by Nicole Fox
She zones in on me.
Her mouth is relaxed, her lips turned up as though she’s about to smile, but I can see that her eyes are tense.
Then she looks at her husband and moves to sit down beside him. She doesn’t say a word as she reaches for the third class of whiskey on the table. She takes it and gulps it down in a matter of seconds.
Her mannerisms remind me so much of Cillian that I can’t take my eyes off her. She puts down the empty glance and looks at me while she addresses her husband.
“Another.”
He pours more whiskey into her glass, but this time she doesn’t move to take it. She just keeps looking at me.
“I was told you were with my son when he died,” she says.
I can hear the tenor of emotion running like a fine edge underneath her tone. She is desperate for information.
But she’s terrified of what she’s about to hear, too.
“I was with him when he was shot,” I clarify. “As I told your husband, he put himself in front of the bullet that was meant for me.”
“And why would he do that?” Ronan asks before she can.
“Because I was his family.”
Ronan’s frown deepens at my reply. “Cillian has a family.”
“He did,” I agree. “And then you disowned him and cast him aside.”
They might not like the blunt truth being dropped on them like a stranger. But I didn’t cross the ocean to mince words with these people.
I continue, “You betrayed him and ran him out of his homeland. Is it any wonder he found a home somewhere else?”
Ronan is radiating raw anger now. It’s the first time I’ve chipped through his icy exterior. Apparently, I’ve touched a nerve.
If I had to guess, it was a nerve that his wife has been pulling for many years.
I glance at her, trying to read her expression. She’s looking down at her whiskey glass as though it’s the answer to curing her misery.
I’ve been there.
Fuck, I might be there right now.
“Cillian betrayed me first,” Ronan says, drawing my attention back to him. “Or did he leave that part out?”
“He left nothing out,” I reply. “He told me about what he did to a politician’s son. A man you chose above him.”
Ronan doesn’t move. Neither does his wife.
“What’s your name?” she asks slowly.
“Artem Kovalyov,” I reply.
Ronan frowns. “Kovalyov?” he says. “You’re Bratva.”
“Yes.”
“We knew Cillian was running in mafia circles in L.A.,” Ronan says. “We just didn’t realize which circles.”
“He’s been by my side for almost ten years.”
“Which is where he got shot, no?” Ronan drawls.
“You really want to trade accusations?” I demand. “Because trust me, I’ve got a few myself.”
“You realize you’re in my house now, yes?” the man rasps quietly. “You’re outnumbered and unarmed.”
I shrug. “I’m not afraid of death.”
“The only reason that’s true is because you have nothing left to lose,” he says shrewdly. “Which is also, I’m assuming, why you’re here in the first place.”
I look the man right in the eye, trying to size him up the way he’s sizing me up. But before either one of us can say a word, Cillian’s mother interrupts.
“You say you were his family.”
Ronan starts to cut her off. “Sinead—”
“I have a right to know about my son,” she snaps, her voice strong.
I’m surprised to see Ronan back down immediately.
“You prevented me from seeing my child for the last decade,” she adds. “Do not deny me this now.”
Ronan hesitates, then nods.
Sinead turns back to me.
“Tell me about his life in L.A.,” she says. “Tell me what he was like. What kind of man he was.”
I take a moment to arrange my thoughts.
How am I supposed to explain the last ten years?
How am I supposed to condense down a good man’s lifetime into a few short sentences?
“He was… the most optimistic man I’ve ever met,” I start. “He was quick to laugh about everything, including himself. He was unfailingly honest, he was loyal to a fault, and he missed Ireland far more than he claimed he did.”
Sinead looks at me with her powder-blue eyes. Like Cillian’s, but softer, hazier.
“Did he hate us?” she asks.
“I don’t think he hated you,” I say, addressing her directly. “He resented what was done to him. He was hurt. Sometimes he didn’t understand—”
“Didn’t understand?” Ronan barks. “What didn’t he fucking understand? He knew what he was doing. He knew who he was fucking with.”
“Does it matter?” I shoot back calmly. “He was defending his woman.”
Ronan grunts with anger. “That bitch was beneath him. He insisted on entangling himself with her, and then he became sloppy and irresponsible. He prioritized her over the family. He should have known better. Nothing comes above family.”
“Maybe he considered her family,” I point out.
Ronan narrows his eyes. “Is that what he told you?”
“He didn’t have to,” I answer. “I knew Cillian better than anyone.”
“You say that to me?” Ronan challenges. “His father?”
“You knew the boy he was,” I say. “Not the man he became.”
I glance back at Sinead, who hasn’t taken her eyes off me.
I sigh. My chest aches like a bruise. “He fought by my side for almost a decade. He was with my through the worst times of my life and the best. He was my conscience and my toughest critic. And he was talented. If you’d only chosen differently, he would have made an amazing don in his own right.”
That brings about a spark of regret in Ronan’s stubborn eyes. The idea that his legacy might have had a stronger change of success is the only thing that really rattles him.
“He chose wrong,” he replies tensely.
“He was young.”
