Page 35

Doran

Three Months Later…

Three months of marriage and I've learned her rhythms.

The way she hits snooze exactly twice before panicking about being late.

How she leaves her coffee mug in random places around our bedroom.

The fact that she talks in her sleep when she's stressed about exams.

Last night it was something about "jurisdictional precedents" and "fuck the commerce clause."

Even unconscious, my wife has strong opinions about law.

The bathroom door opens and she emerges in a cloud of steam, hair wrapped in a towel, wearing one of my t-shirts.

"Morning," she mumbles, hunting for her clothes.

"Coffee's on your nightstand."

She pauses, notices the mug I placed there five minutes ago. "You're too good to me."

"I'm exactly good enough." I watch her shuffle through our closet. "Blue suit's at the cleaners, remember?"

"Shit." She emerges with the gray one instead. "What would I do without you?"

"Be late and undercaffeinated."

"Truth." She drops the towel, and even after three months, the sight of her makes my mouth go dry. "Stop looking at me like that. I don't have time."

"I'm just appreciating my wife."

"Your wife has a presentation on constitutional interpretation that's worth thirty percent of her grade." But she kisses me anyway, quick and sweet. "Dinner tonight? Dalla mentioned something about making that pasta thing you like."

"I have a meeting until seven."

"The territory thing?"

"The territory thing," I confirm.

She knows enough—that we're consolidating power, establishing new boundaries.

She doesn't need the details about who might bleed for those boundaries.

"Be careful."

"Always am."

She snorts. "Liar." Another kiss, then she's grabbing her bag. "Love you. Don't kill anyone before lunch."

"No promises."

Then she's gone, a whirlwind of chaos, leaving me with the scent of her shampoo and a stupid smile on my face.

I take my time getting ready.

The house is massive enough that I can shower and dress without hearing Dalla's music from the east wing.

She's been here a month now, fully moved in after accepting her place in Mom's fashion program.

The kitchen smells like coffee and ambition when I make it downstairs.

Dalla sits at the massive island, sketching while eating cereal.

She's still in pajamas— Star Wars ones that Revna bought her as a joke but she actually loves.

"Morning, brother-in-law," she says without looking up.

"That's Mr. Brother-in-Law to you."

"In your dreams." She tilts her sketchpad toward me. "What do you think? For the winter line."

I study the design—a dress that somehow manages to be both elegant and edgy. "It's good. The neckline especially."

"Really?"

"Would I lie about fashion? Your sister would divorce me."

She grins. "True. She's gotten very particular since Greer started dressing her."

"Speaking of my dear old mum, isn't your internship starting soon?"

"Monday." For the first time since moving in, I see nerves crack through her confidence. "What if I suck at it? What if switching from pre-med was a mistake?"

"Do you miss the blood and guts?"

"Fuck no."

"Then it wasn't a mistake." I pour myself coffee. "Besides, Mom already thinks you're brilliant. She showed me your portfolio."

"She did?"

"Twice. I can now identify bias cut versus straight grain, which is knowledge I never needed."

Dalla laughs. "Sorry. She gets enthusiastic."

"She gets family." I lean against the counter. "That's what you are now. Family."

"Even though I threatened to castrate you if you hurt Rev?"

"Especially because of that."

My phone buzzes—Mikhail with the morning updates.

Territory secure, shipments on schedule, no immediate threats requiring attention.

It's been quiet since the wedding.

Too quiet, maybe, but I'll take the peace while it lasts.

"You heading out?" Dalla asks, noting my suit.

"Meeting downtown. Should be back for dinner."

"Cool. I'm making that baked ziti thing." She pauses. "Rev said you liked it last time."

"I did."

"Good. Because it's literally the only thing I can cook that doesn't come from a box."

The drive downtown takes thirty minutes—enough time to review the reports Mikhail sent.

Everything's running smoothly, which should make me happy.

Instead, it makes me suspicious.

In our world, smooth usually means someone's planning something.

The meeting is in one of our legitimate holdings—a restaurant that serves as neutral ground for the various crews in Jacksonville.

My father's already there when I arrive, studying profit margins like the businessman he pretends to be.

He’s been back in Ireland mostly, but came to check in and see how things were doing.

Jacksonville is my city, my stamp on our world, and he knows it.

I’m not naive enough to think he won’t be checking in on me from time to time.

"Son." He doesn't look up. "Heard from your uncle recently?"

"Which one?" I have several, not all of them friendly.

"Liam. He's keeping your brother busy in Dublin."

I sink into the chair across from him. "Define busy."

