Chapter 5
Kane
I stumble through customs at Dublin Airport, still half-drunk and completely exhausted. The fluorescent lights make my head throb, but I’m sobering up fast as Declan keeps shooting me death glares. I probably deserve them after the stunt I pulled with the crying woman on the plane.
“Keep up, Kane,” Declan barks over his shoulder, not bothering to slow down as I struggle with my duffel bag.
“I’m moving as fast as I can with this hangover,” I mutter, catching up to the group at the rental car counter.
Rory snorts. “Maybe you shouldn’t have emptied the duty-free whiskey before we even took off.”
“Maybe you should mind your own fucking business,” I snap back, immediately regretting it when Wren steps between us.
“Enough,” she says quietly. “We’re all tired, and we have bigger problems than Kane’s drinking habits.”
She’s right, of course. The empty grave. Uncle Tomas’s cryptic letter. The fact that we’re chasing a ghost across the Atlantic. All of it weighs heavier than my hangover.
I hang back while Declan sorts out the rental cars. We need two—one for Declan, Wren, and Kat, and another for me and Rory. I’m not thrilled about the arrangement, but nobody asked my opinion.
“You’re with me,” Rory says, tossing me a set of keys that I barely catch. “But I’m driving. You’re still drunk.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, but surrender the keys without much fight. Truth is, I’m seeing double, and the floor keeps tilting under my feet.
Outside, the Irish morning greets us with a fine mist that soaks through my jacket in seconds. It feels like coming home, even though I haven’t been back since I was a teenager. The damp air smells different here, earthy and ancient.
“The motel isn’t too far,” Declan says, consulting his phone. “Follow us and try not to get lost.”
I slide into the passenger seat next to Rory, resting my forehead against the cool window. “He’s enjoying this, you know. Bossing everyone around.”
“His father might be alive after we buried him months ago,” Rory responds, starting the engine. “Cut him some slack.”
I close my eyes, not wanting to argue. The truth is, I’m worried too. Not just about Uncle Tomas, but about what I know—what I’ve kept from them. The foreign man at the docks wasn’t just anyone. He was Russian. And what I overheard wasn’t just about Tomas being found.
It was about what he’d stolen.
“You’re quiet,” Rory observes as we follow Declan’s car through the rush hour traffic.
“Just tired,” I lie, watching Dublin materialize around us. The city has changed since my last visit—more glass, more steel—but the bones remain the same—Georgian buildings with their colorful doors. Narrow streets open suddenly into squares. The River Liffey cuts through it all like an artery.
By the time we reach the hotel, my headache has escalated to nuclear levels. The lobby is mercifully dim, all dark wood and hushed voices. Declan handles check-in while I collapse into a leather armchair, closing my eyes against the spinning room.
“Wake up,” Kat says, nudging my shoulder. “We’re heading up.”
I follow them to the elevator, trying not to look as awful as I feel. The rooms are on the fourth floor—Declan and Wren in one, Kat in another, and Rory and I sharing the third because, evidently, I can’t be trusted. Small mercies.
“Get cleaned up,” Declan orders as we gather in the hallway. “We’ll meet downstairs in an hour to get something to eat and figure out our next move.”
I salute mockingly and drag myself to the room I’m sharing with Rory. The moment the door closes behind us, I make a beeline for the bathroom and throw up everything in my stomach.
“Classy,” Rory comments from the doorway.
“Fuck off,” I groan, resting my cheek against the cool porcelain.
“One hour,” he reminds me. “Try to look human by then.”
I manage a shower, which helps more than I expected. The hot water pounds some life back into me, and by the time I’ve changed clothes, I almost feel like a person again. Almost.
Downstairs, the others are already waiting in the lobby. Wren says, “You look marginally better.”
With a wink in her direction to piss my cousin off, I drawl. “Thanks. The chunks of vomit really brought the whole look together before.”
I don’t get the reaction I wanted as Declan ignores our exchange. “There’s a pub around the corner that’s supposed to be good. Low profile, which is what we need right now.”
The pub is exactly what you’d expect—dark wood, brass fixtures, the smell of beer, and centuries of conversations soaked into the walls. We find a booth in the back, away from the few afternoon patrons nursing pints at the bar.
A waitress takes our order—food for everyone, whiskey for me, despite Declan’s disapproving frown.