“Artem,” Sinead says, her voice shaking just a little. “Did he… was he happy? Did he leave behind anyone? A woman, a child perhaps?”
I want to be able to give her something. She so badly wants it. Some hope to cling to.
But I know that lying to them now will only undo all the headway I’ve made since coming here.
“No,” I say. “There was no one in his life. He wasn’t looking to settle down.”
“Was it still her—all this time?” Sinead asks.
I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I shake my head. “I don’t know. He kept his feelings pretty close to heart.”
“Tell me how he died,” she asks.
“Sinead…” Ronan warns, glancing at her pointedly.
“I want to know,” she insists. “Please tell me.”
Those eyes are so blue. So desperate.
“It was an ambush,” I explain. “I was surrounded. A dozen men against me, maybe more. I was about to die and Cillian jumped into the fray.”
“He knew he would die,” Sinead guesses.
“Yes. As I said, he was loyal to a fault.”
“The only question is: were you worth his loyalty? Were you worth his life?” Ronan asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not,” I reply without hesitation. “Cillian was a better man than I am. But he was a man without a country, without a woman, and without children. His only family was me. That is why he did what he did.”
I can see unshed tears in Sinead’s eyes, but she blinks them back and gets a hold of herself in a matter of seconds.
I see clearly why a man like Ronan would choose a wife like her.
More to the point, I see how a man like Cillian came from a woman like her.
She doesn’t fear her feelings. They make her strong.
Cillian understood that better than I ever have.
“Tha
t’s all very well,” Ronan says. “But it doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
This is it.
Time to plead my case.
I take a slow breath. Then I tell them the truth, unvarnished and bare.
“I’m here to avenge your son’s death.”
“And you took a flight to Ireland just to tell us that?” Ronan scowls.
“I need resources.”
Ronan throws up his hands in dismay. “As I suspected. You’re just a fucking beggar.”
He turns to Sinead and I see the silent conversation the two are having.
When he turns back to me, his eyes are wiped clean of emotion once more.
“Who is the man who pulled the trigger?” Ronan asks.
“Budimir Kovalyov.” I can’t put off the revelation any longer.
“What?” Sinead says in alarm, leaning into her seat.
“My uncle.”
“Your uncle killed my son?” Sinead asks slowly.
“He also killed my father,” I tell them. “He took control of the Bratva, robbed me of my birthright, and tried to kill me and everyone loyal to me.”
“And yet here you sit,” Ronan says.
He leaves the rest unsaid, but I hear him loud and clear.
Here you sit—while my son is dead.
“Budimir left me lying in the dirt beside Cillian,” I tell him. “He left me to bleed out slowly. He believes I’m dead just like your boy.”
“So you’re nothing but a ghost.”
“I am precisely that,” I admit. “One that is soon going to be unleashed.”
“With my resources?” Ronan says sardonically.
“That is why I’m here,” I say, looking between the handsome couple, wondering how good my chances are.
“This is not about avenging Cillian,” Ronan comments. “This is about taking back what you think is yours.”
“It’s about both.”
“And if I say no?” Ronan asks.
“I’ll walk out of here and find another way,” I say firmly. “And I will find another way. I will be don of the Bratva once more. And Budimir will pay for what he did to your son.”
I stare him in the face. Ronan understands the subtext here. It’s politics at the end of the day, after all.
Wouldn’t you rather make an ally of a Bratva don?
Ronan sighs and steeples his fingers on the table.
“I will consider your request,” he says. “You’ll have an answer tomorrow.”
“I appreciate that, Don O’Sullivan.” I stand, leaving my whiskey untouched, and get ready to depart.
“We have a room you can use tonight,” Sinead says suddenly. She lurches up with me and rests a kind hand on my forearm.
Ronan growls deep in his chest but says nothing. I’m sure he doesn’t like the display of softness.
But Sinead doesn’t give a damn.
I hadn’t expected an invitation to stay. I incline my head with gratitude.
“Thank you,” I say. “But I’ll decline. I have a place in mind for the rest of my trip in Ireland. You can find me at The Free Canary when you’ve made up your mind.”
My mind flashes back to an ancient memory.
“Byrne’s again?” I ask. “We went there twice already this month. That pub is fucking rank.”
“I know,” Cillian laughs.
“So the fuck do you love it so much?” I demanded.
“Reminds me of The Free Canary,” he says softly..
“An Irish institution, huh?”
Cillian snorts. “More like an Irish travesty. It was a shitty little bar wedged in between a better pub and a porn shop. But fuck… that bar was my whole fucking adolescence.”
“Pity I missed it,” I drawl sarcastically.
He ignores me. “Had my first drink in that bar. Fucked my first woman in one of the rooms upstairs. Had my first fight by the cash register. Fell in love in that pub.”
His eyes are dreamy. Distant.
He’s remembering a place he might not see again in this life.
“You think you’ll ever go back there?” I ask.
“Maybe one day,” Cillian says with a shrug. “When I’m old and grey and I’ve lived so fucking much that I ache all over. Then I’ll go back and order a pint of Guinness. I’ll sit at the bar and sip my beer and fall asleep to old Irish songs.”
