The Unread Plans

"Plans left unread are the most dangerous ones."

The rain had stopped, but the Connolly estate felt heavier than ever.

Declan Connolly sat at his father's desk in the study, the leather creaking faintly beneath him. The desk was large—too large for someone who had barely turned seventeen. Papers were stacked neatly to one side, sealed envelopes beside them. The room smelled of old wood and faint traces of Michael Connolly's cologne, as if his presence still lingered there, watching.

Across the desk sat Callahan, the family lawyer, briefcase balanced on his knees. His grey eyes were sharp behind thin-rimmed glasses, and he thumbed through pages slowly, as if he enjoyed drawing out the silence.

Liam perched in the armchair near the window, legs swinging over the edge, barely tall enough for his feet to brush the floor.

"How long does it take to read a will?" Liam asked, glancing up from the toy plane he was fiddling with.

"Your father's wasn't simple," Callahan replied dryly, not looking up.

"It never is," Declan muttered, flipping through a stack of documents.

Most of the paperwork wasn't for him—at least not yet. Three more months, and Declan's trust fund would unlock. Until then, everything felt like borrowed power.

"This one's yours," Callahan said finally, sliding an envelope toward Declan.

Declan didn't move to take it.

"And Liam?"

Callahan reached into his briefcase, pulling out a small box, dark mahogany with a silver latch. It barely made a sound as it landed softly in front of Liam.

Liam stared at it, his brows knitting together.

"What is it?"

"Your father's instructions." Callahan folded his hands, watching Liam closely.

"The box is sealed under your name. I can't open it. Not even Declan can."

Declan's head snapped up.

"Why not?"

"Because," Callahan said evenly, "Michael didn't trust anyone to handle Liam's inheritance but Liam."

Liam tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Smart."

Declan exhaled, rubbing his temple.

"He's six."

"He's a Connolly," Callahan replied simply.

Liam touched the latch but didn't open it.

"What if I don't want it yet?"

Callahan arched a brow.

"Then it'll wait. But I wouldn't recommend ignoring it. Plans left unread—"

"—are dangerous," Liam finished softly, turning the box over in his hands.

Declan watched his brother, something uneasy settling in his chest.

"If there's something important in there, I need to know."

Callahan's eyes flicked toward Declan.

"Michael was clear. Liam opens it when he's ready. Until then, I suggest focusing on the parts you can control."

Declan's knuckles tightened around the edge of the desk.

"Which is what, exactly?"

Callahan leaned forward, voice lowering.

"Midtown."

The word sat heavy between them.

Liam stopped fidgeting with the box, eyes narrowing slightly.

"That's why Ferraro was at the funeral, wasn't it?"

Declan stiffened, glancing at him.

*"Liam—"

"Dad owned most of Midtown," Liam continued, ignoring Declan.

"Now that he's gone, Ferraro thinks he can take it."

Callahan nodded approvingly.

"Bright kid. Yes, Liam. Michael's will confirms Connolly Holdings controls three warehouses near the docks. One of them—Warehouse 17—directly feeds into the shipping terminal. Ferraro knows whoever holds the terminal holds the smuggling routes."

Declan sank deeper into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And you're just telling me this now?"

"You weren't ready," Callahan said calmly. "Ferraro moves slowly. He wants you to feel secure before he strikes. That's how men like him operate."

Liam turned the box over again, his gaze drifting toward the map pinned near the bookshelf.

"Then we move first."

Declan looked at him sharply.

"We're not doing anything. You're staying out of this."

Liam's eyes flicked up.

"I'm part of this family, Declan. Whether you like it or not."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Callahan observed quietly, clearly entertained but saying nothing.

"Open the envelope," Callahan said at last, nodding toward the one in front of Declan.

"That's where Michael left your instructions."

Declan hesitated before finally breaking the seal.

Inside was a single folded sheet of paper. Michael's handwriting—sharp and precise—filled the page.

Declan,

If you're reading this, I'm not sitting across from you. I know you hate that.

You've inherited more than just the Connolly name—you're carrying Liam too. 

I didn't plan for that. But I should have.

Liam is different. You know that. You've seen it, even if you pretend not to. The world will want to shape him into something I'm not sure he should be. I need you to stop them. I need you to stop Ferraro. Zhang. The rest.

I know that's not what you expected. 

It wasn't meant for you because you belong to the light. Liam... he belongs to both. One foot in the shadows. That's how he survives.

You were always better than me, Declan. That's why I never taught you how to run the syndicate. I didn't want you in it. But Liam... he was too young to choose. He learned just by being near me.

When the time comes, he'll lead the Connolly name. But until then, it's on you to protect him—sometimes from others, sometimes from himself.

You'll take him places I couldn't, places he'll need to see. You'll keep him safe, even when it feels like the ground's shifting beneath your feet. When that day comes, and it will, remember— sometimes the safest route isn't the right one.

This city isn't the end. Liam will understand that before you do.

I know this isn't the life you wanted. And I'm sorry for that.

But you'll handle it, because you're my son. And because Liam will need you more than he'll ever admit.

Burn this letter when you're done. Some things don't need to be remembered.

—Michael

Declan's grip tightened on the paper.

Liam raised an eyebrow.

"What does it say?"

Declan folded the paper neatly, sliding it back into the envelope.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

Liam didn't believe him. Not for a second.

Later That Night – Liam's Room

Liam sat cross-legged on the floor, the box resting between his knees.

The latch clicked softly under his thumb, but he hesitated, staring down at it.

He could feel Declan's gaze from the doorway.

"You're not going to open it, are you?" Declan asked, leaning against the frame.

"Not tonight."

Declan crossed his arms.

"Good. You don't need to."

Liam looked up.

"I will eventually."

Declan didn't respond, but Liam could tell from the tension in his shoulders that he hated the idea.

"Ferraro's not going to stop," Liam added, quietly testing Declan's patience.

"He'll make his move soon."

Declan's eyes narrowed slightly.

"And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Liam?"

Liam tilted his head.

"That depends on what's in the box."

Declan exhaled, stepping inside and kneeling in front of him.

"Listen to me. Dad left this mess to me, not you. I'll handle Ferraro. You just stay out of it."

Liam's fingers traced the edges of the box absently.

"That's not what the letter said."

Declan's eyes flashed with frustration, but he held it back.

"I'm serious, Liam. You're six."

Liam glanced at him, a faint glimmer of defiance in his eyes.

"I'm a Connolly."

Declan ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

"That's what I'm afraid of."