My phone rings at eleven-thirty at night and I know it's bad news before I even look at the screen. Siobhan only calls this late when something's wrong—when she needs help, when the world is falling apart around her and she doesn't know what else to do. My little sister who never asks for anything, who handles her own problems, who learned early that O'Reilly women don't show weakness unless there's no other choice.
"Declan?" Her voice is shaking and there are tears I can hear even through the phone. "I need you."
The sound of my little sister crying hits me like a physical blow. Siobhan never cries. Never asks for help. Never lets anyone see her weak—not even me. But right now she sounds terrified and desperate and completely lost.
"Shiv, what's wrong? Where are you, baby girl? Talk to me."
"I'm at the dorm, but Declan—my roommate, she called me crying and she was so scared and I didn't know what else to do." The words tumble out in a rush like she's afraid I'll hang up before she can explain. "Her brother was in a fight and it was getting bad and she was panicking and I couldn't just listen to her sob like that, Dee. I couldn't."
My sister's roommate. The Moretti girl. Valentina. I've heard Siobhan mention her before—cute redhead from a powerful family, studying journalism and acting like she doesn't know her daddy runs half the crime on the East Coast. Rich girl playing at being normal while her family's money pays for everything she touches. But more than that, she's the first real friend Siobhan's made since coming to this place, the first person who doesn't know our family name, who likes her for who she is instead of what she can do for them.
"Shiv, slow down. What kind of help did you promise?"
"She was crying so hard, Declan—you don't understand, she was terrified. She said her brother was getting hurt and there were too many people and she didn't know what to do and she was begging me." Siobhan's voice cracks and I can picture her pacing around her dorm room, wrapping her free arm around herself the way she's done since we were kids. "I told her my brothers could help. I told her you could make it stop. Dee, please—she sounded so scared. I've never heard anyone sound like that."
The words hit me like ice water. My sister promised the Moretti princess that O'Reilly muscle would solve her problems. Promised that we'd involve ourselves in Italian family business because her roommate was crying and she couldn't stand to see someone she cares about in pain. Promised something she had no right to promise, something that could get us all killed if it goes wrong.
"Jesus Christ, Siobhan."
"I know, I know it was stupid, but she was so scared, Dee, and I couldn't just do nothing. She's my friend, Declan. She's the first real friend I've had since coming here and she needed help and she was sobbing and I just—" Her voice breaks completely and I can hear her trying not to cry. "Please. I know it's asking too much but she sounded so terrified and I promised her you could help and I can't break that promise, Dee. I can't."
The desperation in her voice destroys me. My little sister who never asks for anything, who handles her own problems, who learned early that O'Reilly women don't show weakness, is begging me to fix something she can't fix herself. Begging me to make good on a promise she should never have made but did anyway because someone she cares about was in pain.
"Shiv, baby girl, you know I can't say no to you when you sound like that." I'm already reaching for my keys, already calculating drive time, already knowing this is probably going to get me killed but unable to care because my sister needs me to be the big brother who fixes everything. "But this is dangerous territory. This isn't some college drama—this is family business."
"I know, but Dee, please. She was so scared and I promised and you know I never promise things I can't deliver. Please."
"Where is this fight happening?"
"The Anchor. That bar near campus. Declan, please—she said they're really hurting him and there's blood and—"
"I'm on my way."
I hang up before she can say anything else, before she can thank me or apologize or explain any more about why she's dragging our family into someone else's war. Because that's what this is. War disguised as a college bar fight. Morettis versus whoever the fuck decided to test them tonight, and now O'Reilly blood is going to get involved because my sister has a soft heart and a rich girl's tears convinced her to make promises she can't keep.
The drive to The Anchor takes twelve minutes through empty island roads. Twelve minutes to call Sean and tell him to bring the crew to meet me there. Twelve minutes to coordinate with my cousins about converging on the location because this could be bigger than one spoiled Italian heir getting taught a lesson. Twelve minutes to remind myself that family comes first—that protecting Siobhan means protecting the people she cares about, even when they don't deserve it and even when it might get us all killed.
