Page 116 of The Endless Want

When we exit into the courtyard, a black SUV idles near the back gate. Pietro stands beside it, smoking lazily, looking every bit like a man who does not rush for anyone. His suit is immaculate. His hair is slicked back with just enough arrogance to be considered cultural.

He spots us and drops the cigarette, stepping it out. “Ladies,” he calls. “We ready?”

“Born ready,” Mackenzie answers, clapping me gently on the shoulder as we walk over.

I tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting. Pietro opens the passenger door for me with a courtly little bow that I might have found charming if I weren’t already on high alert. His dark eyes scan me quickly, checking for nervous tells, maybe evaluating how much trouble I might be for him today.

“You good to go?” he asks softly.

“I am,” I say. “Thanks for having me on this one.”

He smirks. “We all had bets on whether you’d show.”

I raise a brow. “And?”

He taps the top of the car. “I said you would.”

I slide into the seat before my smile gives me away, and Mackenzie climbs in behind me with two of the Italian grunts. Pietro takes the wheel. As soon as the doors thunk shut, the SUV fills with that mix of leather, cologne, and quiet tension that always precedes recon.

The engine hums, and we pull out of the courtyard.

I place a hand over my stomach, subtle but grounding, and close my eyes for a moment. I breathe. The baby feels like a pulse of purpose against my palm. A reminder that I have two wars to fight—one outside, one inside myself—and neither can be won by hiding.

Declan’s kiss still lingers on my lips. So does the look in his eyes when he watched me walk away.

CHAPTER 35

Declan

I know something is wrong the moment I watch Ailish disappear behind the passenger door of that convoy. It starts as a tight itch in my jaw, then a pulse behind my ribs, and by the time the engines rumble to life, I can’t unclench my fists no matter how hard I try.

She kisses me goodbye like it means something, and somehow that only makes the fear sharper. If she had walked away angry, maybe I could ignore it. But she walks away with trust, and that is the most dangerous thing either of us can allow.

I wait exactly sixty seconds—long enough for the convoy to turn the corner, long enough for none of the Italians to sense a tail—before grabbing my keys and heading for the bike parked across the lot.

I don’t tell Rory. Don’t tell Liam. The thought of explaining the feeling in my chest, the certainty that she shouldn’t be out there, would sound like paranoia. Hell, maybe it is. But I’d rather be paranoid than bury her. I’d rather lose face with every man under me than feel that cold, bone-deep dread come true.

The bike roars under me as I slip into traffic, keeping a wide berth behind the convoy. They don’t know I’m here, and they don’t have to. My job isn’t to interfere. My job is to be present if—when—everything goes sideways. I stay far enough back that only the shadows might catch a glimpse of me weaving between cars, following the three-vehicle line that carries Ailish into what should be the safest errand she’s had in months.

The Italians organized this route themselves, a show of returning trust. They assigned one of their mid-level handlers and a few grunt soldiers. Plenty for a routine recon pick-up. Not enough for what I think could be waiting.

Ailish’s head turns once. Just a quick glance back through the window. She doesn’t see me, doesn’t know I’m here, but I see her profile and feel something clamp around my chest, hard enough to steal my breath.

She’s doing this for herself. For the baby. For the Irish. She wants to be trusted again. I’m the one fighting that.

I’m the one dragging her back out of fear she’ll vanish into another alley like last time. This is her trying to move forward. I should let her. I should say something better than that awkward, too-heavy kiss. I should tell her⁠—

A flash of movement up ahead snaps me out of the thought. A dark SUV rolls out from an alley, too slow, too deliberate, and immediately my stomach drops. The convoy brakes slightly, probably assuming it’s just a cautious driver merging. But I see the second SUV. Then the third. All unmarked, all angled wrong, all waiting for a signal I can practically taste on the wind.

My heart slams once, hard.

Ambush.

I don’t warn anyone. There isn’t time.

I park the bike without thinking—letting it topple onto the pavement behind me—and sprint forward. The first SUV slams into the lead Italian vehicle with the force of a battering ram, metal shrieking, glass exploding like crushed ice across the asphalt. The second SUV hits the rear, boxing them in with brutal efficiency. The middle Italian car—the one Ailish is in—jerks violently, trapped between both impacts.

Doors fly open. Men spill out. Gunfire erupts in a crackling burst that swallows the street whole.