She's A Weapon.

It’d been a week. Seven days since Ava slammed that door in my face. Since she looked at me like I was nothing. Since the last time I’d felt her eyes on me, warm or otherwise. And in that time, the house had gone quiet in the most unsettling way. The halls didn’t echo with her humming anymore. The kitchen didn’t smell like fresh herbs or soft bread or anything remotely comforting. The place felt cold. Hollow. Like it was mourning her too. If she came out of that room, it was only when I was gone, off handling business or pacifying problems I didn’t give two shits about. Because truthfully, none of it mattered if she kept disappearing like this. Kerry-Anne had overstayed her welcome two days ago, but she kept popping up at my side like a fucking leech. Every little sigh, every comment about how "some women just aren't built for this life" made my skin crawl. She wasn’t subtle, and I was past the point of politeness. But still, she lingered, and I let her, out of guilt, out of habit, out of hoping Ava might get mad enough to finally speak to me. Stupid. Hayden and Marco were barely around unless I summoned them. Luca gave me curt nods like he was still deciding if he respected me anymore. And Domonic? He wouldn’t even look at me unless it was business-related. I deserved it. I knew that. Every night I found myself outside her door, knocking. Asking. Begging, if I’m honest.

"Ava... please, just let me talk to you." Nothing.

"Ava, I didn’t mean for you to see that. I was going to talk to you, I swear it."

Not even a shift of movement behind the wood. I stood there with my forehead pressed to the door, fingers curled into a fist at my side, and seriously considered breaking the fucking thing down. Domonic caught me there, silent and furious.

“You break that door, you don’t get her back,” he said. Calm. Dead serious. I glared at him, jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t already lost her?”

He crossed his arms and stepped closer. “Maybe. But maybe not. Let me try.”

I hesitated. My pride didn’t want to agree. But my heart was fucking desperate.

He knocked once. Lightly. A quiet voice. “Ava… it’s just me. Can I come in?” I held my breath. A beat of silence. Then the lock clicked. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or jealous or both. Probably both. He was in there for about fifteen minutes. I paced like a man possessed, waiting, thinking, dreading what she might be saying about me, what I’d deserve if she said all of it and more. When Domonic came out, he didn’t say much. Just, “She’ll be at the meeting tomorrow. One of the Irish guys requested her personally. Said she was sharper than any of us. He’s right.”

I swallowed. “She agreed?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. She’ll be there.”

That shouldn’t have hit me like a win, but it did. Because it meant I’d see her. I could talk to her. Maybe even look her in the eye again. God, I missed her. Missed her voice. Her laugh. The way she tilted her head when she was curious or caught me watching her. I’d been an idiot. Worse than that. But tomorrow, maybe, I could start to fix it. Or destroy it completely. And I wasn’t sure which outcome I deserved.

The meeting room was immaculate. Polished floors. A long mahogany table. Fresh cigars stacked in the center beside crystal tumblers and a bottle of top-shelf whiskey. Every chair had been set with intention. Ava’s place directly across from me, a subtle invitation. I’d hired a private chef for after, one of the best. The sunroom had been transformed into something softer than war. Candles. Roses. Her favorite vintage, chilled to perfection. A table for two in a space meant for healing. A peace offering dressed like a date. I adjusted my cuffs, barely hearing Domonic as he stepped in to check the perimeter. The rest of the men followed, Conner and his second-in-command, Darragh, followed by our crew. Conner sat casually, legs wide, fingers drumming on the table like he owned it. “Your wife,” he said, voice thick with that Irish rasp, “she’ll be joining us?”

“She will.” I made sure my tone was neutral. Controlled. I couldn’t let him hear the nerves. Minutes dragged. I checked the clock twice. The door opened and everything else ceased to matter. My heartbeat. My thoughts. The room itself. Ava stepped in like she didn’t belong to anyone. The black dress clung to her like shadows. Hair swept back in a high twist, exposing the graceful line of her neck, the same neck I used to kiss goodnight, the same neck still faintly bruised from the last time we spoke too loud, touched too hard. Her eyes swept the room, cool and detached, and landed on Conner. Not me. She didn’t take the seat next to me. She glided to the far end of the table and sat beside him like a queen reclaiming her court.

Conner’s grin widened. “There she is.”

“Mr. O’Shea,” she said smoothly, legs crossed, voice like satin and smoke. “I believe you wanted to discuss the shipment from Mexico?”

“I do.” He leaned forward, interested now in a way that was not entirely professional. “Ports are unreliable. Too many federal eyes. Roads take too long, and there’s too much risk in our usual routes.”

“We’ve lost three shipments in the last month,” Darragh added. “One vanished near El Paso. Another in Veracruz. We’re bleeding.”

Conner downed a shot of whiskey. “We need a new approach. And we heard you were good with…creative thinking.”

All eyes turned to her. My wife.  Ava nodded once, like a General considering battle strategy. “You need to disappear the product in plain sight.”

Darragh frowned. “We’ve tried hiding it in medical equipment. Trucks. Livestock.”

“Too easy to scan,” Ava replied. “You need something no one would think to check. Something personal. Expensive. Something with privilege and red tape wrapped around it so tightly no border dog will dare touch it.”

Conner’s brow rose. “Like what?”

She offered a slow smile. “Me.”

Silence.

“I’ll fly to Mexico. Say I’m redecorating. I’ll purchase custom furniture, sculpture, artwork—have it all loaded and shipped back under my name. No one flags returning heiresses with taste.”

I watched them watch her. Conner leaned in.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“And what if you’re searched?”

“I won’t be. I know what not to do. I’ll never carry. Never speak a word. I’ll be another spoiled rich girl importing a house full of gold-leaf mirrors and ugly oil paintings.”

I wanted to protest, to scream, to yell, my wife will not go anywhere, not on a gun run, no! but we needed this deal...and I needed her to feel accepted, to know that she has a place, a voice.

Darragh scratched his beard. “That could work.”

“Customs paperwork will have my seal,” Ava said. “But you’ll need to bring me in with your people. I don’t work with ghosts.”

Conner’s grin turned wolfish. “Then I’ll go with you. Make the introductions. Keep the dogs at bay.”

Again my mind was reeling, my fists clenched under the table, but Dom shot be a look that said 'don't'. 

“Two days,” she said. “That’s all I’ll need.”

They tossed around numbers after that. Units. Yields. Value. I was stunned. She hadn’t just stepped into the room. She’d claimed it. This was no accident. This was bloodline. Her father had raised her in the shadows of war rooms like this one. While I’d been convincing myself she needed to be spared from our world, she’d been born in it. Bred for it.

Conner leaned over and offered her a hand. “You’ve got a sharp mind.”

Ava accepted the handshake with a flicker of something like amusement. 

And when they finally left, Conner clapped me on the shoulder. “She’s a weapon, Nico. Don’t be daft enough to keep her holstered.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was too busy trying to remember when the hell I started underestimating my wife.