A Door And A Key.

The dining room had been transformed into a cold, elegant war room. The long polished mahogany table gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, its surface marked with faint rings from countless glasses and meetings before mine. Leather chairs, heavy and worn in just the right way, surrounded the table. The faint scent of expensive cigars lingered in the air, a sharp reminder of power, danger, and the weight of decisions made here. Nico sat at the head of the table as expected, a king surveying his court. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, gaze sharp but controlled. Around him sat the others, Hayden, alert and quietly commanding; Luca, ever-watchful with a faint scowl etched between his brows; Domonic, his presence solid and unshakable; Marco, a ruthless figure from Jersey whose reputation preceded him; and several other guests, some from New York, others from distant overseas operations. Men who carried influence and fear in equal measure and then there was me. I took my seat three places down from Nico, careful never to sit beside him, not since the beginning of our fractured marriage. Not by his side. But close enough that, should he choose to see me, I was in his line of sight. I’d been in many meetings like this since we married, listening intently. My father had schooled me in the ways of this dangerous world, its rules, its risks, its silent chess moves and though this wasn’t my battlefield, I wasn’t a stranger to the language spoken here. The conversation flowed around territory merges, laundering routes, and shifting fronts after a series of businesses in Jersey had gone dark. I kept my head low at first, absorbing every nuance, every hesitation, every half-spoken warning. Slowly, patterns emerged, cracks no one else wanted to highlight. When the room fell into a brief lull, I swallowed hard and spoke carefully, directing my words to Hayden, whose steady presence felt like the safest choice. “What if,” I began, voice steady despite the weight behind my suggestion, “you rotate the courier fronts between the restaurant and the gallery every few weeks? It’ll disrupt surveillance patterns and make it harder for law enforcement to map the activity flow.” A silence fell. The men exchanged glances, some surprised, some contemplative. Conner, the Irish Mafia leader with piercing green eyes and a voice smooth as velvet yet edged with broken glass, was the first to respond. His gaze flicked to me twice, deliberate, assessing, and somehow uncomfortably intense.

“She’s right,” Conner said, his approval unmistakable. “We’ve used that in Dublin. Less predictable. More effective. Looks like someone’s been paying close attention.”

Hayden offered me a small, surprised smile. Luca raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. Nico, however, didn’t react. Not a glance. Not a nod. Not even the barest flicker of acknowledgment. Instead, he smoothly talked over me, his voice calm but dismissive.

“Interesting,” he said, the hint of a sneer in his tone. “But impractical given our current manpower. We need more reliable fronts, not rotating routes that risk spreading us thin.”

The message was unmistakable: I was to be silent. Invisible. Insignificant. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to remain still, swallowing the sting of rejection. Conner’s gaze met mine again, longer this time, an unspoken exchange passing between us, he had noticed. And it unsettled me. Before the meeting could continue, the doors burst open with an obnoxious creak, shattering the moment. Kerry-Anne. She stormed in like she owned the place, arms crossed, brow furrowed with petulant irritation. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor, announcing her presence like a brass band.

“There you are,” she announced, eyes locking onto Nico, completely ignoring everyone else in the room. “I’ve been waiting. My bags are still downstairs like I’m some kind of peasant. I specifically asked her” she jabbed a manicured finger pointedly in my direction, eyes never meeting mine “to handle it hours ago.”

The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Domonic rolled his eyes and muttered something inaudible. Marcus outright snorted, barely able to suppress a laugh. Nico didn’t scold Kerry-Anne. Didn’t rebuke her attitude. Instead, he stood slowly, his expression unreadable, and approached her with that same possessive hand on her back he used to use on me.

“I’ll have it handled,” he murmured softly, voice cold and controlled. “You should be resting.”

“Clearly, someone isn’t doing her job,” Kerry-Anne muttered under her breath as Nico led her out of the room, ignoring the presence of everyone else, especially me. I remained frozen, fists clenched beneath the table, nails digging painfully into my palms. Not one glance from Nico. Not one defense. Not one word. The meeting resumed without much enthusiasm. The energy in the room was deflated but surprisingly efficient. Without Nico’s domineering presence dominating every word, Hayden and the others took the reins, and the rest of the agenda unfolded smoothly almost too smoothly, as if the absence of one man had allowed the others to work without interruption. When the guests began to leave, one voice stopped me at the doorway.

“Ava.”

I turned to see Conner lingering near the entrance, lighting a cigarette with a practiced flick of his silver lighter. His sharp eyes softened as he nodded toward the now-empty chairs.

“Walk with me a minute?”

I hesitated, then followed him into the quiet hallway where the muffled sounds of departure faded behind us. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, studying me like a puzzle nearly solved.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, voice low, rough but gentle, “I’ve seen plenty of things in rooms like that. Men who don’t trust their women. Some who use them. Some who even love them enough to shield them from this life.”

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, eyes sharp and piercing.

“But I’ve never seen a man try so hard to erase his wife. Like he regrets marrying her. Like she’s some ghost in his own home.”

His words hit me like a slap, but I remained silent. Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small black card. It was simple, only a silver Celtic knot embossed in the center, and a delicate number written on the back. He held it out to me.

“If you ever want to get out,” he said quietly but firmly, “quietly, cleanly, without making a mess for yourself, use that. I’ve got people. Places you can disappear to. Safely.”

My heart hammered as I took the card, the weight of it heavier than I expected.

“But be discreet,” he warned, tapping his temple. “And don’t let him catch wind. Something tells me your husband doesn’t handle losing well.”

He nodded once, then walked away without waiting for an answer. I stood there for a long moment, the card burning a hole in my palm. It wasn’t just a number. It was a door. And for the first time in a very long time… I held the key.