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My eyes narrow as I take a step closer, and my words are like venom, sharp and cutting. "Lesser men than you have disappeared for disobeying me."
Isaac swallows hard, then straightens himself. "Someone came to my church looking for Brien Cahill."
He pauses, letting the name hang in the air like a lingering echo. The anger in my chest tightens into a knot—Brien Cahill—a boy that Victor ordered killed. I took the job because that's what I'm trained to do. But killing children is something I've never been okay with.
Instead, I helped Isaac and Brien's parents smuggle the boy out of the country, finding sanctuary with distant relatives in the States. In doing so, I directly disobeyed Victor's orders, an act of rebellion that could have cost me everything. But I was tired of seeing children pay for the sins of their fathers.
Kane Cahill, Brien's father, owed the Kings a significant amount in gambling debt, and after a year without paying up, Victor ordered a hit on the man's son. I couldn't stomach it, couldn't watch another innocent life be destroyed.
I square my shoulders and focus my gaze on Isaac. "What did you tell the man who visited you?"
Isaac's face is a mask of worry. "I told him I presided over Brien's funeral and could confirm that he is dead."
His voice lowers as he glances at the floor. "But I don't think he believes me, Mr. O'Sullivan. I sincerely believe that the man knows Brien Cahill is still alive."
The weight of his words settles over me like a suffocating fog. If they suspect Brien is still out there, they'll come for him again. And if they find out I've deceived Victor, I'm as good as dead.
“Who was this man?” I ask. The one who delivered the news.
The priest rattles off a description that could be a million normal men.
My rage is quiet, a swirling whirlpool awaiting an unfortunate soul’s fall from a vessel. Isaac shifts nervously, sensing the tension simmering beneath the surface.
"What will you do?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
"Thank you for your information, Father. Your service will not be forgotten." The words are sharp and final, and I dismiss him with a wave.
The priest hesitates. His duty to the cloth and his duty as a man evidently seem to be battling under his skin. But I don’t have time to console him or guarantee him that Brien will be safe. That is a promise I can’t make.
His shoulders sag forward in defeat, and he gives one final nod of his head before walking across the foyer, I watch until the front door closes and one of my men enters the foyer.
“Get me a car,” I say without turning to him.
The Cahills' residence is my destination. It's a small stone house with plastic flowers in the soil and statues of animals scattered among the bushes. The facade is as fake as the father who resides there.
The car rolls up beside the cur,b and before it comes to a full stop, I open the back door and step out onto the sidewalk. The small gate that guards their home has gray peeled paint flaked along the ground. I step over it, not wanting any of the paint to stick to my black shoes. The canopy above my head over the front door shelters me from the sun, and I raise my hand and knock three times on the stained yellow glass. I see the shimmer of an outline move closer and take a step back.
Mrs. Cahill answers the door, and her face drains of color as recognition flickers in her eyes. She remembers. How could she forget? Last time we saw each other, I was sent to kill her son—and I laid out her husband in the middle of a church.
"Is Kane home?" I ask, my voice steady and low.
She shakes her head frantically. "No, he isn't."
I don't say anything else. Instead, I turn to leave, but she follows, clutching at my arm. “Please, what has happened?” she begs.
Her grip tightens around my sleeve, and I turn to her with eyes blazing in fury.
The look alone makes her collapse in the yard, covering her face and drowning in tears. I don't linger to comfort her; there's no solace in this for any of us. Whether she thinks something happened to her son, or knows what will happen to her husband, it takes her to her knees. I don’t confirm or deny anything. I make my way to the car, and we pull away from the house.
Kane Cahill is a man controlled by his addiction, a slave to a vice that drags him away from his duties as a husband and father. There are a few places in Dublin where someone like Kane can find solace, where the prying eyes of the world can't reach.
But the Kings see all.
It takes a few tries, reaching out to contacts to find out where he is. I finally get an answer.
He’s hiding in the backroom of a laundromat, and that’s where my driver takes me.
The smell of stale smoke and sweat hangs heavy in the air, and the murmur of conversation dies as soon as I enter.
