“Actually, I can marry a slut, a hooker, or whoever the fuck I want.” I glance at Connor, and he nods, pulling the files from Declan’s desk.
“But instead, I married a photographer with more courage in her pinky than you have in your entire fucking body.”
I take the files and slam them into Flanaghan’s chest hard enough to rock him back a step.
“He can’t marry—” His voice breaks with fury. “The rules—”
“Look at the fucking documents, John,” Declan orders.
He does. Page after page. Doyle steps closer, reading over his shoulder.
“There’s a precedent,” Doyle says, tone firm. He points at the clause. “If the leaders authorise it, he can.”
The last document carries Declan’s signature, with Kian and Connor as witnesses.
“You—” John chokes on his own rage. “This can’t be—”
He throws the papers on the floor and steps toward me. Rage boils in his eyes. He wants violence.
“I would think twice about what you’re about to do,” Declan warns. “If you swing first, the rule is he can swing next. And trust me, John… you do not want to go into a fistfight with Flynn.”
My eyes stay locked on John’s. I dare him. I fucking beg him in silence. Hit me. Give me a reason. I’ll even lower my head so he can reach.
Doyle grabs his arm, dragging him back. “Come on, boss. Don’t do this.”
“You should listen to him.” My voice comes out rough, edged with a smirk I let curl slow across my lips.
“This shit is settled. Autumn is Flynn’s wife, all by the damn rules. So let’s focus on the hit.” Declan rises from the chair, and Christian and Tiernan shift with him in perfect sync, giving him the floor without hesitation. John flinches.
Declan still wants to believe it wasn’t John, wants to pin it on the Russians, but that hope clings only to him. My gut knows better. Too many coincidences. Even the warehouse hit that night when John killed the hired men before they could speak. He may not have recognised the voice behind it, but he’d damn well have heard the lack of a Russian accent.
“Any idea who it might’ve been?” Christian Keeffe asks.
Declan shakes his head.
“The Russians?” Tiernan presses, glancing between us.
“Maybe,” Declan says, though doubt drips from the word. “But why would the Russians go for Flynn and not me?”
Silence settles over the room.
“It’s like whoever planned this had something against Brady,” Kian says.
“That will be hard to narrow down. He must have a lot of enemies,” John chirps.
I smirk. “I do. But I usually cut their heads off once I find them.”
It lands exactly how I intend, like a quiet execution order. John swallows hard and finally shuts his mouth.
“Tomorrow is the dinner at the private restaurant in the hotel,” Declan says. “Only my men and Flynn’s inside. All of yours stay outside.”
They all nod.
The meeting drags another twenty minutes before everyone filters out. As Declan turns, I spot a phone left on one of the shelves.
“Yours?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
