by Fox, Nicole
It’s like I can’t get enough of it. I’m drinking sensations of home through a firehouse and still I want more, more, more.
Soon enough, though, the city peters out. Offices turn into homes, and homes turn into private estates. We wind deeper into the outskirts, leaving Dublin proper behind…
Until the Manor rears up through the windshield.
When we get to the gates of the property, I sit up a little straighter and push down my nerves.
At first glance, everything looks exactly the same.
Granite exteriors, private driveway to the main entrance of the rotunda, loads of floor-to-ceiling French doors that spill out directly into the gardens surrounding the building.
But I do spot differences. They’re small, but enough to remind me that this is no longer my home.
It’s changed in my absence.
So have I.
The moment the car stops, Kian and I get out through the opposite doors. I start to go straight for the main entrance, but then I stop short and wait for Kian to do the honors.
The doors creak open. As huge and heavy as they’ve always been. I step onto the solid oak boards of the entryway and take a deep breath.
“Welcome back, Master Cillian.”
Fuck.
That voice.
I turn to find Quinn standing in the arched canopy entrance that leads to the kitchen. He’s dressed in the exact same butler’s blacks that he was wearing the last time I saw him more than a decade ago.
He looks the same, too. Maybe a little greyer around the temples. A few more lines around the eyes.
But otherwise, ageless.
It creeps me the fuck out.
“Well fuck me, if it isn’t Quinn O’Keefe!” I say, moving forward and grabbing his hand even though he hasn’t offered it to me. “Forget Da, Kian. We’ve got our fucking vampire right here. You haven’t aged a day.”
“I respectfully disagree, sir,” Quinn murmurs with a wry smile.
I slap him on the back and for a moment, I think he’s going to break rather than allow himself to bend. “It’s good to see you, old man.”
Quinn gives me a stiff smile that very nearly touches his eyes. It’s the most warmth I’ve ever seen from him. “And you, sir.”
“Missed me?”
“Desperately,” he drawls.
“You cupcake!” I laugh. “Look at you. You’re practically crying. I always knew you were a sentimental old goat.”
“Such flattery.” His tone is desert dry, but it only makes me laugh all the harder.
I smirk. “You wanna give me a tour of the place? We can start in the wine—”
“Cillian.”
I turn to Kian, who’s looking at me with a knowing smile on his face. “We can tour the whole fucking manor in all its detailed glory. But you’ll still have to face Ma and Da at the end of it.”
I grit my teeth but keep the smile on my face.
I’m not gonna go racing up to Da like the eighteen-year-old brat he no doubt still thinks I am.
No, I’ve lived many lives since I left Dublin. I’m a different man now.
He hurled me from the only life I knew, but I built one elsewhere. The scars I wear now were earned the hard way.
He will not intimidate me.
“As you wish, brother. Let’s go see the old bastard.”
* * *
Kian leads me down the lit hallway that snakes towards the dining room. I can see the light peep through from the thin slit at the bottom of the oak door.
He gestures for me to lead the way. With a grit of my teeth, I shove through the door.
The space is just as large and intimidating as I remember it. Chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, glass doors framing the gardens beyond, ice-cold modern art hung from the walls.
But the sprawling marble dining table takes center stage.
And at the head of that table is my father.
Ma’s standing at his right shoulder. They’re so perfectly placed that it almost looks rehearsed. As though they’re posing for an oil painting and I’ve just barged in and interrupted the process.
For a second, I think Kian has called ahead and informed them that I’m coming with him.
Then Ma’s eyes go wide as they fall on me and I know Kian hasn’t breathed a word.
“Cillian?” she breathes.
“Hey, Ma,” I say, giving her the crooked smile she used to love when I was a boy. “Just as beautiful as I remember.”
I’m not lying, either. Ma has always been beautiful. It’s a different kind of beauty, though. Pared-back. Glacial. Austere.
“My son,” she murmurs as she steps forward.
And then Da raises his hand, and she stops as surely as if he’d yanked on an invisible leash. Her eyes flutter to him. The sentimentality washes off her features.
Leave it to my father to spoil the reunion.
“Da,” I say coldly. I take another step closer, even as Kian falls back.
I’m not about to ask permission to approach. And I’m certainly not about to fall in line like everyone else around him.
That respect was owed to him by the people who called him their don.
He’s not that to me. Not anymore.
“What are you doing in my house?” Da asks, his cold blue eyes boring into mine.
I can see him watching me, taking in every little change that the last thirteen years have wrought on my face and body.
The scars.
The muscle.
The posture of pride I’ve earned day in and day out working for the Kovalyov Bratva.
I shrug. “Was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by. Not much in the way of a warm welcome, though. I’m beginning to think you’re not happy to see me.”
Da says nothing.
I slump into the seat closest to him. I rest my elbow against the table and cross my ankle over my knee casually.
“No, no, don’t get up,” I say with a flippant toss of my hands. “I’ll make myself at home.”
