Page 42 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

But that day my concentration kept slipping sideways.

“Anton’s people moved another shipment through Chelsea last night,” Declan said, sliding a folder across the table to me. “Smaller volume this time.”

I opened it without speaking. It was full of black-and-white photos and routes, timestamped. I tried to find a pattern, but it was too random.

But Samuel Anton never moved without purpose. The size of the operation didn’t matter. The repetition did.

Pressure applied gradually lasted longer, like water slowly dripping until it wears down a house.

“He’s testing the waters,” I said.

Declan nodded. “Looks that way.”

I flipped another page. There was missing cash flow from two businesses connected to us. Delays at the docks. Quiet disruptions designed to irritate structure instead of fracture it openly. Not war yet, but he was preparing for it.

I tried to focus, but my attention drifted again to Maeve standing barefoot in the kitchen this morning. Sunlight across marble. One of my shirts hanging loose against her skin while she ignored me and focused on making breakfast.

Not now, Sean. Focus.I closed the folder harder than necessary. Declan noticed and gave me a blank look.

“We tightened security around the south side properties,” he continued carefully. “No movement near the penthouse since the attack.”

Since the attack.The memory rose up, but I pushed it away.

I walked toward the windows overlooking the city while Declan reorganized papers behind me. Rain hung over Boston in dull gray sheets, turning the streets below into blurred movement and reflected headlights.

“Internal leaks are still possible,” Declan said. “Anton’s getting information from somewhere.”

“He’s getting pieces,” I replied. “Piece by piece, until the whole structure is built.” I glanced back at him. He was right.

Declan was as calm and reliable as always. For years those words fit him without effort. Now I found myself examining things I never paid attention to before.

Maeve had done that. She was giving me second thoughts about everything I knew to be true. The thought irritated me instantly, but not because she was wrong.

Because she’d made me look again. Maeve had never directly accused anyone of falsifying those old files. That would have been easier to dismiss. Easier to reduce into emotion or suspicion.

Instead, her questioning had made me look again. Over the timelines and details. Small inconsistencies most people would overlook because the larger story felt solid enough to stand without examination. For years, I’d never examined it closely, either.

Patrick had betrayed us. People died. The organization fractured. Simple, necessary, and finished.

Except lately every version of the story felt slightly unstable when looked at too long. Why were old names appearing again? Emotion clouded judgment. I’d learned that lesson years ago.

Declan studied another report before speaking.

“And Maeve? What will you do with her?” Declan asked.

“She stays inside the security perimeter,” I said.

“She won’t cooperate forever.”

“That’s not optional.”

Declan leaned back slightly, looking at me now instead of the reports. “You’re getting personal about this.”

The room went still. I rested one hand against the edge of the table and looked down at the city again.Personal.The word sounded reckless when attached to me.

Reckless and dangerous. I could insist that I wasn’t taking things personally with her. But what about the sex? The sex had been to make her stay put. To gain control over her. Sometimes nothing calmed a misbehaving woman like a good fuck. So that’s what I did. I gave her a good time. And it worked. She was calmer than before. Of course, she still ignored me, but she was more relaxed.

I could’ve said that. And insisted on it. But every time I pictured Samuel Anton moving closer to her, something cold twisted under my ribs hard enough to make violence feel reasonable. And that feeling was becoming harder to contain cleanly.