***
“My dad isn’t taking a handout.” Amelia jabbed a finger at me later that night over a couple plates of Vietnamese food I’d ordered for us.
“I never said he did. And that’s not what I’m offering.”
She nodded, a mouthful of noodles nearly spilling out. I did my best not to laugh at the sight, lest the little badass think I was laughing at her.
“Good,” she said, getting the food under control. “Because we won’t take it.” She put her fork down and took a long drink of water. “JJ and I talked on the phone after you left, and with my mother and Pop’s input, we believe we can pay you back in two years between the four of us.”
I figured as much, and there was no chance in hell I was taking their money in the end, but I’d let them think they were going to boss me around if it got Jack and Rosie on a plane headed toward South Carolina that much sooner.
“Fine,” I said with a shrug, as though it didn’t matter to me one way or another.
Amelia detailed the conversation with her brother as we ate, and when we were done, I got in touch with Phillipa’s secretary to start the coordination for Jack then asked my assistant to pay what needed to be paid.
I was told that it would take about two days to iron all the details out, but by Saturday morning, the flights would be booked, jobs delayed, expedited, or canceled as necessary for Byrne Brothers Construction, giving Jack Byrne three months worth of breathing room. His supplemental insurance would kick in and help cover the equipment notes he was paying off as well as a few other household bills he was concerned with.
In the end, Amelia told me that they hadn’t touched the family savings too much. “Which is great,” she said. “Because it means we can pay you back that much sooner.”
I nodded to keep her happy, but inside I was rolling my eyes.
Jack and Rosie would be on a plane in a week. JJ would hopefully stay in line and help Amelia keep employees paid and things afloat for the time being. Jack would have surgery, heal, and recover and be back before the holidays.
Amelia still wasn’t incredibly happy about potentially being away from him during the recovery, but for once, Rosie had stood her ground and let her feelings be known.
“He’s my husband,” she’d said to Amelia. “And if I think he’ll heal faster and come home stronger this way, you have to get over it. He doesn’t need a bunch of people fretting and crying over him. He needs a clear mind and plenty of salty sea air.”
I could feel the undercurrents of sadness coming off Amelia in waves as she moved through my place those final days before Jack and Rosie left. She was withdrawn, spent more time in their hotel room at The Capstone than before, and was distant with me too, more than ever. But I understood it. Hell, I’d have probably been a whole lot meaner about the whole thing.
And the afternoon that her parents left, Amelia came home and slept on the couch for almost twenty straight hours.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Amelia
I knew it was for the best. I knew it. But damn it, seeing my sick father off on a plane to travel far away from me almost killed me.
The entire last week moved really fast, and it was hard for me to comprehend why. Why did Pop have to leave so soon? Because he was sick. Why did it have to seem so semi-permanent? Because he also needed to recover.
But mostly? Why did Declan help us like he had?
That was a question I still hadn’t answered, and it nagged at me, refusing to let me just relax into the reality that Pop was on his way to being well cared for. That our family would find a way to pay him back soon. That it was all okay.
The only problem was, it wasn’t the okay that I’d planned, so surrendering to what was happening was a bitter pill for me.
I slept a lot that first day after we saw them off at the airport. I hadn’t cried in front of either my parents or Declan, but as soon as I hit the shower that afternoon, I unleashed. I cried scalding hot tears that the shower washed away for me. My tears weren’t necessarily for that my father and mother were leaving.
As strange as it was, it was like I was finally processing the fact that he was sick. Really sick. And that their lives were forever altered because of this illness. He could potentially die from it, and even when he survived, there were new concerns and health factors that he’d have to deal with for the rest of his life.
Everything was so different for them, and I was the one grieving the fact in the shower. Crazy. I knew. But it was what it was.
After the shower, I was exhausted. It was so bone-deep and extreme that when I put my head on that sofa that afternoon, I hadn’t expected to wake up the following day, right at lunchtime. Declan had left for the day, probably hours ago and the place was eerily quiet. It left me with only my thoughts as I made myself an omelet and a cup of coffee.
I took the time and assessed my situation.
I’d left Alabama with a plan to see my dad well again, get things sorted with JJ, and head out to California to start a new life with a new mentor and a new vision.
Somehow, though, things had ended up here, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about all that. Was I happy with how big a role Declan had come to play in my life? I couldn’t deny the butterflies I felt whenever I saw him or heard his voice on my phone — or even how I could hardly wait to see him again when we were apart.
I’d basically moved into his space on a temporary basis, which had been easy and pain free. And it was terrifying, if I was being totally honest.
As if on cue, as if he sensed me thinking about him, my phone rang, and it was Declan’s name on the screen. I answered. “Hi.”
“Hey, baby.” His voice was all honey and masculine at the same time. I loved it. “Hope you had a good sleep. You busy this afternoon? I might need your assistance on something over at The Capstone.”
Well, that was intriguing.
“I’m off today,” I said, walking back to the bedroom where I’d stashed my clothes at the bottom of Declan’s immaculate closet. “I can help. What do you need?”
