Page 1 of The Endless Want

CHAPTER 1

Declan

The whiskey burns going down, but I welcome it.

The back room of O’Malley’s smells like smoke, leather, and bad decisions. Conor sits across the table, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. Two other captains hover near the wall—one pretending not to eavesdrop, the other scrolling his phone like the Russians aren’t trying to carve up our streets.

The Italians’ fingerprints are everywhere—new accounting systems, “joint business ventures,” all that partnership bullshit Liam keeps preaching. Every day feels less like an empire and more like a franchise.

Conor has been Liam’s right hand for as long as it’s mattered, and five months ago Liam handed him the rest of what used to be mine, which is a math problem nobody in this room says out loud.

Behind him, Rourke handles the docks and Feeney handles whatever Rourke won’t touch. Two captains, one table, and not a single one of them willing to say the thing they all drove here to say.

“Declan, you’re not hearing me,” Conor says. “If the Italians want us running the club by their rules, we run the club by their rules. Liam’s orders.”

“I heard you,” I snap, tapping ash into an empty glass. “And I told you; we’re not dogs waiting for table scraps.”

Conor exhales through his nose. “You planning to take that up with Liam directly?”

“If I have to.”

He leans forward, voice low. “You’ll just prove them right—that you can’t follow orders.”

That stings more than I’ll admit. Following orders got my father killed, Kieran buried, and me stuck cleaning up everyone else’s mess.

“I don’t answer to the Italians,” I mutter. But I feel more like a petulant child than a member of the Irish mafia.

“No,” he says, “you answer to your brother.”

The words taste sour. The kingdom had been mine. And while I didn’t wish my brother dead, I don’t agree with the way I was shoved out and undermined. “My brother’s playing house with foreigners.”

The room quiets. Everyone knows the truth, but no one says it—Liam’s alliance saved us. Still, every handshake with the Rossos costs us a little more pride.

I pour another drink just to feel something. The bottle’s nearly empty when the door opens.

The sound of heels against wood slices through the tension. Sharp. Confident. Familiar enough to raise every hair on my neck.

Ailish.

Her silhouette fills the doorway before the light catches her—fitted black dress, leather jacket, hair pulled back like she’s ready for a battle.

“Evening, gentlemen.” Her tone’s clipped, businesslike. “Liam asked for an update.”

“Of course he did,” I mutter.

She has been in rooms like this one since she was old enough to be told to wait outside, and she stopped waiting outside a long time before anyone gave her permission. No title. No last name that matters here. She just walks in and the temperature changes.

Now she carries my brother’s word into rooms like this and nobody asks her to prove she’s allowed to. Not officially an officer. Not officially anything. She just walks in and the temperature changes.

She ignores me, addressing the room. “The Italians are tightening logistics. All shipments now go through the new docks in Southie. No more side routes or ‘creative accounting.’ We stay clean.”

One of the captains pipes up. “Clean? The Italians are talking about clean? That’s rich.”

Ailish shoots him a look that shuts him up fast. She’s got that effect—calm, deadly. It’s what makes her good at this. It’s also what makes her dangerous. You never know what a woman like that could do.

“You heard the order,” she says. “Follow it.”

It used to be me she backed up like that. Or so I thought.