Page 3

CHAPTER 3

DECLAN

T he Dublin air hits me like a punch to the gut as I step off the plane. Home. A word that tastes bitter on my tongue.

I never planned to come back. Not after what my father tried to make me become. But death has a way of dragging us to places we don't belong.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—Cormac, for the third time today. I ignore it. My older brother can wait. The last thing I need is his judgment before I even get my feet on the ground.

The taxi driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. "Where to?"

"Trinity Street." I give him the address of the hotel I booked. Not the family home. I can't face that shitshow yet. I need at least three drinks and a Xanax to prepare for that.

Dublin passes by the window, familiar and foreign at the same time. Seven years changes a city. Changes a man, too.

The bruise on my rib’s throbs, a souvenir from my last fight. The underground circuit pays well when you win, and I win more often than not. Pain is an old friend now.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from Finn, my younger brother.

Will you at least come to the wake tonight?

I don't respond. I don't know yet.

The hotel is small and anonymous, probably only two stars at best, but it's exactly what I want. The room key card in hand, I drop my duffel on the bed and stare at the reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under green eyes. A scar above my right eyebrow. Hair that needs a cut.

I look like him now. The man I swore I'd never become.

The shower helps wash away the travel grime but not the memories. I change into clean clothes and stand at the window, watching Dublin go about its business. People with normal lives. People who don't wake up fighting.

My father, Patrick Donovan, was feared across Dublin. The kind of man who made problems disappear. The kind of man who expected his sons to follow in his footsteps.

I chose exile instead.

The bottle of whiskey from the minibar burns going down. Liquid courage for what comes next.

* * *

The wake is at the family home, a place I swore never to enter again. The taxi drops me at the end of the street. I walk the rest of the way, giving myself time to prepare.

The house is lit up, cars parked along the drive. Voices spill out—mourners paying respects to the Donovan patriarch. Or making sure he's really dead.

I pause at the gate, the weight of the past heavy on my shoulders. A figure steps out of the shadows—Cormac.

"You came." His voice is neutral, but I catch the surprise.

"He was our father." The words feel hollow.

Cormac looks older, lines around his eyes that weren't there before. He runs the family business now. The business I wanted to burn down.

"Come in. People will want to see you."

"I doubt that."

His mouth tightens. "You're still a Donovan."

That's what I'm afraid of.

Cormac sent me away to save me from either killing my father, or being killed by him.

I take a deep breath and follow my brother through the front door, crossing a threshold I swore I'd never step over again. Our family is dysfunctional at best, homicidal at worst.

Inside, conversations hush as soon as people see me. Eyes turn, they stare, and whisper. I recognize old family associates, distant relatives, men who work for Cormac now. My brothers, the ones that are still alive are all here, my crazy sister is probably hiding—if she showed up at all. Daddy’s little doll.

Finn finds me, pulling me into a hug that hurts my bruised ribs. I hide the wince.

"You look like shit," he says.

"Good to see you too."

A glass of whiskey is shoved into my hand. I drink it like its juice not booze.

The coffin is in the formal living room, surrounded by flowers. I approach it alone, needing this moment without an audience.

Patrick Donovan looks peaceful in death. A lie. The man never knew peace in life. His hands, folded on his chest, once strangled the innocence out of his sons.

"You didn't win," I tell him quietly. "I never became what you wanted."

But looking at my reflection in the coffin's polished wood, I wonder if that's true.

More whiskey. More handshakes. More eyes that judge the prodigal son's return.

I escape to the back garden for air. The night is cool, stars hidden behind clouds. Dublin's lights create a glow on the horizon.

"Declan Donovan. The ghost returns."

I turn to find Ryan Byrne, one of my father's oldest associates.

"Ryan."

"Fighting these days, I hear. Bare knuckle. Barcelona, Paris, London." He examines me with calculating eyes. "Your father kept tabs. You have a reputation for being ruthless."

All these years, thinking I was free, and the old man was watching. I hope he enjoyed the show before he died, the asshole.

"What do you want, Ryan?"

"Just paying my respects." He sips his drink. "Your brother runs things differently than your father did. More... diplomacy, less blood."

"Good for him."

"Is it?" Ryan's eyes narrow. "Some say the Donovan name doesn't command the respect it once did."

I recognize the game. Old guard versus new. Ryan trying to use me against Cormac.

"My brother knows what he's doing."

Ryan shrugs. "We'll see. Word is the Russians are moving in. Testing boundaries." He walks away, leaving his warning hanging in the air.

I need to leave. The house, the wake, the past—it all chokes me.

I slip out without goodbyes, walking fast down the back alleys and streets. The hotel calls to me—anonymous, safe. Far away from home.

But my feet take me elsewhere. To streets I know by heart. To the neighborhood where I spent the best days of my life, before everything fell apart.

Before I knew what a monster my father really was. Before Cormac sent me away, to keep me and everyone I loved safe.

Maeve .

I tell myself I just want to see the old building. Her parents' place, where we spent those stolen afternoons. I don't expect her to still be there. She would have moved on. Married, perhaps. Built a life with a picket fence and a rich, handsome husband. I always hoped she ended up happy.

The building looks smaller than I remember. Lights shine in windows, lives carrying on inside.

And then I see her.

Maeve Brennan steps out of a corner shop, grocery bags in hand. Still beautiful, her blonde curls shorter now. She looks tired, older, but it's her.

My heart beats too fast.

Then a small figure runs up beside her. A boy. Dark hair, skinny build.

He turns, laughing at something Maeve says, and I see his face clearly under the streetlight.

My face. My eyes. My smile.

The world stops.

The boy—my son—takes Maeve's hand as they cross the street. They disappear around a corner, unaware of how they've shattered my reality.

I have a son.

The truth hits me like a wrecking ball, knocking me down harder than any hit I have taken in any fight. All these years, while I fought strangers in cages across Europe, I had a son. A child I never knew existed.

A child Maeve never told me about.

My legs move before my mind catches up. I follow their path, staying back, hiding in the shadows, watching as they enter an apartment building.

I stand in the shadows, staring up at the windows, trying to process what I am seeing. Trying to understand what it means. What I must do now?

A black car pulls up across the street. Two men inside, watching the same building.

My hackles go up. I know watchers when I see them. Someone has eyes on Maeve and my son. Who?

The car eventually leaves, but the threat lingers in the air. Real or imagined, it doesn't matter.

Everything has changed now.

I walk back to my hotel in a daze, the city a blur around me. Tomorrow, I'll confront Maeve. Tomorrow, I'll meet my son.

Tonight, I stare at the ceiling, haunted by green eyes that mirror my own.