Da grimaces. “You haven’t changed.”
I meet his eyes, the corners of my mouth turning up ever-so-slightly.
“On the contrary, Father, I’ve changed quite a bit,” I say icily. “You want me to fill you in on the last thirteen years?”
“You were a fool to come back,” he bites, his eyes darting past me to Kian. “And you were a fool to bring him.”
My little brother stiffens noticeably. It makes my jaw twitch with anger.
“From what I’ve heard, it sounds like you could use some help around here,” I interject.
Da looks back at me with mild interest. “Is that right?”
“The Kinahans are closing in,” I say. “You need all hands on deck.”
“That is not your concern,” he says. I can see the simmering fury behind those calm blue eyes. “You are no longer clan.”
I lean in a little. “Wrong. I am and always will be an O’Sullivan,” I murmur. “You can’t kick me out any more than you can drain the blood from my veins.”
“I think you’ll find that’s exactly how this works. I am the don.”
I shrug and slouch back. “I’ve survived gun fights, knife fights, ambushes. I’ve cheated death again and again. I think I can handle one old man’s ego.”
“Cillian!” Ma’s voice slices through. “Respect your father.”
“I have respect in spades,” I say without taking my eyes off Da. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to agree with you.”
Kian clears his throat, clearly trying to help me out. “Ma, I’m starved.”
“Both of you must be,” she says, jumping on the trivial topic. “Dinner is in an hour. Quinn will show you to your room, Cillian.”
I look at Da, who’s said nothing. He refuses to even meet my eyes. “Sounds lovely, Ma,” I remark. “Can’t wait to have the fam breaking bread together again.”
* * *
An hour later, after I’ve showered and changed, I come back downstairs. The sun
is setting in the gardens beyond the glass. Night will be here soon.
Da is where I left him. I wonder if he’s moved a muscle, though it’s impossible to say—he has thirty or forty pairs of the same crisp white shirt so there’s no telling if he showered and changed or not.
“Just you and me for dinner, eh?” I say. “This’ll be a lively conversation, I’m sure.”
He’s still staring holes in the surface of the table a few inches away from where his folded hands rest.
For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me.
Then he says, “Your brother is helping your mother and Fiona in the kitchen.”
I haul a chair out and relax into it. “Very well then. I’ll just sit here and be silent.”
He grunts in response.
True to my word, I do just that. Look around at the dining room, the table, my hands, the gardens. Nothing feels quite real. Like it’s all some bizarre, lifelike dream.
That effect doubles down when I feel Da’s gaze shift onto me. It’s a physical sensation, like the air in the room has dropped ten or twelve degrees.
I meet his gaze. Those eyes have intimidated many a man.
I refuse to let them intimidate me.
“You look like a man,” Da begins.
Is the old son of a bitch getting soft on me? It almost sounds like a compliment.
“But,” he adds, “looking and being are two different things.”
Ah. There it is. Back on track.
“You have learned nothing in the time you’ve been away,” he says. “I had hoped for more.”
I laugh scornfully. “Well, let me just say, I’m an hour into this little visit and really enjoying how things are going. Can’t wait to continue impressing you.”
“That’s all I’ve ever needed to take in the measure of a man,” he replies dryly. “And you are still a boy.”
“Why?” I ask. “Because I don’t brood around like you?”
“No. Because you think life is a game.”
“Maybe it is.”
Da growls low and slams his fist down on the table. His nostrils flare with rage.
But it’s over as soon as it happened. He regains composure. Adjusts his cuffs and slicks back his hair.
“What has Kian told you about everything?” he says coolly.
“Enough,” I answer. “Enough for me to guess the rest of it. You’re in trouble.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Da replies. “In fact, there’s a lot that Kian still doesn’t know.”
“Fill us in then, why don’t—”
BANG!
Before I can even finish my sentence, the kitchen door is thrown open violently.
I’m on my feet immediately.
I see Ma first. She’s being shoved back into the room—with a gun pressed into the back of her head.
The man standing behind her is in full tactical gear. A mask covers his features, but I can see the deadly glint in his dark eyes.
A moment after, Kian is marched into the room in the same fashion as Ma. Both look calm, but I can see the tension in their arms and the rigidity of their postures.
More men pour in after the first pair.
They’re all armed and dressed the same. All masked. All bristling with violence.
I don’t have to ask to know who they are.
Apparently, my real welcome party has arrived.
29
Cillian
The soldiers part and the man in charges steps forward. Unlike the others, his face is unmasked and his eyes are triumphant as he glances at each of us.
“Ronan O’Sullivan. Sinead O’Sullivan,” he says. “You’re under arrest.”
“On what grounds?” I snap.
Da rises slowly to his feet. His expression betrays nothing.
“Corruption, racketeering charges, manslaughter… the list goes on,” the man chuckles. “We’d be here all night if I listed them in their entirety.”
Then he nods to his men.
“Take them in.”
