Chapter 11 Cassian
CASSIAN
Four Years Later
Declan sets the folder on my desk without being asked.
“Victor Vance got into a shoot-out with the Colombians last week,” he says. “Three of his men dead, two Colombians dead, Victor took a bullet in the shoulder but survived.”
I glance at the folder but don’t open it. “Territory dispute?”
“Looks like it. The Colombians have been pushing into Vance operations in Miami. Victor pushed back.”
“Messy.”
“Very.”
I lean back in my chair and consider what this means. The Vances have been dealing with their own wars while I’ve been running mine. Territory conflicts, rival families, the endless violence that comes with this life.
Years ago, I might have seen this as an opportunity. Victor weakened, distracted by the Colombians, maybe vulnerable enough that I could push for information about Aurelia.
But it’s been a long time.
Long enough that the sharp edges of obsession have dulled into something else. Something more like a dream I had once that felt real at the time, but seems impossible now. A woman on a plane. A night in a hotel. A face I can barely remember clearly anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if she was even real.
“You still have people watching Vance properties?” Declan asks.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t push, but I can see the question in his eyes. Why are you still looking for someone who clearly doesn’t want to be found?
I don’t have a good answer.
The search has become routine. Background noise.
My people send reports every month, and the answer is always the same.
No movement. No sightings. No trace of Aurelia Vance anywhere.
She’s either dead or so well hidden that finding her would require resources I’m not willing to burn—at least anymore.
“I’m going to Ireland next week,” I say, changing the subject. “Visiting my mother.”
“How long?”
“Four or five days.”
Declan nods and picks up the folder. “I’ll handle things here.”
“I know you will.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with the view of Manhattan spreading out beyond my office windows and the faint, fading memory of a woman I spent one night with almost five years ago.
Nothing about Ballycotton asks to be noticed anymore. The damp, the narrow streets, the slow harbor all blur together, familiar enough to pass without comment. What still catches me is my mother, waiting on the porch in her worn cardigan, smiling in a way that makes time fold in on itself.
“You brought flowers.” She eyes the bouquet in my hand with suspicion. “What did you do?”
“Can’t I bring my mother flowers?”
“Not you. Not without a reason.” But she takes them anyway, brings them inside to find a vase.
I follow her in. The cottage smells like rising dough and the lavender soap she’s used for thirty years.
We have dinner that night. Lamb stew and brown bread she baked this morning. She asks about business without actually asking, and I give her vague answers that satisfy her need to know I’m alive and working.
“Are you taking care of yourself?” she asks halfway through the meal.
“Yes, Ma.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Enough.”
“Eating properly?”
“When I remember.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. Just refills my bowl and tells me I’m too thin.
On the third day, I’m restless.
The cottage feels too small. The village feels too quiet. I need to move, to walk, to do something other than sit and think about everything waiting for me back in New York.
“I’m going for a walk,” I tell my mother after lunch.
“Take a jacket. It’s going to rain.”
“It’s always going to rain.”
She smiles and waves me off, and I head down the narrow road toward the village center.
Ballycotton is small enough that you can walk from one end to the other in thirty minutes. I take my time, nodding at the few locals I pass who recognize me as Siobhan’s son.
I’m near the harbor when I hear children laughing. The sound pulls my attention, and I look over to see two small boys playing in the narrow strip of grass between the road and the water. They’re young, maybe four years old, both with dark hair that’s getting long enough to curl at the ends.
They’re kicking a ball back and forth, or trying to. One of them misses, and the ball rolls toward me. I stop it with my foot and pick it up.
“Thanks, mister!” the closer boy shouts, running toward me with a gap-toothed grin. He’s small and sturdy, with bright, curious green eyes.
“You’re welcome,” I say, holding out the ball.
The boy takes it but doesn’t immediately run back to his companion. Instead, he looks up at me. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Cass. What’s yours?”
“I’m Finn. That’s Liam, my brother.” He points to the other boy, who’s watching us from a distance with more caution.
“Those are good Irish names.”
“We’re Irish,” Finn says proudly. “We live here.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Up the road.” He gestures vaguely toward the eastern edge of the village. “With Mam and the nannies.”
Two women are sitting on a bench nearby, watching us. Nannies, I assume, based on the way they’re dressed and the careful attention they’re paying to the boys. One of them stands when she sees me talking to Finn, her expression polite but guarded.
“Finn, don’t bother the man,” she calls out.
“He’s not bothering me,” I say.
The nanny relaxes slightly but stays standing. “They’re very friendly. Sometimes too friendly.”
“It’s fine.” I look back at Finn, who’s still holding the ball and grinning at me. “How old are you?”
“Four!” He holds up four fingers. “Liam’s four too. We’re twins.”
Twins.
“Do you want to play with us?” Finn asks.
“Finn, the man is busy—” the nanny starts.
“I have a few minutes,” I say.
I don’t know why I agree. Maybe because I’m restless and bored. Maybe because there’s something about these kids that reminds me of my own childhood here, running around the village with Declan and getting into trouble.
Finn’s face lights up, and he runs back to Liam, shouting something I don’t catch. Liam looks less certain but comes closer when Finn drags him over.
“This is Cass,” Finn announces. “He’s going to play with us.”
Liam studies me for a moment, his green eyes serious in a way that seems too old for a four-year-old. Then he nods once, apparently deciding I’m acceptable.
We kick the ball around for maybe ten minutes. Finn is loud and enthusiastic, laughing every time he manages to get the ball past me. Liam is quieter, more focused, taking his time with each kick like he’s calculating angles.
They’re good kids. Energetic and funny and charming in the way small children are when they haven’t learned to be guarded yet.
“Do you live here?” Liam asks at one point, his voice softer than his brother’s.
“No. I’m just visiting my mother.”
“Where do you live?”
“New York.”
“That’s in America,” Finn says confidently. “We learned about it in school.”
“You go to school?”
“Sometimes. When Mam says we have to.”
The nanny who spoke earlier stands up again, checking her watch. “Boys, we need to head back.”
Finn groans dramatically. “But we’re playing!”
“We’ll play more tomorrow. Say thank you to the nice man.”
“Thank you, Cass!” Finn shouts, already running toward the nanny.
Liam hangs back for a second, looking at me with those serious green eyes. “Thanks for playing with us.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turns and follows his brother, and I watch them go. The nannies gather their things, each taking one boy’s hand, and they walk up the road toward the eastern edge of the village.