can't trust 'em to do the smart thing."
There's a hardness in Declan's eyes, a sharpness that tells me he's no stranger to betrayal. "Not even Constantino?"
"Especially not him," I snap back, the bitter taste of cynicism on my tongue. "He's just like the rest of them," I say, the words not feeling quite right.
"Ah, but you see, Evelyn," Declan says, prowling closer, his boots thudding against the floor, "I've got something Constantino wants. And when you've got the bait, the beast will come."
His confidence grates against me, his arrogance a challenge I can't ignore. There's a hunger in his gaze, a predator sizing up his prey, and I know he's not just talking about Constantino anymore. My grip tightens on Evan, my resolve hardening.
"Keep dreaming, Declan," I say, my voice low and dangerous. "Because that's all this is—a dream. And when you wake up, you'll find that nothing's changed. You're still the same man who couldn't lead a pack of rats to a garbage heap, let alone run the Irish Mob."
His chuckle rumbles in his throat, a dark sound that dances with menace. He leans back against the battered desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes gleaming with something I can't place.
"Divorce is an ugly beast, isn't it, Evelyn? Is that why you're like this?" he drawls, and I can feel the floor shift beneath me at the mention of my past. "Must be quite the sting, your husband running off with your best friend."
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, schooling my features into impassiveness. "I don't see how my personal life is any of your business," I retort, but the tremor in my voice betrays me.
Declan's laugh is low and mocking. "Oh, it's my business to know things," he says. "Surveillance is key in this game. You never know when a piece of information about a friend—or an enemy—might come in handy."
"Is that what Constantino is to you? A friend? Or an enemy?" I shoot back, trying to regain some semblance of control. The air between us crackles, charged with an unseen current.
He scratches at his beard, a contemplative look crossing his rugged features. "Friend, once. But the Maldonados... they've lost their edge. Dropping the gun trade, trying to go clean. It's pathetic."
"Constantino wants to lead. To change things." My words are careful, measured. "To take over the family and make it something... more."
"Ah, yes, the prodigal son returns," Declan muses, pushing off from the desk to pace the cramped space. "But times have changed. The Irish deserve to be on top now. And I'm just the man to take us there."
"Under your rule?" I ask, skepticism lacing my tone. "What makes you think you can do any better?"
The question seems to amuse him. "Because, darling, unlike the Maldonados, I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty. I'm not clinging to some outdated sense of honor. I do what needs to be done."
I can't help but scoff at his arrogance. "You mean you bully and terrorize," I say. "That's not leadership, Declan. It's thuggery."
His footsteps halt, and he turns to me, a sharp glint in his eye. "You'd do well to remember who you're talking to, Evelyn," he warns, voice like gravel.
"Or what?" The challenge hangs in the air, heavy and dangerous. "You'll add me to your list of people to watch? People to break?"
"Watch? Break?" Declan chuckles darkly. "No, love. I have other plans for you."
Declan leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest like a king surveying his court.
"Tell me, Declan," I start, voice dripping with disdain, "what exactly qualifies you to run all of New England's underbelly? Apart from your talent for intimidation and that beard compensating for something?"