I laugh. “Jesus, that’s sad. And by sad, I mean pathetic.”
“Fuck you.”
Our laughter fills the empty streets as we head to the next bar.
The memory fades away. I wish I had more of it. More of him.
“The Free Canary,” Sinead echoes. The clench in her jaw melts under a wave of grief. “He loved that damn pub.”
“He loved a lot of the things he left behind,” I say. I turn once more to leave. Before I do, something else occurs to me. I pivot again and say to Ronan, “Oh, and I should apologize.”
“For what?” the grizzled man asks.
“I believe I killed three of your men at O’Malley’s.”
His expression is blank. “If the three of them couldn’t handle one fucking Russian, then they deserved to die.” He laughs scornfully and waves me off.
Ronan remains seated, sipping the whiskey straight from the bottle and staring out into the lush garden.
But Sinead gets up and walks with me back towards the entrance of the house. She’s quiet—weighed down with memories, no doubt.
I wish I had the ability to comfort her, but I’ve never been good with grief.
I can barely handle my own.
“He must have loved you,” Sinead says just before I cross through the front doors once again. “To have died for you, I mean.”
I turn to face her. The sunlight hits her blue eyes and makes them sparkle like the ocean.
“He would have died for any one of you, too,” I tell her solemnly. “If he’d only been given a chance.”
24
Artem
One of Ronan’s men is waiting out front with a car to take me anywhere I want to go.
I tell him, “The Free Canary,” then settle back into my seat.
The bartender is nowhere to be found. He must’ve left while I was inside.
Smart man. If I ever see that bastard again, I’ll kill him.
The ride is swift and silent. We stop outside the tavern, which looks just as run down and neglected as Cillian had always described.
True to his word, there’s a foul-looking porn shop on the right side and another pub on the left that looks warmer, brighter, livelier.
The Free Canary squats in the middle. Dank and unloved. The sign overhead shows a yellow bird flapping its way out of a shattered iron cage. Looks like a six-year-old fingerpainted it, to be honest.
I sigh and shake my head.
Of course Cillian would love a shithole like this.
I step out of the car. It speeds off the moment I’m clear of the wheels. The weather outside has gotten colder and greyer since we left Ronan’s mansion.
I pull my jacket closer around me and step through the front doors.
The moment I walk inside, I feel like I’ve walked into a time capsule. Old posters and maps of Ireland from centuries ago dot the walls. The music is Irish through and through, which means it’s equal parts cheerful and mournful.
I go to the bar and flag down the bartender, a skinny blonde with smudged racoon eyes and tits pressed up damn near to her neck.
She eyes me like she’s not sure whether she wants to fuck me or rob me.
As long as she doesn’t pull a gun on me like the last bartender I might, I don’t give a damn.
“What can I get you, handsome?” she asks in a rolling brogue.
“Water.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She starts trying to tempt me into barbeque wings. But she falls silent when I hold up a hand to cut her off.
I shake my head. “Just water,” I tell her. “And silence.�
��
She bites her lip and nods. “Aye, understood.”
A few moments later, she places a glass of water in front of me and disappears down to the opposite end of the bar.
Satisfied, I take the chance to look at the walls of the bar that had built Cillian.
His words, not mine.
“That fucking pub built me.”
“You sound like a country Western song.”
“And you sound like a sourpuss bitch.”
I hear his voice in my head, but the words are all recycled. Ancient history. Ghosts from the past.
Another one occurs to me. One I haven’t thought about in a long time. Curious, I slide off my stool, grab my duffel bag, and walk outside again.
A light drizzle has started up. To my surprise, it’s warm. Each drop like a soft kiss on my skin.
I take a few steps away from the building and turn around to face it again. Cillian’s voice is playing in my head like he’s guiding me.
“There was a little alleyway on the side, hardly big enough to fit through. Always left my fat friends behind here, the poor bastards.”
My gaze tracks down. Sure enough, wedged between the porn shop and The Free Canary is a little sliver of an alley. If I turn sideways, I’ll be able to shuffle down.
“So we’d go on down that way. Suck in your gut. You’ll pop out soon enough. A rusty-ass ladder hung off the building. Riddled with tetanus, no doubt, but I never gave a damn.”
I hold my duffel bag overhead and start the creep-walk between the buildings. The stone walls are slick with the rainwater, with moss, with years of grime and sweat.
I keep moving.
At the end, there’s a ladder. It’s rusted to shit and I’m wary that it can support my weight.
But I just sigh, loop the duffel bag over my shoulder, and start the climb up.
And then I emerge onto the rooftop of The Free Canary.
It’s mostly empty. Scant gravel across the top. A few crushed beer cans here and there, cigarette butts, the shit left behind by the drunken kids who made the journey I just made.
“The fuck’s so special about this, Cillian?” I mutter under my breath.
Then I turn and face the south, and I get it.
The city opens out in the distance. Sprawling. Lights sparkle against the oncoming darkness of night.
The last rays of the sun sneak out from under the bank of gray clouds.