"Running collections for the Irish side. Grunt work, but it keeps him occupied." Now he looks up. "No more photo albums or surprise appearances."

"Good."

"Is it? You could have handled it permanently."

"He's still my brother."

"Yes, but still…" But there's approval in his voice. "Your mother's influence."

"Speaking of Mum, she's stolen my sister-in-law."

"Stolen is harsh. Mentored, perhaps." He closes the portfolio. "How's married life?"

"Better than expected."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I expected her to resent me and instead it feels like the best thing that ever happened to me." I signal the waiter for coffee. "She's adapting well."

"And you? Adapting to having someone else's opinion matter?"

"Learning to."

He chuckles. "Took me a while to figure that out with your mother. You're ahead of schedule."

Mikhail arrives with two other men, and we shift to business.

Territory disputes, shipment schedules, the delicate balance of power that keeps Jacksonville from erupting into war.

It's tedious but necessary—the administrative side of the empire.

"What about the Culebra?" I ask eventually. "Any movement from Bembe?"

"Funny you should ask." Mikhail pulls up something on his tablet. "He's been testing what he can get away with, again. Nothing major—messages, minor provocations. But he's definitely recovered enough to cause trouble."

"The club notice yet?"

"Hard not to. Three of their guys got harassed last week. Nothing they couldn't handle, but still."

I think about Revna's father, about the debt owed for two dead prospects. "They'll retaliate eventually."

"Might be sooner than eventually," my father observes. "My sources say Runes is calling a vote. Full table."

A full table vote means serious action.

The kind that usually ends with bodies.

"When?"

"This week, probably." He studies me. "You planning to interfere?"

"Why would I? The MC handling Bembe saves us the trouble."

"And the risk," Mikhail adds. "If they move on him, it's their war, not ours."

"Unless he retaliates against Revna," I point out.

"He's not that stupid," my father says. "Touch her and he has both families coming for him. Even Bembe's not suicidal."

The meeting continues for so many hours—logistics, finances, the boring but essential details that keep money flowing and enemies at bay.

By the time we finish, I'm ready to be home, and surprisingly, I’m an hour earlier than expected.

The house glows in the afternoon sun when I pull up.

It's everything the penthouse wasn't—warm, lived in, ours.

Dalla's car is in the drive next to Revna's, and I can smell garlic from the kitchen.

"I'm home," I call out.

Dalla yells back. "Kitchen!"

I find her stirring something on the stove while Revna sits at the island, laptop open, surrounded by law books.

"How'd the presentation go?" I ask, kissing Revna's temple.

"Nailed it." She leans into me. "Professor Adams actually said 'impressive' which from him is like a standing ovation."

"That's my girl."

"Your girl needs wine." She closes the laptop. "This brief is killing me."

I grab a bottle from the rack—a good red we picked up on our honeymoon.

The normalcy of it strikes me sometimes.

Pouring wine for my wife while her sister cooks dinner.

"So," Revna says as I hand her a glass. "Dad called today."

"Oh?"

"Club business." She takes a sip, organizing her thoughts. "About Bembe."

I keep my face neutral. "What about him?"

"He's been pushing boundaries. Making threats. Small stuff, but the club's had enough." She meets my eyes. "I think they're going to handle it. Soon."

"Your father's a smart man."

"That's very diplomatic of you."

"I'm learning." I top off her wine. "Some problems solve themselves if you're patient enough."

"And this problem? You're okay letting the club handle it?"

"Why wouldn't I be? It's their debt to collect."

She studies me. "Three months ago, you would have wanted to control the situation."

"Three months ago, I didn't have you to remind me that not everything needs my direct intervention."

"Look at you, growing as a person."

"Don't get used to it."

Dalla turns from the stove. "Okay, dinner's ready. And I only burned the edges a little bit."

We eat at the massive dining table that Revna insisted on—"for when both families come over"—talking about everything and nothing.

Dalla's nervousness about Monday, Revna's upcoming finals, my mother's latest design coup.

"Oh," Dalla says suddenly. "I officially withdrew from pre-med yesterday."

Revna freezes mid-bite. "You did?"

"Signed all the papers. I'm done. Officially a fashion student."

"Dal, that's huge!" Revna reaches across to squeeze her hand. "How do you feel?"

"Terrified. Relieved. Like I can finally breathe?" She laughs, but it's watery. "Mom's going to flip."

"Mom will understand," Revna says firmly. "Eventually."

"After she processes the death of her doctor daughter dreams."

"You're following your actual dreams," I point out. "That matters more."