Page 59 of Declan

Viviana

Declan wasn’t thrilled when I told him last night I’d be having lunch with Silvana. He insisted on sending two of his men with me on the condition they’d wait outside the restaurant. Having two hulking men in black suits, armed to the teeth, looming in a cosy little restaurant would have been too much to handle.

This place holds memories for me. I used to come here before I got married. The owner has been a friend of my father for years. It’s exactly the kind of place I like—small, with wooden floors and ceilings, dark tables covered in soft yellow linen, and the scent of garlic and freshly baked bread wrapping the space in warmth and nostalgia.

Silvana enters the restaurant looking like she just walked off the set of a Martha Stewart magazine shoot. Her light green dress flows around her in delicate waves, her high heels clickingsoftly against the floor. Every strand of her hair is perfectly brushed, framing her sharp, immaculate features.

The restaurant isn’t busy. Half a dozen people are scattered around, and we’re seated in a quiet corner near the small bar. It’s private, away from prying eyes, but still close enough to keep watch on the room.

“How have you been?” she asks, her voice smooth but guarded.

“Good,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “Better than I expected.”

She hums softly, a noncommittal noise that grates on my nerves.

“What?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” She shrugs, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. “I just thought you’d be the last of us to warm up to Declan.”

“He’s different than I thought,” I say carefully. “We’ve become…” I pause, searching for the right words. I need to be careful here. “Friends.” Friends who have been fucking every day for the past week—more than once—but she doesn’t need to know that.

I tear off a piece of bread, almost burning my fingers. It’s warm and filled with garlic and oregano. The scent hits me instantly, dragging my mind back to the kitchen with my mom—making garlic bread and laughing at silly jokes. I miss her. I miss who I was when she was alive.

“That’s good,” Silvana says, though her voice carries a subtle edge. Her gaze stays locked on mine.

“Any particular reason you wanted to have lunch?” I ask, cutting straight to the point. Let’s not pretend this is a friendly catch-up. She’s the last person I’d choose to spend time with, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Even after the last time I saw her—when she was unexpectedly caring and kind—something about today’s timing doesn’t sit right with me.

She hesitates, her eyes darting to the empty plate in front of her. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. How the Callaghans are treating you.”

I snort softly. “You wanted to see? Or is Father worried about what I might’ve told Declan?” I’m tired of the pretence. We both know she’s here to gather intel for him. He hasn’t spoken to me since that call, and the thought of him panicking, expecting retaliation from the Irish Consortium, makes me smile.

“Viviana,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “He’s our father. He only did what he had to do to keep us safe.” She can barely meet my eyes.

“Safe?” I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “You call what Dad did—three years ago—and force one of us to marry Declan, keeping us safe?” I lean forward, grabbing her hand so looks at me. “He’s put us in more danger than we’ve ever been. He only cares about power.”

Her eyes widen, her face flushing as she pulls back. “What are you talking about? Three years ago? I’m talking about the deal to marry Declan.” Her hand trembles as she clutches her fork, knuckles turning white.

Does she really not know?

“No, Silvana,” I say, my voice dropping low, testing. “What Dad did, three years ago, on my birthday?”

She laughs nervously, the sound forced and hollow. “God, you always find drama in everything, don’t you?” She takes a sip of wine, but her eyes flicker to the corner of the room, giving her away.

I follow her gaze to the bar. Two men sit there, eating and drinking, but their presence suddenly seems out of place. WhenI look back at her, our eyes meet—hers filled with sorrow and something close to guilt.

My heart pounds, a cold dread pooling in my stomach. “Silvana?” I whisper, my voice shaking.

Silvana rises abruptly, leaving her purse and coat behind. “I just need to use the bathroom,” she mutters, her tone clipped. She doesn’t wait for a reply, storming off toward the back of the restaurant.

I watch her retreating figure, unease creeping over me. Something about her hurried steps and tense shoulders sends a prickle down my spine. My body tenses, instinct whispering that something is wrong.

I try to shake it off, waiting as the minutes tick by. My mind races, darting between what I told her, her reactions, and the way she ran. It takes me a moment to realize how quiet the restaurant has become.

Too quiet.

And then I feel it—a hand clamps down hard on my arm, yanking me from my seat.

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