The parking lot is busy when I arrive, with people streaming out of the building. Cars everywhere as families extract themselves from whatever happened inside. I can see tension in the air, the kind that comes after violence has ended but before anyone knows if it's really over.
I spot the Morettis immediately. Enzo, the pretty heir with golden eyes and too much charm for his own good, is standing in the center of the lot talking to someone. He's got some cuts and bruises from whatever happened inside but he's upright and alert. Matteo, his cousin, hovering nearby. Valentina standing with them, looking exactly like what she is—spoiled princess who called for help because she couldn't handle watching her brother get hurt.
But it's the Russians that catch my attention. I can tell by the way they move, by the disciplined formation they maintain even in what should be chaos. Professional. Dangerous. The kind of people who don't start fights they can't finish.
And in the center of their group, talking to Enzo like they're having a normal conversation, is someone who looks like he belongs in a library, not a parking lot after a bar fight. Platinum hair, ice-blue eyes, lean build, wearing dark clothes that probably cost more than most people make in a month. Pretty boy features, the kind of face that makes girls sigh and mothers approve. Nothing about him screams danger. Nothing about him suggests he's capable of violence.
Which is probably exactly what makes him so fucking dangerous.
This isn't random bar fight bullshit. This is family business. Real family business. The kind that ends with bodies in the harbor and territories redrawn and blood feuds that last generations.
And my sister promised we'd get involved.
I can hear pieces of what they're saying as I get closer. Something about finishing, something about this not being over. Enzo's voice carrying that edge of obsession I've heard about. The Russian completely calm, completely in control, like he owns this entire situation.
There's something happening between them, something that looks personal. Intimate. Dangerous.
My cousin Sean steps out of the lead car behind me, along with the rest of our people who spread out in formation like they've done this a thousand times before. Sean takes point with that professional presence that makes people remember exactly who they're dealing with.
"Which one of you called my sister?" he asks, his voice carrying the weight of command.
Valentina steps forward, chin raised despite the tremor in her voice. "I did. I called Siobhan for help."
I can see the recognition flicker across Sean's face. The way his expression hardens when he realizes exactly who we're dealing with. But before this can escalate further, I step forward myself.
"The spoiled princess who dragged my family into your bullshit," I say, letting her see exactly how much I hate her for putting us in this position.
That's when Enzo explodes. "Who the hell are you talking to like that? Because I know it's not my fucking sister."
The protective fury in his voice is immediate and deadly. His attention shifts to me and I can see the moment he sizes up this new threat. The way his eyes narrow, calculating odds and advantages. Even injured, he moves like a fighter. I've heard about his reputation in The Pit, about the way he tears through opponents like he's got nothing to lose. Looking at him now, I can see why.
"Your sister called in professionals to handle a college bar fight. That makes her either stupid or reckless. Maybe both."
"Say that again," Enzo snarls. "I fucking dare you."
He's going to fight me. Going to get himself destroyed because he can't let an insult to Valentina stand.
"Back off, Moretti," I say, positioning myself for the inevitable. "You're hurt. This won't end well for you."
He should take the warning. Should step back. Should let cooler heads prevail.
Instead he spits "Fuck you" and charges straight at me.
The first hit I land goes to his ribs. I can feel something give under my fist, see the way his face goes white with pain. But he doesn't go down. Just keeps fighting, even as his body betrays him.
Another hit to the same spot. This time he staggers, blood trickling from his mouth.
"Stay down," I tell him, but he's already moving again. Always fighting. Even when he should surrender.
The third hit drops him to his knees, gasping for breath.
That's when the Russian moves.
I don't see him coming. One second I'm standing over Enzo, the next something hits me like a truck and I'm flying through the air. The impact with asphalt drives all air from my lungs, but I roll with it.
When I get to my feet, the platinum-haired Russian is between me and Enzo. Nothing about his stance screams professional fighter. Nothing about his posture suggests violence.
