A family shootout blew a ten-year hole in my memory, leaving my memory stranded on the rainy night I’d finally won over Declan O'Sullivan, the Underboss of Chicago's O'Sullivan family.
I frantically scrolled through my encrypted phone, desperate for any proof that Declan was my husband, but every contact and message was a codename—except for one emergency contact.
With no other choice, I called my best friend, Maeve Walsh, and asked her if my confession that night had actually been a success. She exploded at me like a firecracker. "Cassia Morgan, are you out of your mind? You call that a success? You were about to file a petition with the family council to dissolve the marriage!"
After hanging up, the first thought that flashed through my mind was: Holy shit. I actually did it. I landed the unattainable Declan O'Sullivan.
My second thought was a jolt of pure confusion as I stared at the marriage dissolution petition on the nightstand, signed in my own handwriting.
"Dissolve the marriage? Me? I'm the one who wants this? Am I fucking crazy?"
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1
The day Declan O'Sullivan came to the safe house to bring me home—an elegant woman on his arm—I hid the marriage dissolution papers.
Even though I had lost ten years of memory, I recognized the handwriting on the document. It was mine. The date at the bottom was from just yesterday.
"Cassia Morgan, is there ever a day you don't cause trouble?" Declan leaned against the bulletproof car window, his voice as cold as steel. "If there's a next time, I won't be the one scraping you off the pavement."
A decade had carved new lines into his face, but the contempt in his eyes was unchanged.
The woman at his side was stunning, and disturbingly familiar.
"Declan, don't be so harsh," she murmured. "She took a bullet to the head. The woman has amnesia. She needs to rest."
He sneered, disdain flashing in his eyes. "Amnesia? Just another one of her pathetic tricks. All these years and she still hasn't learned a thing."
He yanked open the back door. "What are you waiting for? Get in."
Those harsh words would have made anyone else turn and walk away, if only to preserve their dignity. But I just smiled, pulled open the front passenger door, and slid in. "Don't rush me. I'm sitting up front."
Declan's brow furrowed, his face a mask of impatience. He opened his mouth to say something, but I grabbed his wrist and shook it playfully.
"If you don't let me sit here, I'll start crying. We'll both be embarrassed, but I guarantee I'll be less mortified than you."
Ten years ago, this was exactly how I had clung to him.
When he told me to stay away, I would first grab his hand, then link my arm through his.
When he told me not to follow him, I would always "coincidentally" run into him wherever he went.
I always did the opposite of what he said.
I had chased him for so long. And I had won. Ten years later, Declan O'Sullivan was my husband.
I stole a glance at the strong wrist beneath his suit cuff, a warm sense of satisfaction blooming in my chest.
I'd done my homework on the O'Sullivan men—they were all cold, slow to warm.
Just as I expected, Declan's harsh expression faltered, his gaze wavering as it landed on me. A flicker of something—annoyance? regret?—crossed his face before he finally tore his eyes away and looked at the woman beside him.
"Sorry, Chiara. You'll have to take the back."
A flash of hurt crossed her face, but she still smiled graciously. "It's fine."
With that settled, I fastened my seatbelt and patted my stomach. "Declan, let's go get something to eat. The MREs in that safe house were disgusting. I'm starving."
He rattled off a string of excuses, but in the end, he gave in to my insistence and drove us to a steakhouse.
The owner, Arturo Gattuso, beamed the moment he saw us. He knew me; I used to drag Declan here all the time before I turned twenty. "Cassia? Declan? My God, it's been nearly a decade! Look at you two, all grown up."
I ignored the "decade" comment, slid past Chiara, and linked my arm through Declan's, a triumphant smile plastered on my face.
