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CHAPTER 1

DECLAN

B lood sprays across the concrete floor as my fist connects with my opponent's jaw. The underground fight club roars around us, but I hear nothing except the pounding of my heart and the crack of bone against bone.

"Finish him, Donovan!" a voice shouts from the crowd.

I circle my opponent—a burly Russian with tattoos crawling up his neck and hatred in his eyes. He lunges at me, sloppy and desperate. I sidestep, driving my elbow into his temple. He crumples to the floor, and the referee counts him out.

Victory tastes hollow tonight. I wipe blood from my knuckles as the announcer declares me the winner. The Bangkok crowd cheers, but I turn away, heading toward the makeshift locker room—a grimy storage closet with peeling paint and the stench of sweat and cigarettes.

"You need to tape those hands better," my manager Sato says, tossing me a towel. "That's the third fight this month. Your body will break down at this pace."

I grunt in response, unwrapping the bloodied tape from my hands. The mirror on the wall reflects a man I barely recognize—shaggy dark hair falling into haunted eyes, a jagged scar running along my cheekbone, tattoos marking every significant mistake and memory.

"There's a call for you," Sato adds, holding out a phone. "From Ireland."

My stomach tightens. No one from Dublin calls me anymore. I left that life behind six years ago.

"Who is it?" I ask, taking the phone.

"Your brother."

Cormac. The name alone brings back memories I've spent years trying to forget—the Donovan family business, our father's iron rule, the blood on our hands.

"Declan," Cormac's voice comes through. "Da is dead."

The words hit me like another punch to the gut. Patrick Donovan—the man I fled from, the man who wanted to turn me into a monster just like him—gone.

"How?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.

"Heart attack. Three days ago." A pause. "The funeral is Friday."

I close my eyes, picturing the family home in Dublin, the empire built on violence and fear. "I'm not coming back."

"You need to," Cormac insists. "Things are... complicated. The Russians are moving in. The Italians too. Everyone thinks we're vulnerable now."

"That's not my problem anymore."

"You're still a Donovan. This is still your family."

I laugh, a bitter sound that echoes in the small room. "I stopped being family when Da put a gun in my hand and told me to kill for him."

"That was years ago. Things are different now."

Are they? I wonder, but don't ask. Instead, I say, "I need to go."

"Wait—" Cormac says quickly. "There's something else you should know. It's about Maeve Brennan."

The name punches through my defenses. Maeve—with her ocean-blue eyes and soft blonde curls, the only pure thing in my dark world. The woman I left behind without explanation.

"What about her?" I ask, my voice tight.

"Just come home, Declan. Some things need to be said in person."

The call ends, and I stare at the phone, memories flooding back. Maeve's smile. Her laughter. Her tears when I told her I was leaving Dublin. The look of betrayal in her eyes.

I press my forehead against the cool concrete wall, trying to push away the ghosts. But they cling to me, whispering of unfinished business and hidden regrets.

"Bad news?" Sato asks, watching me.

"My father died."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I toss the phone back to him. "The world is better without Patrick Donovan in it."

"Will you go back?"

The question hangs in the air. Will I return to the city I fled? Face the family I abandoned? See Maeve again after all these years?

"Book me a flight to Dublin," I say before I can change my mind.

Sato nods, not asking questions. He knows better than to dig into my past. "When?"

"Tonight."

I throw my gear into a duffel bag, muscles aching from the fight. Every instinct tells me to stay away from Dublin, from the Donovan name, from all the darkness I left behind. But Cormac mentioned Maeve. After six years, why bring her up now?

In my apartment above the gym, I pack what little I own—some clothes, my passport, a worn photograph I never look at but can't throw away. A picture of Maeve and me, taken the summer before I left. Before I broke both our hearts.

The taxi arrives at midnight. As Bangkok's neon lights blur past the window, I try to prepare myself for what waits in Dublin. My father's funeral. My family's empire. The ghosts I've been running from.

And Maeve Brennan—the biggest ghost of all.