Chapter 3 - A Knock in the Mountains
By sunset, Bellweather no longer felt like the town that had hidden me.
It felt like a battlefield waiting for darkness.
Declan wanted me moved immediately.
I refused for thirteen minutes.
Then June ended the argument.
“You’re pregnant, stubborn, and currently being hunted by men with machine guns,” she said. “This is not the morning to discover feminism badly.”
“I am not—”
“You can argue after we’re alive.”
Declan looked at her with something dangerously close to admiration.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t encourage her.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re thinking loudly.”
June packed one bag.
A practical woman.
Medication.
Two sweaters.
Cash.
Shotgun shells.
Declan insisted she come with us.
She refused.
Then Gavin mentioned Roman Calloway’s people had her name and property address.
She changed her mind.
We left through an old forestry road behind the building.
Declan drove.
Gavin rode ahead.
Two SUVs followed.
I sat in the rear passenger seat because sitting beside Declan felt too intimate.
June sat beside me.
The mountains slipped past beneath a darkening sky.
Nobody spoke for twenty minutes.
Finally, Declan looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“When is the baby due?”
I stared out the window.
“March.”
“What date?”
“March eighteenth.”
He nodded once.
I hated how emotional that tiny movement made me.
June noticed.
Of course she did.
“So,” she said, “you’re the father.”
Declan answered without hesitation.
“Yes.”
“And you’re engaged to somebody else.”
“Technically.”
June frowned.
“That word has never improved a sentence.”
I turned toward the window to hide a smile.
Declan almost smiled too.
The moment vanished quickly.
We reached a house outside Highlands two hours later.
House was an insult.
It was an estate hidden behind stone walls and acres of forest.
Declan owned it through a shell company.
Of course he did.
Armed men secured the perimeter.
Gavin checked every room.
June claimed a bedroom upstairs and announced she would shoot anyone who entered without knocking.
I took the room farthest from Declan.
He did not argue.
That surprised me too.
A younger version of Declan would have placed guards inside the room and called it protection.
The man standing in the hallway now simply said, “Gavin will be outside. If you want a woman assigned instead, I can arrange it.”
“I don’t want anyone.”
“I know.”
The answer irritated me because it sounded like understanding.
He paused.
“Can we talk?”
“No.”
“All right.”
He turned away.
“Declan.”
He stopped.
“Why Savannah?”
His back remained toward me for a second.
Then he faced me.
“Roman was preparing to attack three Voss-controlled shipping corridors. Patrick proposed the engagement as a treaty.”
“You said yes.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“I planned to.”
“When?”
“Before it became public.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
I folded my arms.
“Why?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because I was afraid you’d leave.”
The truth stunned me.
Declan Voss, who terrified politicians and killers, had been afraid of a conversation.
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No.”
“You don’t get credit for admitting it.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
He looked exhausted.
Good.
Some petty part of me wanted him exhausted.
“How much of the meeting did you hear?”
“Enough.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you did.”
“Then tell me what came after resolved.”
I almost refused.
He continued.
“I said I was getting you out of Chicago. Quietly. New identity if necessary. No one would know where you went except Gavin.”
I stared.
“You were planning to disappear me?”
“To protect you.”
“Without asking.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not protection. That’s control.”
“I know that now.”
“Convenient.”
He accepted that too.
It was unsettling.
I was prepared for anger.
Threats.
Defensiveness.
The Declan in my imagination had spent four months becoming a monster.
The real one seemed more like a man who had stared too long at the consequences of his own choices.
“You burned the ultrasound,” he said.
My throat tightened.
“How do you know?”
“I found the corner.”
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat.
Pulled out his wallet.
From behind a credit card, he removed a tiny blackened piece of photographic paper.
My lungs stopped.
He had kept it.
For four months.
He held it out.
I did not take it.
“What did you think when you found that?”
“That I had done something terrible enough to make you believe our child was safer if I never knew they existed.”
I looked away.
Silence stretched between us.
Then something moved inside me.
A flutter.
The baby.
My hand dropped instinctively to my stomach.
Declan noticed.
His face changed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Did something hurt?”
“No.”
He took a step.
I stepped back.
He stopped.
“She moved.”
The words escaped before I could prevent them.
He stared at my stomach.
“She?”
I closed my eyes.
Damn it.
His voice barely existed.
“It’s a girl?”
I nodded.
Everything hard in Declan’s expression disappeared.
“A daughter.”
“Yes.”
He turned away for a second.
His shoulders rose.
Then fell.
When he faced me again, his eyes were wet.
Declan Voss had never cried in front of me.
