Behind me, the rhythmic thud resumes.
I close the door and lean against it, staring at the cat now curled on a chair.
No, Declan O'Rourke is not at all what I thought.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
Chapter 8
Declan
The warehouse is still burning when I arrive. Flames lick through the collapsed roof, orange and vicious against the predawn dark. The air tastes like chemicals and char. Cillian stands near what used to be the loading dock with his hands in his pockets, watching the fire crews work. His face gives nothing away, but I know that expression—the careful blankness that means he's calculating damage, losses, and retaliation.
I move to his side and stop. Neither of us speaks.
"How bad?" I ask.
"Three million in product. Two men hospitalized with burns." His voice is flat. "Could've been worse."
"Sullivans?"
"Intel says yes." He glances at me, almost rolling his eyes. "Payback. They feel disrespected."
I watch the flames. The warehouse is a shell now, brick walls standing, but everything inside gutted. Smoke billows thick and black into the sky.
This isn’t the first hit. It’s the fourth in two weeks, each progressively worse.
Cillian pulls out his phone and swipes through something. "Torched shipment on the docks. Hijacked truck on the interstate. Our accountant's car blown up in his driveway—he wasn't in it, but the message was clear." He pockets the phone. "They're escalating."
"What's the plan?"
"Ronan's working the political angle. Lorcan's gathering intel on their operations. I need you to tighten security." He turns to face me fully. "Starting with personal protection. All family members, and our wives.”
The word wives hits differently now. I have a wife. Saoirse is my wife, and the Sullivans know it because their intel is as good as ours.
"I honestly don’t know what they’ll do next. I’m surprised by this level of vitriol. But we have to try to anticipate and take precautions. They may come at us through the women," Cillian continues. “Nora's already got a full detail. Saoirse needs the same."
My jaw tightens. "She's covered, but I’ll double her protection.” Fuck, I’ll triple it.
The warehouse groans behind us, a section of wall collapsing inward with a roar of brick and flame. The heat washes over us in a wave.
"These fuckers want a war," I say.
Cillian's voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. "They’re about to get one."
The house is quiet when I get back.
I check the security feed out of habit—cameras showing the street, the alley, the fire escape. Corcoran's post is visible on thecorner, his silhouette unmistakable. I pull out my phone and text him.
Double rotation. No gaps. Report anything unusual.
His reply comes back fast.
Copy
I strip off my jacket and toss it over a chair. The smell of smoke clings to my clothes, my hair, my skin. I head for the shower, but halfway up the stairs, I hear movement in the kitchen.
Saoirse.