But the way he's looking at me—like I just made the biggest mistake of my life—tells a different story entirely.
I'm bigger, stronger, more experienced in this kind of brutal street fighting. But he's not fighting like street trash. He's fighting like someone who learned violence in dojos, from masters who understood that technique beats strength when applied correctly. He feints left, drives his shoulder into my midsection, uses my forward momentum against me, and suddenly I'm flying through the air like I weigh nothing.
The impact drives all the air from my lungs. I roll with it, but he's already moving. Already positioning himself for the next attack. Already demonstrating that everything I thought I knew about winning fights might be completely fucking wrong.
I get to my feet in time to catch his next attack. Grab his lapel, hook my leg behind his ankle, try to use my size advantage to bring him down, but he transitions into something I don't recognize. Groundwork. Technical grappling. The kind of shit that turns street fighting into chess matches where the smartest player wins.
For thirty seconds we fight on the asphalt. Him trying to find the submission that will end this. Me trying to use brute force to overwhelm his technique. Both of us breathing hard, both of us realizing this isn't going to be easy for either side.
When he finally gets his arm around my throat, when I feel the choke starting to cut off my air supply, I know I'm fucked. This isn't some sloppy sleeper hold. This is technical. Precise. Applied with the kind of knowledge that comes from years of training and the patience to wait for the perfect moment.
"Yield," he whispers against my ear, and his voice is completely calm, like choking people unconscious is just another Tuesday for him.
I don't yield. Can't yield. O'Reillys don't quit, don't surrender, don't give up even when technique and intelligence are making strength and fury look like amateur hour. So I keep fighting, even as consciousness starts to slip away. Even as my vision tunnels. Even as I realize I'm about to lose to someone half my size in front of everyone who matters.
The last thing I remember is ice-blue eyes looking down at me without expression. Without satisfaction. Without anything except the cold calculation of someone who just solved a problem and is already moving on to the next one.
When I wake up, I'm in the back seat of Sean's car, staring at the roof with the taste of blood in my mouth and voices around me. My throat feels like it's been crushed. My head is pounding. My shoulder screams every time I try to move and there's something wet running down my face that might be blood or might be something worse.
"He's coming around," someone says. Probably Tommy.
"Jesus Christ, Declan, what the fuck was that?" Sean's voice from the front seat. Angry. Worried. The kind of tone that says he's trying to figure out how to explain this to the family.
But worse than the physical pain is the humiliation. The knowledge that my own people saw what happened. Watched Declan O'Reilly get taken apart by someone who looks like he's never thrown a punch in his life. Witnessed the moment when brute force met technical precision and lost decisively.
"The families cleared out fast when the sirens started," Tommy continues. "Russians were gone before we could get you up. Italians too. Left us to clean up the mess."
I try to sit up, but everything spins. Sean catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
"That Russian kid nearly killed you. What the hell were you thinking, going after him like that?"
"First of all, I didn't go after him," I manage to croak out, my voice hoarse from the chokehold. "He came after me. I was handling the Italian and the Russian jumped in."
"Handling?" Tommy snorts. "You were beating the shit out of someone who was already hurt."
"Someone who charged at me," I snap back, then immediately regret it as my throat protests. "I didn't start this fight."
"No, but you sure as hell escalated it," Sean says. "And look how that worked out for you."
Before we leave The Anchor, Sean turns to one of our crew. "Brendan, take Declan's car and follow us to the dorm."
The ride to Siobhan's dorm is mostly silent except for the occasional check on whether I'm still conscious. When we pull up outside her building, Sean turns around to look at me properly.
"You're staying with Siobhan tonight. She can keep an eye on you."
"I'm fine," I lie, because admitting I need babysitting after getting choked out by a college student would be the final humiliation.
"Bullshit. You got choked unconscious and you're probably concussed."
Sean helps me to the door like I'm an invalid. Brendan pulls up behind us in my car and tosses me the keys before heading back with Sean and Tommy.
Siobhan opens the door before we can knock. Takes one look at my face and her eyes go wide.
