Page 63 of Irish Daddies
“So what?” I ask. “We just…shoot him in the middle of a toast?”
“No,” Declan says flatly, shaking his head.
“After the toast,” Kellan adds with a lopsided grin. He’s leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, trying too hard to look casual. I shoot him a glance, and the corner of my mouth lifts. It’s absurd. Horrifying. And we’re still making jokes. That’s how far gone we are.
Declan, predictably, doesn’t find it funny. He looks annoyed with us, bothered by our flippancy. Levity’s a betrayal to him. He leans in across the counter, voice low and tight. “We don’tjustkill him. We take everything. His contacts. His leverage. His men.”
“We end the Crowley dynasty,” Rian murmurs. “We burn it from the root.” The room goes quiet. It’s the first time anyone’s said it out loud. He breaks the silence with a wry chuckle, “And yes, we essentially shoot him in the middle of a toast.”
I try laughing too, but it comes out scratchy. I swallow. “And what happens to us if we fail?”
Rian doesn’t answer right away. He just steps forward, quiet in his movements, like he’s approaching something delicate. His hands reach for my coat, his fingertips brushing my shoulder, and I lift my arms so he can slide it off. I shift my fork from onehand to the other, feeling the fabric pull away, the kitchen light grazing my bare arms. “If we fail,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head, “then we die together.”
I close my eyes for half a breath, letting the waffles turn to mush in my cheek. The words settle like dust over everything. Final. Absolute. They don’t scare me the way I thought they would.
“But we won’t fail,” Declan says. His voice is sure. Too sure. He leans across the counter and reaches for my hands, but they’re full—of food, of tension, of everything—so he settles for my forearms, grounding me with those steady hands of his. He holds me with his hands and he holds me with his storm-gray eyes.
I have a flashback of the first night we met, when he tied me up and held me with that same eye contact, telling me to let go, to come for him. His eyes have always put me right back in the moment, brought me down to earth. It hits me how wild it is that the first person to control me also became the first person to ground me. That I’ve come to trust these hands, even when they shake. That the first person to choke me is who helps me breathe.
A shiver runs through me now. I wonder if he ever looks at me and sees all the versions of me that he’s had—bound, sobbing, begging, laughing, surviving.
“Caroline,” he says, voice calm but forceful, “this is your last chance. You can still back out. The boys need a mother. If you wanted to take them and run, we’d understand. We’d help you. We meant it. We’re not keeping you here.”
I stare at him, then at Rian, who nods solemnly. Even Kellan, now leaning against the counter with arms crossed, gives a faintincline of his head. They’d let me go. They really would. I’ve known it for a while. Declan let me go all the way to Washington alone.
I think about it for the first time now, not just in passing, but for real. I imagine disappearing. New names. New town. I imagine teaching the boys how to skate, how to ride bikes, and how to forget. I imagine never hearing Kellan’s dry one-liners again. Never waking up to Declan’s arms wrapped around me like a vow. Never feeling Rian’s lips press to my temple with the kind of reverence people usually save for church.
I came back because I don’t want to look over my shoulder anymore, because I’m done surviving, because I want tolive.
And because, somewhere along the way, these men became my family.
I drop my fork with a loud clatter, take Declan’s hand, and thread my fingers through his. “I’m in,” I say. “Let’s finish this.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for hours.
I pick my fork back up and glance at Kellan. “Fuck,” I say, stabbing another bite. “These are good waffles.”
He grins and blows me a kiss, like we’re not planning a murder over breakfast for dinner. Like we’re just any other family.
Maybe we are. Maybe there’s no such thing as normal.
Probably more normal than this, though.
38
RIAN
We’re all pretending.
The silverware doesn’t clatter, the wine doesn’t spill, and nobody speaks unless spoken to. The roast is tender, the potatoes buttery, and there’s a fine bottle of red breathing at the center of the table like it belongs here. Like this isn’t a battlefield disguised as a dining room.
My father’s at the head, knuckles tapping rhythmically against the table like he’s timing something. A bomb, maybe. His face is clean-shaven for once, hair slicked back, and the glint in his eyes is almost warm if you squint hard enough to forget everything he’s ever done.
Declan sits to his right, posture stiff, jaw ticking. He hasn’t said a word since we sat down. Kellan’s to his left, across from me, picking at his food with deliberate effort, pretending he has an appetite.
And then there’s Caroline, right beside me.
Her face is a perfect mask. Eyes soft, voice sweeter than honey when she says, “Could you pass the salt, Mr. Crowley?” like he’snot the man who orchestrated the worst night of her life. She even smiles, the kind of smile you give a man when you’re afraid he’ll break your fingers if you frown.
