Page 83 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

I exhaled slowly, placed the glass back on the desk. No amount of drinking could fix this.

“Fuck,” I said into the empty room. The sound was controlled, almost careful, like even that small word had to stay contained.

Fucking rubbish.Declan had been guiding the system, adjusting it, shaping it in small ways over time until trust stopped feeling like a decision and started feeling like routine.

I picked up my phone and held it for a moment before unlocking it. I opened the contact list and scrolled until I found him. I didn’t call him; I checked something first. I needed to know he was still exactly where I expected him to be.

He was. Of course he was. I set the phone down again. The confrontation wouldn’t happen by chance. It wouldn’t happen with disorder or emotion.

It would happen on my terms, in a space where nothing could interfere with it. I picked up the glass, finished whatwas left, and set it down carefully. Then I started planning the meeting.

***

The room was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. There was no background noise, no movement outside the walls, just a long table, two chairs, and enough space between us that every small action felt exposed. Declan walked in like it was nothing, like he hadn’t been betraying me for years. He closed the door behind him without looking back.

“Boss,” he said.

I didn’t respond straight away. I sat at the far end of the table with my elbows resting on it, the glass in front of me untouched. “Sit,” I finally said.

He sat without hesitation. The chair scraped lightly as he pulled it in, and then he settled back in a way that looked relaxed, one arm resting on the side of the chair like he had all the time in the world.

“So,” he said after a moment, “what is this about? You said it was urgent.”

I took a sip before answering. “I did.”

He nodded once, like that was enough for now. “Something came up?”

“Yeah.” I set the glass down. The sound of it touching the table felt too sharp in the silence. “I want you to walk me through something.”

Declan tilted his head slightly. “Go on.”

“Over the past few months,” I said, “our operations, movement, internal routing.”

He gave a small laugh—not amused, just a reaction. “You have to be more specific than that.”

I leaned back slightly in my chair. “Do I?”

He didn’t respond. He just looked at me now, fully focused. I slid a folder across the table.

Declan didn’t touch it at first. “Is that yours?” he asked.

“Open it.”

He did, slowly, page by page, steady and controlled. I watched his face more than I watched the file. A few seconds passed, then more. He turned another page and stopped.

“Okay,” he said, closing it halfway. “Where did you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you’re asking me about internal movement logs,” he said.

I nodded once. “Explain it.”

He leaned forward now, his elbows on the table. “Explain what?”

I tapped the folder lightly with two fingers. “All of it.”

That made him pause. He closed the folder completely and pushed it slightly back.