“Hair of the dog,” I explained with a shrug.
Once she’s gone, Declan leans forward, his voice low. “Let’s focus. We know Dad isn’t in his grave. We know he wanted us to come to Ireland, specifically to the family property in Clare. What we don’t know is why.”
“Or if he’s actually alive,” Kat adds, her face pale. “The letter just said to check his grave. It didn’t explicitly say he faked his death.”
“Someone did,” Wren points out. “That coffin was empty.”
I take a swig of water, wishing my whiskey would arrive faster. “What exactly did Uncle Tomas do for the family, again?”
They all look at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“What?” I ask. “It’s a legitimate question.”
“He was the head of the MacGallan Clan,” Declan says slowly, as if explaining to a child.
“Import/export business, primarily. Same as Connor is now.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “And those crates I found in the warehouse basement? The ones with the false bottoms? The ones where the cops found all those unregistered handguns last year?”
Rory’s face drains of color. He stares at his beer, knuckles whitening around the glass.
“Kane,” Declan warns, leaning in so close I can smell the mint on his breath, “you signed the same papers we all did. So, what are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything,” I interrupt. “I just want someone to admit what our family business actually is, because I’m starting to think none of us wants to say it out loud.”
The waitress returns with our drinks, and I gratefully accept my whiskey, taking a long sip before continuing.
“Uncle Tomas was meeting with a Russian at the docks. They were arguing about something that had been taken. Something valuable enough that people were looking for him years before he supposedly died.”
Kat’s eyes widened. “You never mentioned he was Russian.”
“Didn’t seem relevant until now,” I mutter, avoiding Declan’s glare.
“What else haven’t you told us?” Declan demands.
I swirl my whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “The Russian said something about ‘the old country.’ Said Tomas couldn’t hide there because they’d be watching.”
“Ireland,” Kat says quietly. “They meant Ireland.”
I nod, relieved someone else is connecting the dots. “Which begs the question—what the hell did Uncle Tomas take that was worth faking his own death over?”
Our food arrives, but no one seems particularly hungry anymore. I pick at my fish and chips, waiting for someone else to state the obvious.
“So, we’re not just looking for Dad,” Kat finally says. “We’re looking for whatever he stole.”
“And whoever he stole it from,” Rory adds grimly.
Declan pushes his plate away. “We need to get to Clare. To the castle.”
“What about Connor?” Wren asks. “Should we let him know what’s happening?”
Declan shakes his head. “Not yet. Not until we know more. He’s got enough on his plate with taking over the family business.”
“And his honeymoon,” Kat adds with a wry smile.
I drain my whiskey, enjoying the burn as it slides down my throat. “So, what’s the plan? We drive to Clare tonight?”
“First thing tomorrow,” Declan decides. “It’s a three-hour drive, and we’re all exhausted. We’ll get some sleep and head out early.”
No one argues. We finish our meal in relative silence, each lost in our own thoughts. As we walk back to the hotel, I find myself beside Wren, a few steps behind the others.
“You knew more than you let on,” she says quietly. “About Tomas.”
I shrug, not meeting her eyes. “I know lots of things people think I don’t. Being the family drunk has its advantages. No one watches what they say around me.”
“Is that why you drink? To get people to underestimate you?”
Her question catches me off guard. “I drink because I like it,” I say defensively. Then, after a pause: “And because sometimes it’s easier than dealing with... everything else.”
She studies me with those too-perceptive eyes. “What else do you know that you’re not telling us, Kane?”
I look ahead at Declan, his shoulders tense as he walks with Kat and Rory. “Nothing that would help right now.”
“But something.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Look, Wren, there are things about this family that even Declan doesn’t know. Things that would change how he sees everything—everyone—he’s ever trusted.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me,” I admit. “But that’s not what matters right now. Finding Uncle Tomas is.”
She doesn’t push further, which I appreciate. Back at the hotel, we all retreat to our rooms, promising to meet at seven the next morning.
In our room, Rory is already in the shower when I collapse onto my bed. The whiskey from dinner sits warm in my belly, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough to quiet the thoughts that creep in when I’m alone.
I reach into my coat and pull out the flask I managed to refill at the pub when no one was looking. The metal is cool against my palm, familiar and comforting. I take a long pull, closing my eyes as the liquor burns its way down.