“I’ll explain more when I pick you up,” he said. “But I need your expertise in a meeting. Something Brennan’s just not equipped to handle.”
I smiled at the compliment. Basically, Brennan could do everything in the business if he wanted to, truthfully. What possible task could there be for me?
Dressed and ready in twenty minutes, I was at the door when Declan came through and gave me a delicious kiss on the lips in greeting. It sent a wave of warmth through me — so much so that I gripped his suit jacket harder and demanded another one. The chuckle in the back of his throat had me grinning too.
“Careful, Amelia,” he said. “Keep it up, and we’ll be late to the meeting — assuming we make it at all.”
He gave me a wicked wink that made me want to disrobe him instantly, but I was curious about what he could possibly have in store for me, so I gave a small pout and let him take my hand.
A quarter of an hour later, we were in front of one of the empty units in the shopping plaza that was nearly full. He’d had his driver take us, and when we were outside, Declan put his hand in mine and walked me to the door, which he unlocked.
“I have a franchise rep coming who wants the space, and Brennan doesn’t speak restaurant.”
Inside, the space was gorgeous. Tall ceilings, and being the corner space, it had two walls of windows and bright light.
“We decided a few weeks ago we wanted to put a food service in here,” Declan said, walking me around the place. It was still a shell, but the restaurant chef in me saw the dream here. Light hardwood floors in the spacious dining room and two long half-walls were already up, separating the eating area from the kitchen.
The kitchen was tiled with drains throughout the floor — a huge bonus for daily cleanups.
There wasn’t any equipment installed yet, but in my mind, I saw all the stainless-steel prep tables, the range and the commercial hood fitting perfectly.
“The
re’s a buildout happening in back to put in a walk-in cooler too,” he explained. “Had no idea how expensive that could be.”
Whoever was getting this space was lucky, that much was for sure. For not knowing anything about restaurants, Declan and his design team were certainly creating some really powerful clay here to work with.
“It’s fantastic,” I said, trying not to gush like an idiot. Most chefs, during their culinary school days, dreamed of opening their own place. And someone was about to walk through the door and make a deal to start that dream for themselves.
Except, it was a franchise, so I doubted that I was going to meet the lucky chef. And besides, these places, if it was what I thought it was, hardly ever hired anyone with credentials. The food was always prepackaged and premade, and really, the kitchen staff merely heated and plated.
Declan glanced at his watch and back toward the entrance. “They’re late. Bad first impression.”
I shrugged. “But they’re the customer, so to speak,” I said, knowing full well the customer was always right in service industries.
“Not yet they aren’t,” he grumbled, clearly annoyed at being kept waiting.
A few minutes later, a man in a pair of jeans and a collared polo shirt walked through the door and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. He was older, maybe pushing sixty, and had one hell of a tan. Either he wasn’t from around these parts, or he owned a fantastic tanning bed somewhere.
“Declan?”
The man approached and stuck out his hand, and I saw Declan’s eyebrows gather, obviously not impressed with the late arrival assuming they were on a first-name basis already.
“Mr. Lynch,” he said coolly before turning to me. “This is my associate, Miss Byrne. She’s here to offer her opinion on a few areas.”
“Oh?” The man’s eyebrows lifted, an amused, almost condescending look on his face. “Decorator?”
I bit my cheek to keep from snapping at the idiot.
“Chef,” Declan bit out. “Here in case you have any questions about space and requirements.”
The man chuckled at the very notion and waved his hand over at me. “I don’t need any assistance. I’ve built fourteen of these now. I know what I’m looking for.”
Yeah, I thought with a snort. So did I. He was looking for crap food, cheap labor, and an unaware dining crowd.
Declan was watching me as the man talked about the places he’d already opened. The man, Lynch, was clearly doing a bit of navel-gazing and in love with himself. I tried not to roll my eyes as he droned on and on about sales and profits. Not once did he look around the place to get a feel for it — to see if his vision would match the space.
He didn’t have a vision. He had a mass-market product.
I inhaled slowly and reminded myself that there was room in the world for all kinds — mass produced and couture. It was okay.
But then he went and insulted the neighborhood. “I think it’s a great place to launch a store here.” He scratched his smooth chin. “The area is a shithole from what I’ve seen and getting in on the ground floor can really pay big in the end for the higher-ups.” The way he said it, with a smirk and a wink wink, nudge nudge made my skin crawl.
“I don’t know that shithole is the word I’d use,” I said, frowning. Declan’s face was suddenly granite, his jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared slightly.
“Definitely not the word I’d use,” he muttered, his eyes on Lynch now.
The man didn’t get it, had no idea just how angry he’d made Declan by insulting the place.
Without realizing just what he’d done, the man blundered through the rest of the meeting, and I had to hand it to Declan, he didn’t lose his cool once. But his eyes were cool and his expression distant. I didn’t exactly know the man as much as I wanted to at this point, but even I could see he was closed off. Lynch had blown this meeting and would likely be starting from scratch with his scouting mission from corporate.