Not once.
Even at his mother’s funeral.
Seeing tears now broke something I had spent months building.
But broken trust does not repair itself merely because the person who broke it is hurting.
I remained where I was.
He swallowed.
“Does she have a name?”
“No.”
“Can I—”
“No.”
He nodded.
“All right.”
That night, I barely slept.
At 2:00 a.m., I walked downstairs for water.
Declan was in the kitchen.
Alone.
He stood over an open laptop.
Maps covered the screen.
Photographs.
Roman Calloway.
Vehicles.
Properties.
Routes.
He closed it when he noticed me.
“I’m not spying.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither can I.”
I opened a cabinet.
No glasses.
Declan silently handed me one from another shelf.
Of course he knew where everything was.
I filled it.
The baby kicked again.
Stronger.
I inhaled sharply.
Declan looked immediately.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
He stared.
Then looked away, as though even watching felt intrusive.
Something in my chest twisted.
“Do you want to feel?”
The question came before I could stop it.
Declan froze.
I almost withdrew the offer.
Then he crossed the room slowly.
Not the mafia boss.
Not the man from television.
Just Declan.
He stopped one step away.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
He almost laughed.
I took his hand.
Placed it against the left side of my stomach.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then our daughter kicked.
Declan’s fingers twitched.
His entire face changed.
There are moments that divide your life into before and after.
That was one.
He looked at me.
Not speaking.
The baby kicked again.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
He laughed quietly.
“She kicked me.”
“She does that.”
“Strong.”
“Apparently.”
His hand remained there.
Warm.
Familiar.
Dangerous in an entirely different way.
I remembered his hands on my face.
My back.
My hair.
I remembered mornings.
Coffee.
Paint on his shirts.
I stepped away.
He dropped his hand immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
A phone rang in the other room.
Gavin appeared.
“Declan.”
Something in his tone changed everything.
Declan walked toward him.
“What?”
“We found Mason Krier’s phone.”
“The man in Bellweather?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Gavin looked at me.
Then back at Declan.
“The order to terminate Amelia didn’t come from Roman.”
Declan’s expression sharpened.
“Who?”
“We traced the encrypted payment.”
“Gavin.”
Gavin exhaled.
“The authorization came from inside Voss Tower.”
Silence.
I felt cold.
Declan said nothing for several seconds.
Then:
“Who has access at that level?”
“Seven people.”
“Names.”
Gavin began listing them.
Two accountants.
One attorney.
Declan’s uncle Victor.
His cousin Elias.
His operations director.
And—
Gavin stopped.
Declan’s face changed before the final name was spoken.
I knew the answer mattered.
“Say it.”
Gavin looked directly at him.
“Your father’s former consigliere.”
Declan went still.
“Malcolm?”
“Yes.”
Malcolm Rusk.
I knew the name.
Everyone close to Declan did.
Malcolm had practically raised him after Declan’s father died.
He was the man Declan trusted more than anyone except Gavin.
I had eaten Christmas dinner across from him.
He had once carried my coat to the car.
“He ordered my death?” I whispered.
Gavin shook his head.
“We don’t know yet.”
Declan closed the laptop.
His expression had transformed.
The softness from five minutes earlier was gone.
“Find out.”
Gavin hesitated.
“There’s more.”
Declan looked at him.
“Mason’s phone had photographs of Amelia.”
“From where?”
“Chicago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Before I disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Gavin swiped.
Then showed us the screen.
There I was outside my restoration studio.
Buying coffee.
Entering Declan’s apartment building.
Leaving a pharmacy.
Dates appeared beneath the photos.
Weeks before the engagement.
Weeks before the pregnancy appointment.
Someone had been tracking me long before I became an obvious threat.
Declan’s voice became deadly calm.
“Why?”
Gavin opened another file.
A scanned document appeared.
Old.
Yellowed.
The heading read:
VOSS SUCCESSION AGREEMENT—1998.
I didn’t understand.
Declan did.
His face lost color.
“What is that?” I asked.
He stared at the document.
“My father’s will contained a private clause.”
“What kind of clause?”
He looked at me.
“If I ever had a legitimate child, control of the family trust would automatically transfer away from the council when I turned forty.”
I frowned.
“What council?”
“Men like Malcolm.”
Understanding came slowly.
“If you never had children…”
“They keep control of billions in assets indefinitely.”
My hand went to my stomach.
Declan finished quietly.
“Our daughter isn’t only a threat to Roman Calloway.”
May you like
He looked at the photographs.
“She’s a threat to the men who built the Voss empire.”
