Page 18 of The Endless Want

“I know.” Softer. “I want to.”

“Why?”

She looked up, and her eyes were clear and unguarded in a way that no one else in my life has ever risked with me. “Because you look like you need someone to. And because it’s me, so it doesn’t count as charity.”

For a second I almost told her. That I’d known her since she was a child following us over a wall. That somewhere in the last few years it had stopped being that, and I couldn’t name the day it changed. That the reason I’d stopped coming to dinner was sitting on the edge of my desk with ink on the side of her hand.

I think you matter too much already.

But Conor had my job and Liam had my leash, and a man in that position doesn’t reach for the one person his brother trusts more than he trusts anyone. It looks like a move. It looks like leverage. I decided I’d rather lose her than be seen taking her.

So I picked up the packet and told her the vendor was a thief.

She let me have the exit. That’s the part I can’t get out from under. She watched me take it and she let me, and neither of us ever mentioned it again, because nothing had happened.

The memory tastes like whiskey and regret. It burns in the back of my throat.

I lean back in my chair and exhale, jaw tight. Back then, I could afford to say nothing. Now I can’t afford to feel anything at all.

Especially not for her.

Every thought of Ailish tonight puts a fresh knot in my stomach. Her being followed, toyed with, and manipulated by someone who knows how to weaponize fear—it’s like watching someone walk the edge of a cliff blindfolded. And Liam wants to handle this by “waiting for more proof.”

He used to be decisive. He used to strike first. Now? He’s diluted by alliances, juggling politics, and thinking about optics. It’s infuriating.

If Ailish gets hurt under his watch, I’ll never forgive him.

Or myself.

I reach into the bottom drawer of the desk and pull out the bottle I keep for nights like this. The whiskey glints warm even in the dim lamplight. I pour a glass—too much, but I don’t stop. The first swallow goes down smooth enough that I barely taste it. The second hits harder.

By the third, the heat loosens something in my chest that shouldn’t loosen.

I lift my phone and make a call I shouldn’t make. “Pull two men from the north docks,” I tell the lieutenant on duty.

“Sir? Kellan has those routes protected. Italians want eyes on⁠—”

“Pull them,” I repeat. “I want them at the new property.”

There’s a pause. “You’re redeploying? Now?”

“Yes.” My voice sounds flat and cold, even to me. “Consider it proactive oversight.”

It’s not oversight. It’s panic disguised as strategy.

I hang up before he can argue. The whiskey keeps burning its path through me, and the office feels too tight, like the walls are pushing inward. I grab my coat and the bottle, ignoring the half-finished paperwork.

Time to inspect the new acquisition. Or drink until I can’t think. Whichever comes first.

The pub sits five blocks south of the river—brick exterior, iron-framed windows, soft yellow light glowing through the glass. On the surface, it’s nothing more than a neighborhood bar built for craft beers and small plates. The Italians loved the location: close enough to industrial traffic to be useful, far enough from any territory to seem neutral.

Below it lies the real operation—the speakeasy, still unfinished, but already designed with purpose. Vices packaged for profit. Rooms that would eventually host high-tier escorts approved by the Italians. A back corridor intended for quiet narcotics exchanges. Money laundering layered beneath legitimate receipts.

I step through the pub’s main door. Warm air hits me—roasted malt, woodsmoke, and the low murmur of conversation. The bartender nods in recognition. He’s new, but he knows who signs his checks.

I head straight to the back, past the staff-only sign that means nothing to me. The private stairwell leads underground. My footsteps echo softly, the whiskey warming me in a way that should worry me but doesn’t.

Downstairs, the speakeasy is half-built: polished bar top not yet installed, shelves waiting for liquor shipments, booths still wrapped in plastic. A few workers linger, but the space is mostly quiet.