The room goes quiet again.
"So this is how you silence witnesses now?” Ronan asks sarcastically.
"It's about convenient timing.” My voice hardens. "I've been thinking it's time I had a wife. Ma's been pushing."
"But why her?" Lorcan presses. "Is she smokin’ hot or something?"
I glare at him with enough intensity to make him raise his hands in surrender.
"I'm just asking what everyone's thinking."
I can't even be mad. Not really. Of course, they wanna know why I chose a homeless woman I barely know to be Mrs. DeclanO'Rourke. And if I had an answer for that, I'd give it to them. The problem is, I don't even know why I chose her.
I let out a slow breath and run a hand through my hair. “She's indigent. A product of the failed foster care system. When I found her, she was sleeping in a laundromat chair with her shoes on and her bag clutched in a death grip. As far as I can tell, she's got no one and nothing." I trace the rim of my glass. "I had two options with which to silence her. I chose one."
I don't tell them the rest. I don't tell them about the grainy security footage of her running through the rain, terror written across her face. I don't tell them about the strange tightness in my chest when I saw her sleeping in that plastic chair, the fine architecture of her collarbones where her jacket slipped off one shoulder. I don't tell them that the decision to propose marriage wasn't calculated at all, or that when it came out of my mouth in a laundromat at 3 AM, it shocked me as much as it shocked her.
"I've made my decision,” I say with finality.
Cillian studies me for another long moment, then nods once. I recognize the expression in his eyes—not just acceptance, but understanding. He knows there's more to this than I'm saying.
"If you're sure,” Cillain says.
"I am."
“Fine.” He nods. “Then you have my support.”
Ronan’s lips twist as he considers this. “The marriage protects the family, too."
"Does Ma know?" Lorcan asks.
"Not yet."
Lorcan whistles low. "Good luck with that conversation."
"Let's move on," Cillian says, mercifully redirecting. "The Callahan situation needs our attention."
The discussion shifts to territory disputes and security protocols, but I catch Cillian's occasional glance.
“So, you never answered. Is she hot?" Lorcan asks under his breath as he leans closer to me.
I glare at him.
"What? If she's gonna be family, I'm curious." His grin is sly, knowing. "You’re not the type to make this kind of call without a damn good reason, is all.”
I don't dignify his stupid question with a response, but Lorcan's smirk tells me he doesn’t need an answer.
Later, during goodbyes, I observe Cillian and Nora together in the foyer. I note the way his hand rests on the small of her back. The way she leans into him, her hip against his. The natural familiarity between them.
I look away, but the image burns into my memory.
I know Saoirse and I won’t have that. Our arrangement will be tactical, nothing more.
I cut the thought off and go home.
The brownstone is quiet, empty.
I shower under steaming hot water, letting it soothe the day's tension knotting between my shoulder blades, and my mind does what it's been doing for hours, despite my attempts to shut it down.
