And then, the smallest twitch. His fingers shift under mine, almost imperceptible, but enough to stop my heart cold.
“Declan?” I lean forward, clutching him tighter, desperate for more. “If you can hear me, I swear to you, I’m not leaving again. Just hang on. Please. Don’t leave me. I can’t lose you too.”
I don’t hear the footsteps behind me until they’re too close. Too steady. Too sure. There’s a rhythm to them and it sets every nerve in me on edge. By the time the voice follows, the hairs at the back of my neck are already standing. I was too overcome with the sight of Declan to remember that you never sit with your back to a door.
“Are you a member of the family, sweetheart?”
Thick Southside drawl. Equal parts charm and threat. The kind of voice that used to crawl down the back halls of clubs and alleyways when business was handled off the books. My lungs lock tight. That voice drags me straight out of the present and into a past I’ve spent years trying to bury.
I turn slightly, dread twisting sharp and hot through my gut.
Joey Garrity.
Fuck.
One of my father’s old enforcers. Crew muscle—never the brains, but loyal. Brutal. Sharp enough to remember a face even after years, even after layers of reinvention. The kind of manwho’d never forget the boss’s daughter, no matter how much she tried to disappear.
He squints at me, suspicion narrowing his eyes, and I feel it—every second of his scrutiny a spotlight burning through my skin. My pulse hammers against my ribs, but I force my shoulders to stay loose.
“Yeah,” I say, sliding a faint smile into place, one I don’t feel. “Distant cousin of his wife.” I flick my hand in the vague direction of the hallway, casual, dismissive. “Heard about the shooting. Flew in this morning.”
Joey steps closer, close enough that I catch the stench of stale coffee and menthols clinging to his jacket. His gaze never wavers. “Where from?”
“San Diego.” The lie rolls off my tongue smooth as whiskey. “Name’s Dani Rivera.”
Something flickers across his face then—uncertainty, doubt. The moment stretches, razor thin, and I grip it like a lifeline, praying he lets it drop. But then his head tilts, the corner of his mouth twitching as if recognition is clawing its way to the surface.
“You look familiar,” he mutters.
I shrug, keeping my expression bland, my smile steady. “Maybe I just have one of those faces.”
But his eyes narrow further, and I see it hit him—the glint of recognition sparking in the dark.
“Nah,” he says, voice weighted with certainty now. “It’s the eyes. Got that Irish fire.”
Goddamn it.
I force a soft laugh, taking a careful step back, praying he doesn’t see the tension coiled down my spine. “Could be. But I’m heading out—early flight back.”
He shifts forward, subtle but enough to make every hair on my arms rise. The air between us sharpens.
“What’d you say your name was again?”
I don’t give him the chance to dig deeper. I pivot, smooth and steady, walking like I own the hallway instead of running from it.Every step is a countdown. Don’t rush. Don’t break. Don’t let him smell fear. I don’t let my stride quicken until I’ve cleared the corner, and I don’t breathe until the elevator doors finally slide shut in front of me.
Then I collapse against the wall, palms braced, chest heaving like I just sprinted the whole damn city. My pulse is a drum in my ears, sweat prickling at the back of my neck. That was way too fucking close.
I can’t afford to be seen again—not by anyone who knew the girl I used to be. Not until I know what I’m walking into, not until I understand if this hit on Declan was just another street war flare-up or something far darker. Because deep down, I already feel it gnawing at me.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t bad timing or a careless slip. Someone knew he’d be vulnerable. They knew where he’d be, when he’d be there, and that he wouldn’t have protection. That kind of precision doesn’t just happen.
Someone still wants the Kavanagh name erased. And if I don’t move fast, they’ll bleed it out of Chicago—one sibling at a time.
I step into the hotelroom and close the door behind me, the muffled city noise still seeping through the walls like a pulse I can’t escape. Chicago. The pace is the same—fast, relentless, unforgiving—but I’m too wrung out to care. Seeing Declan hollowed out in that bed drained me more than I want to admit. But now there’s no room left for grief. Now it’s about survival.
I toss my bag onto the bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes, a sigh escaping before I can stop it. Coming back here wasn’t just dangerous—it was expensive. Uprooting myself overnight gutted what little cushion I had left, and I need cash, fast. But it has to be the right club. I need somewhere discreet enough to keep me out of Lachlan’s orbit butexclusive enough to pull in real money. In and out, no questions asked.
Dropping onto the edge of the mattress, I pull out my phone and run a quick search for men’s clubs in Chicago. No time to waste with trial and error, not when every shadow could be carrying Brotherhood eyes. The screen fills with names—some that reek of desperation, some that might pass if I had no other choice. Then one jumps out at me.
