38. Rian
RIAN
We’re all pretending.
The silverware doesn’t clatter, the wine doesn’t spill, and nobody speaks unless spoken to. The roast is tender, the potatoes buttery, and there’s a fine bottle of red breathing at the center of the table like it belongs here. Like this isn’t a battlefield disguised as a dining room.
My father’s at the head, knuckles tapping rhythmically against the table like he’s timing something. A bomb, maybe. His face is clean-shaven for once, hair slicked back, and the glint in his eyes is almost warm if you squint hard enough to forget everything he’s ever done.
Declan sits to his right, posture stiff, jaw ticking. He hasn’t said a word since we sat down. Kellan’s to his left, across from me, picking at his food with deliberate effort, pretending he has an appetite.
And then there’s Caroline, right beside me.
Her face is a perfect mask. Eyes soft, voice sweeter than honey when she says, “Could you pass the salt, Mr. Crowley?” like he’s not the man who orchestrated the worst night of her life. She even smiles, the kind of smile you give a man when you’re afraid he’ll break your fingers if you frown.
He chuckles and passes her the shaker, his fingertips brushing hers.
It takes everything in me not to grab her hand and pull it away.
She’s wearing red tonight. A long-sleeved dress that drapes around her like spilled wine. I know it’s intentional. She doesn’t do anything without purpose anymore. The dress says, I’m not afraid of blood . But her hands shake when she cuts her meat. Barely, but I notice.
My foot nudges hers beneath the table. She flinches, just for a second, and then presses back. There’s still someone in there, behind the mask.
She clears her throat, straightens, and lifts her glass.
“I want to make a toast. The path here has been bumpy, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Being here has reunited my sons with their father.
To family,” she says, even-keeled, her eyes shining with resolve.
“I wanted to learn it in Irish, but I couldn’t quite get it… Sláinte …”
She looks around and with a flat voice, Declan finishes, “ Sláinte chuig an teaghlach. ”
Health to family.
Kellan raises his glass in sync and repeats it, “ Sláinte chuig an teaghlach .” I do the same.
But our father doesn’t. He stabs a carrot noisily, chewing with disdain. “Enjoy this,” he says. “Life is long, but the days are longer. Who knows how many more dinners like this we’ll have?”
On the surface, it’s just an idiom. But with his lecherous smile, it feels like a warning. Alarm bells ring under my skin.
“We’re hoping many,” I say, careful, watching him. “Like we said, we’re a family now.”
His eyes flick between us, calculating. He lingers on Caroline like he’s trying to peel her open with just his gaze. “All this talk about family…” he says, and his voice turns cold. “Where are your sons?”
Even hearing your sons from his mouth makes my stomach turn.
Caroline smiles calmly. “Our sons are with a family friend.”
“Why?”
“I thought that would be better for our first meeting.”
“Better for who?”
“For all of us,” she answers. “Children can be unpredictable.”
“ Aye , I know that well. My sons come to family dinner like they’re attending a wake,” our father says sullenly, stabbing a fork into a potato. “A man works hard to build a dynasty, and when he tries to share a meal with his sons, he gets a room full of sulking children.”
“We’re not children,” Declan says evenly.
“Then stop acting like them,” he barks, too quickly. “You think I need the silent treatment to know you’re pissed? That the girl’s mood means your loyalty’s gone soft? I don’t need theatrics. Just tell me.”
Caroline’s hand stills mid-cut. The tension spikes, fast and quiet.
“Tell you what?” Kellan asks, tone cautious.
“Whatever it is you’re building toward with this sham of a dinner,” he says, shoving another bite into his mouth. “You think I don’t see it?”
“It’s like we said,” I reply, pulse kicking up. “We just wanted to bring her here. Formally. Caroline’s part of this family now.”
The statement hangs in the air as its meaning slowly takes form in my father’s mind. He sets down his fork and wipes his hands on a cloth napkin. “What do you mean a part of this family ?”
Caroline reaches for my hand. Then Kellan’s. Her fingers are warm and sure. She smiles gently at Declan, whose eyes are set on my father, daring him. “We’re in love.”
He stares like we’re a sideshow. “We?”
The confession sits like a loaded gun. It’s exactly what we’d hoped for. If he’d thought this dinner was orchestrated to kill him, now the thought is long gone, derailed by something far more offensive to his twisted pride.
His laugh starts low, rumbling. It builds into something ugly and sharp, cutting through the room.
“So this is what you meant by our sons?” He looks at Caroline sharply before looking at all of us, one by one.
“You’re all three the daddy then? You’re all gonna marry her?
That’d make a cake topper, wouldn’t it? Jaysus.
No, she’ll never be a part of this family.
She’s a fucking hostage. You’re supposed to take her out.
” He points his finger at her like a gun, and a shiver travels down my spine.
“She’s pretending. Look at her. Playing you like a fiddle. ”
My fork clatters onto the plate. “She did what you asked,” I say, voice low but steady. “She pulled the trigger. She tortured Harold. She did the job.”
He smirks. “Did she? Or was she just along for the ride?”
I want to rip his smirk off his face.
Caroline gently places her napkin on the table and clears her throat. “Mr. Crowley. If I may.” Her voice is calm. Perfect. The kind of calm that only exists before lightning strikes.
His eyebrows lift, amused. “Go on, sweetheart.”
She leans slightly forward. “I know I came into this family…uninvited. I know it must seem like my bid to stay here is really just a bid for my life. But I assure you my children have bonded me to your family in a way you couldn’t understand.
Now, I’ve done my best to prove I’m useful, but I know your sons certainly deserve your trust, and it seems to me that if they think I’m trustworthy, that should be enough. ”
His face stills, a calculated rage that’s always unnerving to witness. “And what makes you think you’ve earned the right to speak for them?”
The table goes quiet. Caroline smiles politely, but her eyes flick sideways toward me. “I don’t think I have the right,” she replies evenly, tapping her temple with her finger. “I know it.”
My stomach flips. The signal. I nod once, slow. Barely perceptible.
She knows I saw it.
Unfortunately, I think my father saw it too.