And when I see it, I seize my opportunity.
“He died four months ago,” I say. “He took the bullet that was meant for me.”
Ronan turns to me slowly, his eyes boring into mine. He really looks at me this time. He gives a small nod.
His men lower their weapons.
“Get in the car,” he tells me. “We’ll finish this discussion inside.”
I glance back at the bartender who’d brought me here. He’s staring at me open-mouthed, clearly shocked at how I’d managed to get myself out of what he clearly thought would be a short and fatal confrontation.
Fucking idiot. He’s too dumb to last long in this world.
I turn my back on him and walk to the foot of the mansion’s marble staircase. Before I ascend, I’m stopped, frisked and unburdened of all my weapons by a pair of suited goons.
Ronan stands at the top of the stairs, looking up at the ornate gargoyles looming above the entryway. Waiting for me, no doubt, but his back is turned so I can’t see his face.
Does he feel the loss?
He clearly feels something—otherwise, why invite me back to the house?
It gives me a small glimmer of hope, but I’m still cautious. I knew next to nothing about the O’Sullivan clan. Nothing real, in any case.
Cillian had spoken about them in brief, bitter anecdotes. And only when he was very drunk or really pissed. The family portrait he painted was less than flattering.
The goons push me up the stairs. I mount slowly, wary of everything around me.
When Ronan hears me coming, he slips inside without a word.
I follow him in.
The house is surprisingly modern inside, made of clean lines and a lot of glass. Everything is sleek and jaw-droppingly expensive.
Fuck me. The O’Sullivan’s are doing better than anyone realized.
“Follow me,” Ronan throws back over his shoulder at me. He walks fast.
We cross a massive foyer, go through a great room with three fireplaces all burning. Libraries, lounges, a cinema, a sprawling office. I get glimpses of each room as we pass.
My admiration grows with every step.
On the far side of the house, we emerge back into the sunlight.
There’s a table set out on the deck, made of bulky wood that clashes horribly with the sleek modernity of the rest of the house. It’s the most Irish piece I have seen so far.
“Sit,” Ronan instructs me.
I see him nod to one of his guards posted at the doorway. The man disappears into the house. The rest of them seem to disappear as well, but I can still sense them around us. Watchful and waiting for their don’s next command.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Ronan asks.
“I don’t drink anymore.”
He sighs like I’m an idiot and holds up three fingers to another of the guards lingering around the perimeter of the garden.
“Today, you do.”
Shortly afterwards, one of his men appears with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.
Ronan grabs the green neck of the Jamison Irish whiskey that Cillian used to favor and fills up all three glasses.
“Is someone else joining us?” I ask.
As if in answer, I clear the click of heels on wood. Then, an older blonde woman steps out onto the deck.
She’s striking. Beautiful, really. She wears a gray turtleneck and black pants with silver diagonal zips that mark each pocket. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head and her makeup is expertly applied to hide the age lines around her mouth and eyes.
I hadn’t expected Cillian’s mother to be quite so… glamorous. She must have been in her fifties, but youth still clung to her delicate features.
Cillian hadn’t inherited much from her in the way of looks. He had his dad’s masculine, rough-hewn features.
But there was still a resemblance to his mother, however subtle. A sort of kindness in the eyes, maybe.
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
