Declan snorted. “You’re so fucking fancy now.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I retorted as I pressed the trigger and hit Cillian Donahue square in the face.
When the bastard was screaming from the pounding sting of the water against his rotting flesh, and his skin was as red as a lobster’s, I stared at the pitifully withered form and took in the massive wounds that were putrefying before my eyes.
It had been a long time since I’d slashed anyone’s collateral ligaments, but I guessed it was like riding a bike.
Fourteen
Aela
The following morning
“I need you to not freak out.”
Declan, in the process of shaving, turned to face me. “Freak out about what?” He smirked. “Takes a lot to freak me out, babe.”
“I just got an email from the First Lady’s office.”
“As in the president’s wife?”
“Who else would I mean?” I grumbled.
“Do you often get calls from the spouses of heads of state?”
My lips quirked. “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “What do they want?”
“Art. What else? I’m in demand, dontcha know?”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I’m a genius. At least, according to the critics.”
“I know that. I mean, why did the First Lady email you?”
I watched as he smoothed the electric razor over his throat. The act was distinctly domestic. I’d never been into domestic before Declan.
The routine shit that most people took for granted wasn’t exactly a turn on, but it was comforting.
It was proof this was happening.
This was real.
After nearly fifteen years apart, I needed real. I needed routine.
So watching him shave was a pleasure, not something to be taken for granted.
Eying the up and down strokes, I murmured, “She wants me to attend the state dinner tomorrow.”
“You?”
This was where it got dicey—especially with the current situation.
I nodded then verbally confirmed, “Not us.”
I wasn’t going to beat around the bush. He’d picked up on my specific verbiage because people might mistake the man for a filthy dark Five Points’ bruiser, but Declan was smart.
Wicked smart.
“You’re not going without me.”
My inner feminist railed at the blanket statement, but the city was going to hell in a handbasket.
I’d spent a portion of the holidays in a fucking bunker while the family compound got raided by a private militia, and the country was destabilized thanks to the vacuums of power popping up because of those pesky Sparrows.
I was pregnant with the man’s baby. He’d lost fourteen years with our kid and me, and he was feeling protective—I got it. Even my inner feminist got it, that was how crazy things were in the States right now.
“Babe, you’re a mobster. You can’t go to the White House,” I reasoned.
“You’re a mobster’s—”
“Not yet I’m not,” I retorted before he could finish that sentence because the dude definitely hadn’t put a ring on my finger yet.
“You think I’m going to let you go to D.C. without me?” he scoffed.
“I think you’re going to come to D.C. with me, but you’re not going to attend the function.”
“I can’t leave New York right now.”
“It’s for an evening,” I growled.
“What’s with the short notice? These events are arranged months in advance. Hell, maybe even a year.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“It’s shady.”
“So? Someone pulled out and maybe I’m the second choice, but I’ll take it. This night could change the trajectory of my career, Dec. And that’s all it is. A night. We can be back by the next morning. It’s not like we can’t afford plane tickets to fly us in and out of D.C.”
“Plane tickets,” he scoffed. “We have a private jet. But the answer’s still no.”
Eyes narrowing upon him, I stepped deeper into the bathroom and said, “Maybe I’m not asking.”
“You’re sure as fuck not telling,” he snapped, switching off the razor as he stared me down. “You know what’s going on out there, don’t you?” He prodded the air with the razor. “The world’s fucking crazy. Davidson is facing off against some nasty motherfuckers and you want to waltz into his house and—”
“It’s the White House,” I ground out. “I’m not exactly going across the neighborhood for a visit with my mom.”
“That would be safer right now, and that isn’t safe.”
“You’re being unreasonable. And paranoid.”
“You’d still say that if I’d died on Christmas Day?”
Everything inside me froze up at his words. “Don’t say that.”
“I will say that,” he countered. “I’ll say it over and over again because maybe that will sink into that genius brain of yours.
“Babe, if anything happens to you, to Shay, to that kid in your belly, that’s me done. I might as well have been shot down on Christmas Day. You think I can go another fucking year without you and our family, you’re insan—”
I didn’t let him finish.
My hand slipped to the back of his neck and I hauled him down until he was the same height as me so I could stare directly into his eyes. It was either that or kiss him, and for being such a man, I didn’t want to kiss him. That’d just reward him for thinking he could tell me what to do.
“Listen to me, Declan. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got shit to do before I die, and so do you. We’ve got happiness to enjoy, kids to have, Shay to torment when he gets a girlfriend, and a baby to try to not turn into your father. We’re. Not. Going. Anywhere.”
His voice was raspy as he stated, “That’s what I’m trying to make sure happens.”
“We can’t just be locked in here forever, Dec. I have a business to run, and this would be great for that business.
“Her message indicated she’d like me to design some glassware. She’s going off brand for a First Lady—you know how they’re supposed to design their own china? She wants a set of glasses apparently. Hand crafted by me.
“Do you know how many sheikhs and Saudi Arabian princes will be after my shit when that happens?”
“You don’t need the money; plus you’ve already created art for them.”
I squinted at him, wondering if he was being obtuse on purpose.
“No, I don’t need the money,” I said slowly, “and yes, I’ve already done some work for a couple of princes, but what about the king?
“Babe, I aim high. I want the name recognition. I want the brand identity. I want to be the next Andy Warhol, and that’s not going to happen if you keep me locked up in this brownstone.
“So, you do whatever you have to to make this happen. You can lock me and load me with a gazillion non-mobster guards—and yeah, I expect you to hire out—but I will be attending this function and no, you won’t be going with me.”