The conversation was growing tired and stale when Declan’s cell phone rang. Glancing down, he scowled, looked around, and sighed before finally stepping away and answering it.
“Yes.” It was curt and didn’t give much away as to who was on the other end and why he wasn’t thrilled to be hearing from them. “No,” he said, his knuckles on the hand holding the phone growing white from the grip. “I don’t have time for this, Mother. I’ll talk to her later.”
Her?
I waited for the conversation to offer any more clues, but he ended it just as quickly as it had begun. Not being the jealous type, I pushed it from my mind as best I could. But things between us being as new and unsure as they were, the her in the conversation had caught my attention.
Did he mean me? Or was their another her in the picture?
Before Declan could find his way back into the conversation, the phone rang again. He looked ready to throw it through the window when he glanced at the name but then sucked in another breath and answered it, this time in front of me.
“What is it?” He sure lacked phone manners with others, I noticed, grateful that he was always friendly whenever we spoke. “Seriously?” he snapped, running his hand through his hair and looking up at the ceiling with closed eyes. “Okay. I’ll be there in a few.”
When the call was over, he looked at Lynch and then to the door.
“My apologies,” he said. “I need to leave now. We’ll be in touch.”
Lynch frowned at the dismissal, clearly ready to wheel and deal and get his smarmy eatery in the door here for rock-bottom prices. Declan had already written him off and was now over it.
And as for me, I was more concerned with what had gotten that reaction out of Declan. A few moments later, we were locking the door behind us and walking quickly to the waiting car. As curious as I was, I held my tongue and waited for Declan to tell me.
A few blocks into the ride, he did. “One of my long-time tenants was vandalized and threatened today,” he said. “Brennan is there now and needs me. I’ll have him take you home as soon as we get there.”
I didn’t say anything, only nodded. I couldn’t help but think the rash of “incidents” lately were connected by one awful thread.
I hoped I’d be proven wrong, but I had a feeling I was right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Declan
I was going to kill someone. Most likely a Duffy.
Eugene Kim’s laundromat was a damn mess. Someone had come through with a hammer and cracked every single glass door on the dryers and poured paint into the washing machines. The front windows? Broken. The change machine? Ripped out of the wall, leaving quarters everywhere.
And Mr. Kim’s teenaged son, Tyson, had been beaten and was shaken after trying to scare off three grown men with nothing more than a broom he’d picked up as he ran down the stairs from the upstairs apartment. The building was mine, and the Kims had rented the apartment and laundromat space for the past fifteen years — the year after Tyson was born.
Tyson was refusing treatment from a paramedic who was clucking over a cut on his forehead, talking about stitches and a concussion. Tyson was trying to wave the woman off when I arrived and got the rundown from Brennan.
“Tyson, you and your mom should go to the hospital,” I said, keeping my anger in check so I didn’t scare the poor kid even more than he already was. I looked over at his father. “Please, Mr. Kim. Send him. I’ll take care of it — this is probably a problem I’m already handling.”
It was what Brennan had guessed, and so had I.
The description of the attackers had been hazy, but their words were telling.
“Casey can’t protect you from the streets,” one of them had said, followed by a racial slur that made me cringe. The craziest thing about it was Eugene Kim had been born a few streets over to Korean immigrant parents who ran a convenience store on the other side of town.
Casey can’t protect you from the streets.
It was a very Duffy thing to say, actually, an
d fit their recent war on me and my business. They were trying to scare my tenants into moving out or shutting down in an attempt to dry me up from the bottom up.
In terms of the business, both Eugene and I were well insured. You had to be in a business like this, so the damage would be covered. But Tyson had been hurt, and Eugene’s wife was visibly shaken.
This was serious psychological damage that would be hard to heal from, and it’d been a perfect way to attack me right now. Rumors from the fire a few weeks ago had spread, and now one of my tenants had been outright attacked and bloodied. And I hadn’t been able to stop it, despite the increased patrols Brennan’s teams were doing around the Casey properties and businesses.
The Duffys were determined, and it was obvious now just how seriously I’d failed to take them.
White-hot anger surged through me, thinking of just how much damage they’d been doing, how one of them had his fucking hands on Amelia and struck her, how they rolled through our streets with impunity — like they were the kings of Dorchester and the rest of us should bow down or get out of the way.
I was done with it.
In my quest to be legitimate, on my path to be nothing like my father, I seemed to have forgotten a few things that my father and my uncles knew. You establish who you are quickly and efficiently, and you didn’t let your enemies forget it.
I’d let my enemies think that I was too scared in my ivory tower to do anything about their acts of war against me.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“Declan?”
Amelia’s voice broke the spell that held me under. My rage dissipated enough so that I saw her face and managed a smile.
“Are you okay?” she asked, obviously uneasy. I nodded and looked back at Tyson as he got into his mother’s waiting car. “Will the boy be okay?”
“He’s headed to the hospital to get his head checked out,” I answered, looking back at her. “The cut looked a little deep, but he’s fine.”
Claiming Amelia Page 18
