And then there's Zaria.
I take a sip of whiskey, feeling the burn.
Zaria.
She didn't ask to come into my world, but she did, and she's distorted everything. It's been a week since the pool, and I find myself heading up to her room almost every night. Sometimes I talk. Sometimes I just stand there and listen to her ramble about documentaries or history or food she misses.
I tell myself it's just intel gathering, but that's bullshit.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore.
I've never been this conflicted in my life, feeling like I should save someone, touch someone, and destroy someone all at the same time.
And I hate myself for even thinking it.
But the worst part is I don't know which instinct is stronger.
I push back from the desk and stand. My knuckles ache from the fight I had earlier. Some low-level enforcer tried to skim from a drop. I didn't kill him, but I wanted to, badly.
Everyone tells me I don't need to be out in the field anymore, that bosses don't do the dirty work, but being out there is a hell of a lot better than being here sometimes.
I pace the office as my father's advice rages war in my mind, trying hard not to start sounding hollow.
But how the fuck am I supposed to wait when the hits keep coming? When my family's bleeding out and I'm the one holding the reins?
I've decided that waiting isn't leadership anymore. It's surrender.
It's time I stop trying to be my father.
I'm not him. I can't be. And trying to follow his exact playbook isn't going to save us.
I need to be me, and maybe a little part of Declan, the two sides of our father's coin merged together.
Thoughtful and reckless.
Calculated and brutal.
So I'm done waiting. That's why tonight's conversation is happening.
I finish the whiskey in one swallow and walk out of my office, heading upstairs.
The guards see me coming and unlock the door without a word. One of them opens it for me, stepping aside as I walk in.
Zaria's sitting on the floor, legs crossed, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, reading a magazine.
Her hair's wet and clinging to her neck, and she stands when I enter.
"Hi," she says. "I was just thinking about what you told me last night. About your favorite comfort food, colcannon with bacon."
I nod, moving to the chair I've been sitting in every time I come here. It's become routine now. Her on the bed and me in the chair, the door locked behind us.
"Well, like I told you, I've been thinking of ways I can repay your kindness, so I want to make it for you." She smiles, and it's still strange seeing that expression on her face. She's been doing it more over the last few days. "I worked in the kitchen some nights. I'm not a chef or anything, but I thought maybe I could try making it for you. As a thank you for all the food you've given me."
It's strange how normal she sounds. How domestic, like I'm not her kidnapper and her my captive.
"Actually," I say, "I have something you can do."
Her smile falters as she sits on the edge of the bed, hands folding in her lap.