"Jesus Christ, Declan, what happened to you?"
"He got into it with the wrong person," Sean says grimly. "Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't have a concussion or anything worse."
She nods and helps me inside. Her dorm room is small but comfortable. Safe. The kind of place where normal people live normal lives without worrying about family wars or blood debts.
"Sit down before you fall down," she orders, guiding me to her couch. "What the hell happened tonight, Dee?"
"Just some complications with helping your roommate."
"Complications?" She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with ice wrapped in a towel. "This looks like someone tried to kill you."
Close enough. "It's handled."
"You don't look handled. You look like you got run over by a truck." She presses the ice to my throat where the bruises are already forming. "Was it worth it? Helping Val?"
"Fuck no, it wasn't worth it," I snap, the words coming out harsh and bitter. "Not to me. But I'd do anything you ask if it comes down to you, Shiv."
She smiles at that. But I can see the worry in her eyes. The guilt. She knows this is her fault. Knows she asked too much.
She fusses over me for another hour, making sure I'm not going to die in my sleep from a concussion. Brings me more ice. Makes me promise to wake her if I feel worse. Classic Siobhan, taking care of everyone around her.
But I can't sit still. Can't stop my hands from clenching into fists every few seconds. Can't stop thinking about that Russian's ice-blue eyes looking down at me like I was nothing. Like I was weak. The rage burns in my chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
"You should go back to the estate," I tell her finally, my voice coming out harder than I intended. "I'm fine now and you'll be safer there."
"Are you sure? I don't mind staying—"
"I'm sure." The words snap out of me. "Go back to the estate, Shiv. I just need to rest."
She kisses my forehead like she used to when we were kids and grabs her overnight bag. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
She pauses at the door, and I can feel her watching me. Studying the way I'm gripping the couch arm too tight. The way my jaw won't unclench.
"I should call Val. Tell her not to come back here tonight. You're really pissed, and she needs to stay away."
"Where is she? Doesn't she usually be back by now?"
"Her family moved everyone to their estate after what happened. But you know Val - she might try to come back here anyway. This is her room, her stuff is here."
"Why isn't she here now? She always comes back here at night."
"Because Luca called after we left the hospital. Told all the families to move to their estates for safety." Siobhan shifts uncomfortably. "Dee, she was really scared. She kept asking if you were okay."
"Good. She should be scared." The anger bleeds into my voice. "Tell her I'm looking for her. Tell her I want to talk."
Siobhan's eyes widen. She knows that tone. Knows what it means when I want to "talk" to someone.
"Dee—"
"Just make the call, Shiv."
After she leaves, after I hear her car pull away, I know she's already calling Valentina. Warning her to stay away. Telling her I'm here, that I'm furious, that tonight isn't safe.
But I also know spoiled girls like Valentina don't listen to warnings. Especially not when someone's pressing their buttons. Everyone thinks I'm down for the night. Thinks I'm sleeping off my injuries. They have no idea that all I can think about is one thing.
Valentina Moretti.
This is her fault. All of it. If she hadn't called Siobhan crying about her brother. If she hadn't begged for help like some helpless child. If she hadn't dragged my family into her mess, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't be sitting here with a crushed throat and bruises forming around my neck. I wouldn't have been humiliated in front of everyone who matters.
But she did call. She did drag us into this. And now she's going to answer for it.
I don't have elaborate plans. Don't have some master strategy. I just know that spoiled princess thinks she can use people and walk away. Thinks she can hide behind daddy's money and family protection while other people pay the price for her weakness.
She's about to learn how wrong she is.
Sometime after midnight, I pull out my phone. I can picture her sitting in whatever safe room they've stashed her in, probably trying to sleep, thinking everything's going to be okay.
It's not going to be okay. Not until she faces what she's done.
I find her contact info—easy enough when you know where to look. Start typing. Keep it simple. Let her know this isn't over.
"You think this is over, spoiled princess? Think again."
I wait. Send another.
"Your tears got my family hurt. Someone needs to pay for that."
