Page 18

CHAPTER 18

MAEVE

"E mma! Emma Murphy!" The shopkeeper waves from behind his fruit stand, and I force a smile as I respond to a name that isn't mine.

Three months in Barcelona and I still flinch at "Emma." Three months living in a rented villa with windows that face the Mediterranean. Three months of pretending to be American expats—David, Emma, and little Sean Murphy—while our real names collect dust.

I balance groceries on my hip and unlock our front door. Shoes scattered in the entryway. Conor's backpack tossed on a chair. Signs of normal family life that feel like props on a stage.

From the balcony, I spot Conor on the beach below, chasing seagulls at the water's edge. His laugh carries on the breeze—one authentic thing in this fake life we've constructed.

Declan walks up behind me, fresh from the shower. "He's been down there an hour already."

"The locals think he's a strange American kid," I say, not turning around. "An Irish boy would know better than to waste time chasing birds that shit on everything."

"You're in a mood."

I set my coffee down harder than necessary. "I got stopped by police on my way back from the market. Random ID check, they said."

Declan tenses beside me. "And?"

"And nothing. The forgeries work fine." I glance at him. "But my heart nearly stopped. Again. Like it does every fucking day."

He pulls me against him, chin resting on my shoulder. "We're safe here."

"Are we?" I turn to face him. "I wake up every night panicking that they've found us. I check Conor's room three times before I can sleep."

"The nightmares will fade."

"Will they? Three months and I still dream about Russians with guns." I look away. "I want to go home, Declan."

His expression shifts. "To Dublin?"

"I want to stop pretending to be someone I'm not."

He runs a hand through his damp hair. "It's not safe yet."

"It's not living either."

At least he doesn't argue. His hair's grown longer, sun-streaked from days with Conor. The bruises and cuts have healed, but new scars join the old ones.

He looks different here—lighter. The Mediterranean sun burns away some of the Dublin darkness. Yesterday at the market he grabbed my arm when a man walked too close to us. Last week he spent three hours following a car that drove past our villa twice.

"I saw the papers you've been checking," I say, nodding toward his desk drawer. "No Donovan deaths in three months. No Russian mob wars. Nothing's happened."

He tenses. "That we know of."

"Cormac would have warned you if there was trouble." I grip the balcony rail. "I can't live like this anymore, Declan. Neither can Conor."

"I'm trying to keep you safe."

"I know. But this isn't living." I face him. "I want to go home."

He looks away, jaw tight. "I'll think about it."

I can't blame him. The memory of bullets shattering our windshield still wakes me up at night. But fuck, I miss calling coffee shops by their real names. I miss hearing Irish accents that aren't our own. I miss home.

"Mom!" Conor shouts from the beach. "Dad! Look what I found!"

He holds up a large shell, waving it proudly.

"We should go down," I say.

Declan nods, but his phone rings. He checks the screen, instantly alert.

"I need to take this," he says, stepping inside.

Through the door, I watch him pace, phone to ear. His shoulders tense, hand raking through his hair.

I go inside. "What is it?"

He holds up a finger, still listening. "When?" he asks the caller. "Are you sure?" Another pause. "Text me the details."

He hangs up and looks at me, face grim.

"What happened?"

"Siobhan's dead."

"How?"

"Her car exploded outside her apartment." His voice goes flat. "The Russians got tired of her bullshit."

"Is it over then?"

"Might be." He checks his phone as a text comes in. "Cormac wants to meet."

"Here? In Spain?"

He nods. "Private location. Just me."

I grab his arm. "Don't go. It's a trap."

"It's Cormac."

"Who lied to you for years. Who got your father to threaten me. Who sent you away. Who probably killed your dad."

"Who also made sure we got out alive." He puts his hand over mine. "I need to know what's happening. If it's really over."

"And if it's not?"

"Then we go deeper. Change identities again. Move to another country." He pulls me close. "Or we go home and deal with whatever's waiting."

I rest my head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

"When do you meet him?"

"He's flying in tomorrow. His flight lands at noon, and he wants to meet right after."

One day to decide the rest of our lives. "I want to be there."

"No." His voice leaves no room for argument. "Conor needs you here."

"And I need to know you're coming back."

He lifts my chin. "I'll come back. No matter what."

I want to believe him. Three months ago, I wouldn't have. Now I'm not sure if it's trust growing or desperation.

"One condition," I tell him. "If Cormac says it's safe, we go home. To Dublin. No more running."

His eyes search mine. "You want that? After everything?"

"I want my life back. I want Conor to know who he really is."

"Even if that's a Donovan?"