Given the fact that I’m unarmed and outnumbered, I have no choice but to stand there and watch as both my parents have handcuffs snapped onto their wrists.
It has the appearance of a lawful arrest, but even I can recognize the stink of Kinahan influence.
There’s nothing “by the book” about this.
I notice Da’s gaze fall to Kian. Something passes between them, but I’m left in the dark.
Of course I am. They’ve had over a decade to develop a shorthand communication.
“Let’s move out,” the leader orders.
All this shit is happening far too fast and far too easily. I wait for someone to say something.
For my father to fight back.
For my mother to turn to me.
For Kian to at least look outraged, for fuck’s sake.
But none of that happens. The whole damn thing is so unbearably composed that it feels like I’ve wandered onto the set of a movie where everyone except for me knows what the fuck is going on.
“You can’t fucking do this!” I yell into the black void.
Because apparently, I’m the only one here who can still use his voice.
“Stop.”
My head swivels in the direction of my father. He’s staring at me as if I’m a stranger. A stranger who’s decided to darken his doorstep at the worst possible time.
“Keep your mouth shut,” he adds without an ounce of emotion.
Then he allows himself to be walked out of the room, two men at his sides clutching his elbows and a third jabbing a shotgun into the small of his back.
Ma is taken out after him, leaving only Kian and me behind, along with two soldiers hanging back from the rest.
Both of them are masked, but there’s a menace in their air that’s hard to miss.
“So… which one of you is Cillian O’Sullivan?” the shorter one asks.
I’m about to tell him exactly who the fuck I am, when Kian speaks up first.
“I am,” he growls with so much confidence that I can only stand there and gawk at him.
The fuck are you doing? I mouth.
Kian ignores it.
And neither one of the masked assholes notices my obvious shock.
They’ve both turned their attention to Kian.
The guy who spoke walks forward. He stares at Kian—and then his baton flashes out in a move so decisive that I don’t even have time to roar.
The crack of bone is unmistakable.
Kian bellows in agony as he crumples to the floor with a hard thud. I don’t even have to look to know that the damage is bad.
It’s very fucking bad.
“Go hlfreann leat!” I thunder, my voice cracking in rage. “You motherfucking—”
“Brody Murtagh sends his regards,” the asshole cackles over Kian’s prone body.
Then they strut out of the dining room, happy as hell with themselves.
I’m about to grab one asshole by the scruff of his neck and strangle the life out of him.
But then Kian makes a sound from the floor.
“Brother!” I roar, leaving the attackers to their own devices and running towards him. “Why the fuck did you that?”
He’s sweating and gritting his teeth in agony. I spare the tiniest glance down at his leg to see a gruesome, bloody mess. A shard of bone is pointing in a direction it is very much not supposed to be pointing.
“I just saved your ass and you’re yelling at me?” he hisses.
“I could have handled it, you fucking idiot. It’s my leg they wanted to break, not yours.”
“Handled it, my ass,” Kian scoffs through a clenched jaw. “You know, I thought he was gonna kill you.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?!” I demand in disbelief. “You’re the heir, Kian. You’re the leader.”
He shakes his head.
“What?”
“Not anymore.” Kian says grimly. “Da’s gone, and I’m not walking anytime soon
. I’m not leading shit. You are.”
I don’t have time to properly process that before more men are spilling through the doors.
But this time, they’re our men. O’Sullivan men.
Quinn rushes toward Kian and me. “Master Kian!” he says in alarm.
His expression betrays little but I can see the concern in his eyes. He kneels down beside Kian as the O’Sullivan men sweep the area.
“How the fuck did they manage to get in?” I demand.
“They had warrants,” one of them guards answers. “They held us up in the front while they came in for you. Speaking of which, who the fuck are you?”
“Watch your tongue,” Quinn hisses, his head snapping up towards the guys who spoke. “You’re talking to Master Cillian O’Sullivan.”
The man’s expression curdles into pale horror as he looks at me. “I… Master Cillian…”
“Forget it,” I say, turning my attention back to Kian. “We need a doctor. Right fucking now.”
“Get him on the table,” Quinn orders the men. “And for God’s sake, do it carefully!”
I stand back and let Quinn take charge of the situation. My mind is whirling with new information.
Not only is the situation with the Kinahans worse than I thought…
But Brody fucking Murtagh is alive?
I slump to a seat up against the wall and try to breathe.
Home is not what I expected it to be.
* * *
When the clan doctor walks through the door, I’m almost relieved to recognize his face. Calm, dependable, and just a little bit worn, Dr. Doyle is heading straight for Kian when he notices me.
He does a double take as he processes. “Cillian?”
“In the flesh,” I mutter.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Can we do this shit after my leg is sorted?” Kian yells from the table.
Doyle jumps into action and moves forward to the table. It doesn’t take long for him to pronounce his verdict.
“The leg’s broken,” he confirms. “But don’t worry, I can set it. You’ll take a couple of months to heal.”
“Months?” Kian growls.
“It’s a bad break. I’m no magician, son.”