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.
“That’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