"He's more than that. He's ours." I touch his face. "And I want that life back too."

He kisses me, hard and deep.

"Deal," he says against my lips. "If Cormac says it's clear, we go home."

The next morning, I help Declan pack a small bag for the day trip.

"I'll be back tonight," he says, zipping the bag closed.

"You better be." I grab his shirt and pull him in for one last kiss. "I mean it."

He grins. "Yes, ma'am."

I watch from our balcony as his taxi pulls away. My stomach twists with dread as he disappears around the corner. I drop Conor with Maria downstairs, then pace our villa, unable to focus on anything. I check my phone every few minutes, though I know he won't call until he's heading home.

I pick up Conor after lunch, trying to distract myself with normal things—making dinner, bath time, reading stories. But my eyes keep drifting to the clock, counting minutes.

"Where's Dad?" Conor asks as I tuck him into bed.

"Meeting an old friend. He'll be back soon."

"Uncle Cormac?"

I stop and stare at him. "How do you know that name?"

He shrugs. "I heard you and Dad talking. Is he really my uncle?"

I kneel to his level. "Yes. But remember, we don't use those names here."

"I know. We're the Murphys now." He kicks at his blanket. "But I miss being Conor. Sean sounds weird."

I hug him tight. "I know. I miss being Maeve too."

Seven o'clock passes. Then eight. I put Conor to bed with promises that Dad will be here when he wakes up.

Nine o'clock. I pace the living room, phone in hand. No calls. No texts.

Ten o'clock. I try Declan's number. Straight to voicemail.

By midnight I'm frantic. I check the gun in our bedroom safe and plant myself by the window, watching the dark road.

At one in the morning, headlights appear. A taxi pulls up. I grip the gun tighter.

The back door opens. Declan steps out, pays the driver, and turns toward our villa.

Relief floods through me. I run outside.

"Where the fuck have you been?" I demand, throwing myself at him.

He holds me tight, burying his face in my neck. "Cormac's flight got delayed, then he wanted to talk for hours. I couldn't get away."

I pull back to look at him. "What happened? What did he say?"

"Let's go inside first."

In the living room, he drops onto the couch, exhaustion etched in his face. I sit beside him, waiting.

"Siobhan really is dead," he says. "The Russians took her out."

"And?"

"The new boss wants peace. There is too much heat from Siobhan's games. Cops, Interpol." He takes my hand. "Cormac made a deal. The Donovan’s stay out of Russian business, they stay out of ours."

"You believe him?"

"I do." He looks at me. "He showed me proof. Photos of the men who chased us that night. All dead."

"So, it's over? For real?"

"Looks that way." He squeezes my hand. "We can go home, Maeve. If that's what you want."

"What about Cormac? After what he did to you—to us?"

Declan stays quiet for a moment. "We talked about that too. He admitted everything. About Dad, about sending me away." He shakes his head. "He thought he was protecting me in his own very fucked up, twisted way."

"Can you forgive him?"

"I don't know. But I understand him now." He says. "He wants to meet Conor. Properly."

The thought makes my stomach twist. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"Me neither. But one day, maybe." He pulls me closer. "For now, let's just go home. My Irish skin was not meant for Mediterranean sun." We have bought shares in sunscreen since we moved, basically bathe in it.

"When?"

"Whenever you want. Cormac's arranging original papers. Our real names, no red flags."

I lean my head on his shoulder, relief mixing with a strange sadness. Our Spanish escape is ending, even if I hated it here.

"What about the Donovan business?" I ask. "Will Cormac expect you to join him?"

"No. That part of my life is done." He lifts my chin. "I told him I'm out. For good."

"And he accepted that? Just like that?"

"Not at first. But he gets it now." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Family comes first. Real family. You and Conor."

"Take me home," I whisper. "Take us home."

* * *

Two weeks later, we land in Dublin. The familiar damp air hits me as we exit the airport. It smells like three weeks of rain, and home.

Conor bounces beside me, pointing at everything. Before, his world was small—our apartment, his school. Now Dublin spreads before him, full of family history he's only beginning to understand.

"Where are we going?" he asks as we load our bags into a taxi.

"A new place," Declan says. "Near the sea. You'll like it."

The house Declan bought is on the outskirts of the city—a two-story brick with a garden and a view of Dublin Bay. Not his mother's old place, but somewhere untouched by the past.

"It's huge," Conor breathes as we pull into the drive. To a little boy it probably is massive.

It is big compared to our old apartment. Four bedrooms, a garden, rooms filled with light.

"Do I get my own room?" Conor asks, already heading for the stairs.

