Page 29

Chapter 29

Piers

T he bass rattles the glass in my hand, the steady pulse of music weaving through the din of the club. Dark figures move against neon lights, laughter sharp and fleeting in the haze of cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey. Dublin’s underground looks the same as it always has- loud, crowded, and full of people looking for power or pleasure.

My eyes scan the room, not out of curiosity, but habit. In places like this, you never know who might be watching or what might be waiting in the shadows.

My fingers tap against my glass of untouched whiskey, eyes fixed on the door. The connection is late- not unusual in this business, but irritating all the same.

The job is simple- get the info, pass it along, let the Crowes do the rest.

A woman with piercing blue eyes and raven-black hair saunters over, her smile designed to disarm. She’s all curves and calculated grace, wrapped in a red dress that clings in all the right places. Confidence radiates off her- tall, poised, the kind who’s used to getting what she wants. She leans against the table, tilting just enough to give me a perfect view of her plunging neckline. Her voice comes husky over the music.

“Mind if I join you?” She says, the words dripping with honey.

I glance up at her, my expression neutral. “I'm waiting for someone.”

Her smile falters for a moment before she recovers. “Maybe I can keep you company until they arrive?”

I shake my head, attention snapping back to the shifting crowd. “I don't think so.”

She huffs, but doesn’t push. Smart girl. She lingers for a moment before blending seamlessly into the sea of faces. I’m sure she’s used to men chasing after her, but not me. Not anymore.

Minutes later, a lean figure with a sharp jawline and hunched shoulders slips into the club. His eyes dart around before locking onto me. My contact.

He moves quickly, sliding into the chair across from me. Up close, I notice the slight sheen of sweat at his temple, the way he keeps adjusting the collar of his too-tight dress shirt. His suit is ill-fitting, the jacket a size too big, the fabric wrinkled like he’s been wearing it too long.

He slides a small piece of paper across the table before talking. “The shipment’s moving through Crowe territory,” he mutters, voice low. “Tomorrow night. Warehouse off the docks. Midnight.”

The exchange is quick, clinical- just a time, a place, the confirmation I need. He doesn’t linger, pushing off the chair before his seat has time to warm. A ghost before anyone even notices he was here.

Business taken care of, I fall back into silence.

And then-

“Well, that was rude, brother.”

Desmond slides into the vacated chair, his posture relaxed but the glint in his eyes sharp. Glass in hand, his expression is caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

Brother .

The word still feels foreign. Desmond and I have gotten used to each other, but the resemblance hasn’t stopped being uncanny. Sometimes, I still catch my reflection out of the corner of my eye and think it’s him. Sometimes, I forget that someone else in the world now shares my face.

I arch a brow as I pass him the note. “What was?”

He nods toward the crowd. “That woman. You barely glanced at her before sending her off. She was gorgeous.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Not in the mood.”

He watches me for a long moment before speaking, as if he’s considering his words carefully.

“Still sulking over Fantasia?”

“The information check out?” I ask instead.

“Two years, Piers. You’re telling me you’re still thinking about her after all this time?”

The question hangs in the air, but I don’t let it stir me. I don’t turn to him, don’t look at the expression on his face.

“You need to move on.”

I take a deep breath, the memories of Fantasia still raw despite the passage of time. “It's not that simple,” I say, my voice even but guarded.

Desmond leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “You never stick around long,” he muses, tapping his fingers against the table. “ You come in, do the work, then disappear before anyone realizes you were here.”

I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. “I get the job done. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not all that matters. You act like you’re some outsider looking in, but you’re not. You’ve been helping me take the knees out from under those bastards for months, Piers. Whether you admit it or not, you’re part of this.”

I shake my head, sighing. “I don’t overstay my welcome.”

Desmond scoffs. “That’s just it. I wish you would overstay your welcome. You've had all this time to assimilate into the Crowes. You could’ve been a part of something bigger than just the Warwick family. But you chose to stay in Wesley Hall.”

I feel a twinge of frustration but keep my tone level. “I've been helping you take down the O'Connor gang. I've been a part of this, Desmond.”

“Helping?” Desmond's voice is gentle but insistent. “You've been a ghost hovering on the periphery, always keeping a foot back. That's not how family works, Piers.”

I sigh, knowing this conversation isn't new. “Desmond, I appreciate what you're offering, but I've made my choice. I'm the head of the Warwick family. That's where my loyalty lies.”

“They're not your blood.”

“Neither was my adopted mother, but she loved me more than our father ever has.”

Desmond's expression tightens for a moment before smoothing out. “Da's... complicated. But that doesn't change the fact that you're family. You belong here, with us. Not rattling around that empty house, pining after a woman who clearly doesn’t want to be found.”

The words hit their mark, as he knew they would. I drain my whiskey, welcoming the burn.

“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter, pushing the glass around on the table, my fingers rubbing the edge. “She made her choice. Besides, I'm fine where I am.”

“Are you?” Desmond leans forward, his voice dropping. “Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man who's given up. You help me with business, sure, but you never let yourself get too close. And for what? So you can go back to England and pretend you're not still in love with her?”

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “We're done here.”

“Piers.” Desmond's voice stops me. When I look back, his expression is serious. “You don't have to be alone. Whatever our father thinks, whatever happened in your past - you're my brother. You have a place here. A family.”

For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Trading Wesley Hall's empty corridors for the warmth of the Crowe compound. Having a brother, a family who shares my blood if not my history.

But then I think of Susan Warwick, who chose me when no one else would. Of the responsibility I was bestowed upon. Of the life I built, the one Fantasia walked away from.

I can't abandon it. Not even for this.

“I know,” I tell him softly. “But I've already got a family. And responsibilities I won't walk away from.”

Desmond's jaw tightens. “Even if it means being alone?”

I think of Fantasia. Of her jade eyes and sharp tongue. Of the way she felt in my arms, the future I thought we could build.

Two years, and the ache hasn't faded.

“I'm used to it,” I say, and turn away before he can see the lie in my eyes.