Another pause. Then:
"Run all you want. I know where you'll end up."
Because I do know. Spoiled girls like her always run to familiar places when they're scared. Always go where they think they're safe. And right now I'm sitting in the one place on this campus she used to consider home.
Her dorm room. Where she still lives. Where she'll come when the estate feels too much like a prison and she needs somewhere familiar, despite Siobhan warning her to stay away.
I settle back on the couch, ice on my throat and wait. Because Valentina Moretti is going to come to me. And when she does, we're going to have a conversation about consequences.
About what happens when you drag the wrong family into your problems.
About what it costs to use people and think you can just walk away.
It takes her until almost three AM but eventually I hear footsteps in the hallway. Soft. Careful. Someone trying to be quiet. Someone who doesn't want to be caught.
The door opens slowly. She slips inside thinking the room is empty. Thinking she's safe. Thinking she's escaped whatever protection her family forced on her.
She doesn't see me at first. Too busy closing the door behind her. Too focused on getting inside without being noticed. But when she turns around and sees me sitting there in the dark, she freezes.
"Hello princess," I say quietly, standing up slowly. "We need to talk."
The color drains from her face. She spins back toward the door, hand reaching for the handle, but I'm already moving. My palm slams against the door above her head, pushing it shut with a solid thud. She's trapped between the door and my body, barely an inch of space between us.
"Going somewhere?" I ask, my voice low and dangerous. I can feel her trembling against the door.
She turns back around to face me, pressing her back against the door, trying to put distance between us that doesn't exist. "Let me go."
"We're going to have a conversation first. About consequences."
"What are you doing here?" she whispers.
"Waiting for you. Figured you'd show up eventually. Spoiled girls always run to familiar places when they're scared."
She straightens up, trying to find some of that Moretti steel. "I'm not scared of you."
"You should be."
I lean closer, invading more of her space, letting her see the bruises on my throat up close. Letting her see exactly what her phone call cost. What her tears bought.
Even in her fear, she can't help herself. Her fingers reach out, trembling, and trace the dark bruises on my throat. The touch is feather-light, guilty, like she's trying to understand the damage she caused.
"I did this," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
"This is your fault," I say quietly. "All of it. If you hadn't called my sister crying. If you hadn't begged for help you couldn't handle yourself. If you hadn't dragged my family into your mess, I wouldn't be sitting here looking like this."
"I didn't know—"
"You didn't know what? That actions have consequences? That using people comes with a price? That hiding behind daddy's money doesn't make you untouchable?"
She flinches but doesn't back down. Tougher than I expected. Good. I want her to fight back. Want her to show some spine before I'm done with her.
"I was scared," she says. "My brother was getting hurt and I didn't know what else to do."
"So you decided to make it everyone else's problem. You decided your fear was more important than my family's safety."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what you did. And now you're going to live with the consequences. Because every time I look in a mirror for the next week I'm going to see these bruises. And every time I see them I'm going to think about you."
I step closer. Close enough that she has to look up at me. Close enough that she can see the anger in my eyes.
"But here's the thing, princess. You're not the only one who owes me. Your brother and his Russian boyfriend? They're going to pay too. Because this might have started with your phone call but it didn't end there."
Fear flickers across her face but she doesn't back down. "Leave them alone."
"No. I don't think I will. See, you started something that night. Something that's going to keep going until I decide it's finished. And right now? I'm just getting started."
I walk past her toward the door. Pause with my hand on the handle.
"Thanks for the conversation, princess. Now I know exactly where we stand."
I leave her standing there in the dark, knowing she understands exactly what's coming. Knowing she realizes her phone call started something that's going to follow all of them.
But first I had to see her face. Had to make sure she knew this was her fault. Had to let her know that some debts follow you no matter where you hide.
Now I can focus on the real targets. The ones who put their hands on me. The ones who made me look weak in front of everyone who matters.
Enzo Moretti and his Russian prince are about to learn that some humiliations require blood to balance.
And I have all the time in the world to collect what they owe me.