Page 12 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

Declan placed the folder down on my desk. “Three delayed payments from East Dock suppliers.”

I signed a document without looking up. “Reason?”

“They’re claiming new ownership disputes.”

My pen stopped for half a second.

“Two warehouse crews quit within a month,” Declan continued. “Different sites. Same explanation.”

I finally looked up. “And?”

Declan’s mouth flattened slightly. “None of them gave notice before taking work elsewhere.”

“Who hired them?”

“We’re checking.” That meant he already had an answer forming and was waiting for confirmation before he said it out loud.

I leaned back in my chair slowly, watching the city through the glass. These were small things, and that was exactly the problem. Wars never announced themselves loudly at the start. Pressure came first, people hesitated, money movedslower, and familiar names surfaced after they’d been absent for years. Then the blood started flowing.

Declan opened another file. “There’s movement around Anton territory.”

That got my attention. A man like Samuel Anton rarely moved without reason.

“Testing?” I asked. Declan shrugged once. It could be coincidence, but neither of us believed that.

I looked at him for a long moment, Declan held my stare easily. We’d worked together long enough to understand silence. Coincidences existed, of course, but patterns existed more often.

I dropped the signed papers onto the desk. Someone was testing our control. Declan nodded immediately. No surprise there; he’d reached the same conclusion already.

“We can wait,” he said. “See if it develops.”

That was the wrong answer. I stood and grabbed my coat off the back of the chair. Declan spoke again, almost casually.

“There was another name.” I paused near the window, and he flipped a page. “Patrick Callahan.” The name settled heavily. It was familiar, and old enough to carry dust with it.

My jaw tightened. Patrick, a tired man with too many secrets and a habit of surviving consequences that should have finished him…I hadn’t heard his name in years, which meant hearing it now mattered.

“Collections report,” he said. “His name surfaced through old accounts.”

I looked back toward the construction site below, where workers moved and machines were roaring, everything functioning and stable. For now.

“How long?” I asked.

“Two weeks.”

Two weeks was too long. “Where’s he spending his time lately?”

Declan answered immediately, already prepared. “A betting shop in Dorchester. Sometimes around Murphy’s. Mostly in the evenings.”

I held his gaze, then said, “Get me an address.”

Declan didn’t ask why. He just reached inside his jacket and slid a folded paper across the desk, prepared again. I looked down at it once, and when I spoke my voice stayed low and controlled.

“Tell the crews I’ll be unavailable this afternoon.”

Declan’s eyes narrowed slightly, understanding. I never left problems alone, and old debts have a habit of growing teeth.

***