Chapter 7 - The Cleanup
The aftermath of violence was always the same: the smell of blood, smoke, and shattered drywall. Finn and his men swept the house, securing the remaining O’Connor thugs, and the lights flickered back on as the backup generators were repaired. Sophia stood slowly from behind the desk, her knees shaking as the adrenaline wore off, leaving her hollow and nauseous. Declan lowered his weapon, his chest heaving. He had torn his stitches, and blood was seeping through his shirt again, but he ignored it, walking over to where Mrs. Gable kneeled sobbing in the hallway.
“Mr. Walsh, I had to! They threatened my nephew!” she cried. “They said they would kill him if I didn’t help them!” “You tried to frame Sophia.” “It was the only way! They needed a scapegoat!” “You brought war into my house,” Declan said, his voice eerily calm. “You brought men with guns into the place where I sleep. Where my people sleep.” He looked at Finn. “Get her out of my sight.” “Kill her?” Finn asked flatly, causing Mrs. Gable to scream. “No,” Declan said. “Put her on a boat. Send her to the warehouse in Macau. She can wash their floors for the rest of her miserable life. If she ever steps foot in this city again, you don’t need to ask my permission.”
Finn dragged the sobbing woman away, and Declan turned back to the room. He looked at the bodies, the ruined doors, and then at Sophia, who was pale and staring at the destruction. He dropped the rifle on a leather chair and walked toward her. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice suddenly losing all its hard edges. She shook her head. He reached out, his bloody hands gently gripping her shoulders to check for himself. “You threw a paperweight at a man with a shotgun,” he said, a mixture of disbelief and awe in his tone. “It was heavy.” A rough laugh escaped his lips. “You are insane.” “I’m surviving, Declan. It’s what you hired me for.”
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He pulled her against him, ignoring the blood and the dirt. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. Sophia hesitated for only a second before her arms went around his waist, holding him just as tightly. “I thought they were going to kill you,” he whispered fiercely. “When the door breached, all I could think was that I brought you into this.” “I chose to stay.” He pulled back, framing her face with his hands. His icy blue eyes burned with something desperate and undeniable. “Eighty thousand dollars doesn’t buy this kind of loyalty, Sophia.” “No,” she agreed softly. “It doesn’t.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle; it was desperate, bruising, tasting of smoke and adrenaline. It was the kiss of a man who had realized exactly what he stood to lose, and was claiming it before the world could try to take it away again. Sophia kissed him back, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless. “Your side is bleeding again,” she pointed out, her voice trembling slightly. Declan looked down at the spreading crimson stain. “So it is.” “I need to stitch you up. Again.” “You’re getting very good at that.” “I’m demanding a raise.” He smiled—a real, genuine smile that transformed his entire face. “Whatever you want, Sophia. It’s yours.”
