Watching her brothers express their concern and treat her with the respect she deserves thawed my heart by a good millimeter or so.
And we heard the play-by-play. How Brody tracked the other Russians down and made the executive decision to kill Doyle to prevent Rostov from getting his grubby hands on the accountant and bringing down the Gallaghers onbothcoasts.
After everything…all that fucking work…the accountant’s dead.
According to Connor, Doyle hadn’t yet spilled any of Shane’s secrets. The rat wasn’t prepared to talk without two million in an offshore account, and Declan wasn’t about to give up that kind of money without reassurance, so it was a real stalemate for most of his LA stay.
A bold move on Brody’s part, killing Doyle. He used a .50 caliber rifle from a quarter mile away. Didn’t kill any Russians—that was all me—but managed to end their mission with a single bullet.
Declan, who’s presumably pissed, didn’t bother to show his face.
Both brothers tried to convince Maeve of Declan’s relief over her safety and claim he happily sacrificed Doyle to rescue her.
Please. I doubt Declan would lose much sleep over Maeve’s death.
The decision to kill Doyle—and single-handedly end the brewing fight between the two Gallagher factions while simultaneously getting my ass out of a boiling pot—was all Brody.
Finn considers Brody’s move an act of peace.
In the Irish Kings’ eyes, we’re even.
I hope it stays that way for a while.
Maeve slides a foot under my thigh. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I set my whiskey down and cup her foot in my hands, gently massaging her sole. “I was just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
“Well, you’re certainly on top of the world.”
Close enough. On the penthouse balcony, the salty night air and gorgeous view provide the perfect backdrop for cuddling on the loveseat.
But the best part is the music.
The Arden sits just two floors below us. From our current position, we can enjoy the wedding festivities from afar as they wind down.
Jordan Weaver’s parents spared no expense, and we’re reaping the benefits of their nine-piece jazz band without the need to dress up or schmooze or fork over a wedding gift.
Maeve sighs. “I love this song. ‘Cheek to Cheek,’ by Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Now, jazz is a genre I can get behind.”
She jabs me playfully in the gut with a toe. “Just jazz?”
“Baby steps, darlin’. I’m not a convert yet.”
When I lean over, she presses a sweet, soft kiss to my lips.
It’s almost midnight, and only half a dozen couples linger to sway on the dance floor. All but the most devoted partiers retreated indoors long ago.
During my worst moments last night, as I struggled to free myself while believing Maeve hated my guts, I wondered if I’d even live to see the next day.
Nestling Maeve tighter to my chest, I allow myself a moment of appreciation. Stars glitter over the ocean as we enjoy an essentially private concert.
Best night of my whole damn life.
Presently, the Gallagher factions are at peace. No clue how long the truce will last, but since Brody axed the accountant and I saved Maeve, both coasts decided to wave the white flag.
At least until Declan conjures up a new scheme.