"Pick any one you want," Declan calls after him.

I walk through the ground floor, running my fingers along new furniture, clean walls. No memories here yet. No ghosts.

"What do you think?" Declan asks.

"It's perfect." I turn and wrap my arms around his neck. "Thank you."

He kisses me. "Welcome home, Maeve Brennan."

The name sounds strange after months of being Emma Murphy. But good. Right .

"Does Conor have to go back to his old school?" I ask.

"If you want. Or we can find a new one closer to here."

"New one," I decide. "Fresh start for all of us."

He nods. "I talked to the clinic where you worked. They'd take you back if you want."

I stare at him, surprised. "You did that?"

"Figured you'd want your job back. If not there, we'll find something else."

"And you? What will you do?"

He grins. "I'm thinking of opening a gym. Boxing, training, that kind of thing. Legit business."

I laugh. "Declan Donovan, respectable business owner. Who'd have thought?"

"Not my father, that's for sure." His smile fades slightly. "Cormac wants to come by next week. Just to check in."

I tense. "Just him?"

"Just him. No other Donovan’s." He touches my face. "We can say no."

Part of me wants to keep Conor as far from the Donovan family as possible. But they're his blood too. And if we're really starting fresh…

"One visit," I say. "We'll see how it goes."

"Thank you."

Conor thunders back down the stairs. "Mom! Dad! I found my room! It has a window seat!"

We follow him up to see his choice—the second largest bedroom with bay windows overlooking the garden. He bounces on the bare mattress, face lit with excitement.

"Can I paint it blue? Like the ocean in Spain?"

"Sure," Declan says, ruffling his hair. "Whatever you want."

Later, after Conor falls asleep in his new room, Declan and I stand in the master bedroom. Moonlight pours through the windows.

"Are you happy?" he asks, pulling me against him.

"I think I will be." I look up. "Are you?"

"More than I deserve."

I hit his arm. "Don't start that shit again."

He laughs and kisses me. "Yes, ma'am."

His mouth covers mine, the kiss turning desperate in seconds. He backs me against the wall, hands rough as they push under my shirt.

"Need you," he says against my neck. "Right now."

I pull at his shirt. "Then take me."

He yanks my shirt over my head, pulling my bra straps down. His mouth closes around my nipple, teeth grazing hard enough to make me gasp.

"Fuck, I love this," he says. "I love you."

I unbuckle his jeans, sliding my hand inside to grip him. "Show me how much."

He lifts me, carrying me to the bed where he strips off my clothes. I lie naked while he stands over me, eyes dark with hunger as he tears off his own shirt.

"Turn over," he orders.

I roll onto my stomach, and he pulls my hips up. His hand comes down hard on my ass, making me cry out.

"You want this rough?" he asks, landing another slap.

"Yes," I gasp. "Don't hold back."

He pushes his jeans down just enough to free himself, then slides his fingers between my legs.

"So wet already," he says. "You need this as bad as I do."

I push back against his hand. "Stop teasing. I have been waiting all day to christen this room."

He grips my hips and drives into me with one thrust. I bury my face in the mattress to muffle my scream.

"Fuck, you feel perfect," he says. "So tight."

I can't speak as he fucks me harder than he has in months. This isn't gentle homecoming sex. This is claiming, marking, reminding each other we're alive.

He grabs my hair, pulling my head back. "Say my name. My real name."

"Declan," I moan. "Fuck, Declan!"

"That's it. No more hiding. No more pretending." He reaches around to circle my clit. "Come for me. Now."

The orgasm rips through me as I cry out his name. He fucks me through it, not slowing until I'm shaking.

He pulls out, flipping me onto my back. "I want to see your face when I come inside you."

He pushes back in. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

"Fill me up," I tell him, digging my nails into his back. "Make me yours again."

"Always mine," he says. "Always fucking mine."

He comes with my name on his lips, my real name, not the alias we used in Spain. This is us, raw and real, no hiding.

After, we lie on sweat-soaked sheets, my head on his chest.

"I never thought we'd have this," he admits. "A real home. A family."

"Never?"

"Not after I left Dublin. I figured that was it—lost my shot at happiness."

I look at him. "And now?"

His eyes meet mine. "Now I protect what's mine. With everything I have."

"We protect each other," I say.

"That too."

I rest my head back on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

This is just the beginning. We'll have challenges—Conor adjusting to school, rebuilding my career, Declan finding his place outside the Donovan empire. Cormac will visit, reminding us of the past we can't fully escape.

But we're home. Together. The three of us against whatever comes.