Chapter 41
I watch them from my seat at the corner of the kitchen island, perched with my wine glass sitting loosely between my fingers, the rim of it catching the soft kitchen lights.
The scent of takeout—dumplings, skewers, teriyaki, and some spare ribs that no one asked for but everyone keeps eating—hangs in the air, mixing with the smoky hint of bourbon and the sweet perfume of the Shiraz I’m drinking.
There’s food everywhere. Too much food. Silverware clinks and takeout containers trade hands like poker chips.
Nikolai sits at the opposite end of the island, one elbow braced against the granite counter, swirling vodka in a glass like he’s narrating a classic novel.
He’s halfway through retelling his version of the accident that somehow bonded the three of them.
He’s in full storyteller mode—animated, with hands flailing as he speaks.
“And then,” he pauses for the utmost dramatics, “Enzo comes barreling through the fire doors in the headmaster’s Buick.”
Cillian snorts, chewing through a mouthful of dumpling. “Screaming like a little girl”—he glances at me—“no offense. Because he was pinned in the car.”
“I was not screaming like a girl,” Enzo insists.
“Enzo was stuck,” Nikolai continues his story, a broad smile spreading across his face. “ Not screaming like a girl.” I can’t help the full-bodied laugh that tumbles from me.
“Fuck all of you,” Enzo playfully snips. He is leaning back, one arm draped across the back of my stool, his other hand wrapped around a glass of wine from the bottle we’ve been sharing.
“We pulled him free. His shirt was soaked with blood, and tears were definitely not streaming down his face.” He winks obnoxiously as he recounts the events. “And then the two of us dragged his sorry ass home.”
“Lies,” Enzo waves dismissively. “ Almost complete and utter lies.”
Cillian wipes his hands on a napkin and sends a mock glare down the island. “And I’ve been stuck with the two of them ever since. ”
“Come on, brother.” Enzo grins, nudging him with a foot under the counter ledge. “You love it. Your life would be boring as fuck without us.”
“Love it?” Cillian arches an eyebrow. “No. I’ve just developed an impressive level of tolerance and emotional numbness.”
“Therapy would be cheaper,” I jest, taking a sip of wine.
“I’m sure it would,” Nikolai agrees, raising his glass. “But it wouldn’t be nearly as fun as shooting people.” All I can do is shake my head at his statement.
They’re ridiculous, the three of them. There’s something disarming about watching them like this, bantering over chow mein and overpriced alcohol.
This is a far cry from the tension-filled rooms just a week ago when Cillian was barely speaking to Enzo and Nikolai was stuck in the middle, refusing to pick a side.
And I thought I was going to lose Cian and Enzo.
I can’t help but think of all the years I missed out on this—or something like this.
After Mam died, Father might as well have locked me away in a tower.
Sure, I left home for school or to go shopping, but I never really had friends—not like this.
No one wants to hang out with the girl with two armed men practically attached to their hip.
Part of me is insanely jealous of Cian and this secret brotherhood he hid from me— from everyone —nearly his entire life.
He was out here living this rich, full life while I was practically kept under lock and key.
I’d resent him for it, but I can’t. Not after learning the type of man our father truly was, and the position that put Cian in.
And while he might not have been a good man, I know that at least some part of my brother is living with the fact that he murdered his own father to keep me safe.
And for that, I would forgive him for anything…
Nikolai refills all of our glasses—because apparently we’re testing the limits of the human liver and resigning ourselves to one hell of a hangover tomorrow. He points his chopsticks at Cillian. “You still haven’t admitted I saved your life.”
“That’s because you didn’t,” Cillian refutes, somehow having room to shovel in yet another dumpling. “You tripped and shot a guy by accident.”
“So… you accidentally saved his life?” I muse.
“Still counts,” Nikolai shrugs. “Dead is dead. At the end of the day, I pulled the trigger and you’re still here. So, you’re welcome.”
The three of them erupt with laughter as the music from the Bluetooth speaker shifts to something soft and contemporary. I take another sip of wine and glance across the island at the leftovers we won’t finish, enjoying the way the men laugh with full bellies and unguarded mouths.
It’s rare to see them like this. The warmth in how they interact is palpable—teasing each other, not out of malice but years of shared history.
Their friendship is deep-rooted, built over years of countless memories.
It’s the kind of bond that rivals companionship.
The three of them are truly family— brothers .
I glance at Enzo, my heart swelling with something I can’t quite put into words.
He’s grinning, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light as he listens to Cillian and Nikolai banter.
There’s contentment in his smile, and I wish I could keep him like this—light, happy, and unburdened.
Not weighed down by his concerns for my safety or the stress that comes with taking over a city.
His fingers interlace with mine in my lap, and I turn to find a smile splitting his face.
It’s not from the ridiculous stories being told at the other end of the island, because every bit of his focus is suddenly on me.
He gives my hand a tender squeeze before lifting it to his lips and kissing the back of it.
Glancing at me over it, he mouths the words, ‘I love you.’