Chapter 36
CIAN
New York is cold.
Quiet.
After landing, Faina wanted me to come with her, but I needed some time.
The last time I was here, I had my entire family surrounding me. Now there’s nothing but silence.
And it hurts.
Killing Hawk hasn’t brought me the peace I ache for.
It was there for a little while when I was with Faina in Australia. I could pretend things were okay because she was with me and that was all that mattered. She’d light up while talking about the future and that kind of hope was infectious.
But without her, I’m alone.
The landlord sold my apartment in my absence, so I spent one night at a motel.
The second night was spent in my new apartment after looking at places all day trying to find something that felt right.
In the end, just getting a roof over my head became the priority and I signed the lease on the next apartment I visited.
With a single bed and a small balcony overlooking the city, sleep didn’t come.
Instead, I pored over all the news from the city that I missed.
Half of the Gifford clubs were burned to the ground.
The hospital Evelyn owned was attacked multiple times and closed down, and even a few of the motels she and Cormac worked on were gone.
The Italians and the Russians didn’t fare any better.
Hawk really left his mark on New York and the death toll is high.
Nothing compares to the Gifford Manor, though.
A quick Google search tells me that the cops found nothing and the case is considered cold and unsolvable.
The area is still a mess and after a Scotch or two, I take a taxi to the remains and stand there at three in the morning staring at the scorched, dusty remains of a home we all treasured.
My family died here.
My entire journey started here.
And now Hawk is dead and the pit inside me is still cavernous.
When will it get better? It aches less with Faina, but I can’t make her responsible for my pain. She’s been texting me non-stop trying to get me to meet her, but I haven’t been able to face her since the grief came back.
What if she only loved the version of me that traveled the world seeking revenge? This leftover version with pain in his heart and defeat in his gut isn’t as fun, and he certainly isn’t as lovable.
I linger at the Gifford Estate for an hour staring over the remains and trying to picture what the place looked like before Hawk’s bombs destroyed it.
His words ring in my ears about how easy it was for him to slip through the cracks and plant the explosives, as if it was our fault for not detecting them or trusting the catering company and a delivery driver.
I leave when the tears start to build and walk back through the dark city streets until my feet ache and I’m forced to flag down a late-night taxi.
The Scotch bottle calls to me as I trudge back upstairs and let myself into my new, shitty apartment, but as I cross the small lounge to where I left the bottle and my glass, something makes the back of my neck jump.
A shift in the shadows sends a prickle down my spine and I immediately unholster my gun.
Spinning on the spot, I aim at the darkness with my finger on the trigger, ready to fire, until the small lamp clicks on and the room is flooded with peaky yellow light.
“Rocky? Jesus fuck, I almost shot you!”
“I know!” Rocky puffs out his cheeks with one hand on his chest. “A little jumpy, huh?”
“Can you blame me? The fuck are you doing here in the dark?” I lower my gun, my heart hammering, and immediately reach for the bottle of Scotch.
“I wouldn’t need to sneak in if you’d answer your fucking phone.”
“You didn’t call,” I say, uncapping the bottle after holstering my weapon.
“Uh, yeah, I did,” Rocky replies. “Seriously, answer your phone, dude. I had to scour the city for you.”
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I pause pouring my drink and scan through my missed calls from Faina to see Rocky’s name buried between them. “Oh. Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s not us who you need to apologize to,” speaks up another voice I recognize. In the doorway, shrouded by the darkness of the kitchen, stands Anastasia. “You made me come and see you in person and I don’t take kindly to that.”
“No one made you come,” I reply as I finish pouring my drink. “Why are you both here, anyway?”
“I’m here because you’re ignoring Faina’s calls and I don’t like to see her upset. You went through hell together and now you can’t even speak to her?” Anastasia’s eyes narrow to blades. “She deserves better.”
“She does.” That we can agree on. “I’m just…” Pausing, I drain a mouthful of alcohol and drop hard into the nearest chair. “Coming back here was harder than I thought. I’m not ready.”
“If anyone understands, it’s her,” Rocky says gently. “But you don’t need to suffer, Cian, because—”
“You need to come and visit,” Anastasia interrupts. “Talk to Faina and come to dinner.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You need to.”
“Why?” Our eyes meet. “Like he said, Faina understands. So I’m sure she understands that I need some time.”
“You saved her life,” Anastasia sighs. “For that, I’m grateful. You saved me, you saved all of us with how hard you went against Hexagon. But until we’re absolutely certain that we’re safe, you need to come to dinner.”
“I don’t eat.”
“Dude.” Rocky drags one hand down his face. “Please.”
“If you won’t do it for yourself then do it for Clara,” Anastasia snaps. “She’s deaf because of your family.”
“You’re pulling that card?” I snort. “I’m the only Gifford left for you to blame, is that it?”
“Cian…” Anastasia walks forward until she’s bathed in the same washed yellow glow as Rocky.
“We’re all cut from the same cloth—different families, different allegiances, different morals, sure.
But we’re all Mafia at the end of the day and you faced our greatest threat head-on while carrying pain neither of us dared to imagine.
I’m not holding that against you. Hell, we probably didn’t even deserve it, but you need to come home with me.
If not right now, then come to dinner tomorrow.
Faina needs you and I hate seeing her upset. ”
I can’t face her.
I’m scared that the moment I do, all this pain I’ve been carrying will surge up and kill me. I drain my glass and wince as the drink burns all the way down my throat, then smack my lips together.
“I don’t want to disappoint her,” I say hoarsely.
“Then come to dinner,” Anastasia replies softly. “It will be worth it.”
“Trust us,” Rocky says. “The Manor is safe and you… you need to be there. Please.”
Something about the way both of them seem to dodge around the real reason I needed to visit is why I drag myself to Anastasia’s home for dinner the next evening.
Seeing Faina is the top of my list, and deep down, I know I shouldn’t have avoided her, but the moment I stepped off the plane in New York, it was like I couldn’t breathe.
I don’t want to rely on her as my air. She deserves a man stronger than that, but maybe she can help me get there.
The mansion looks exactly as I remember it, only with more security than I’ve ever seen.
I’m IDed and fingerprinted at the gate and again at a second check-in further up the drive.
After the Gifford explosion, I don’t blame Anastasia for being cautious, but the third check-in at the last gate before the house causes issues.
They want to take my gun, and we stand there arguing for fifteen minutes before someone on the other end of the radio asks the guard to let me pass.
I approach the front door and attempt to smooth out the rumpled shirt I dragged from my unpacked bag. Looking semi-presentable, I rehearse my apology as I knock.
I’m sorry. Coming back here felt a little bit like dying all over again and facing a city without my family feels impossible so I needed time. And I was scared of being weak in front of you so I was selfish and took time without talking to you. You didn’t deserve it.
Faina might understand and if she doesn’t, then I’ll spend the rest of my time making it up to her.
It was selfish, I know, but even as I rehearse the apology and try to anticipate her responses, something in my soul feels soothed already.
The door slowly swings open and my lips part with my apology clinging to the tip of my tongue as I expect to see Faina standing there with her familiar sharp expression.
But it’s not Faina standing there holding the door open with a small, nervous smile on his lips.
It’s Cormac.
The world around me freezes as we become suspended in time while I stare in the achingly familiar eyes of my dead older brother.
Only he’s not dead.
And his eyes aren’t familiar. His right eye is milky and pale with a thick, warped scar cutting from the middle of his forehead, across his eye, and down to his cheek which looks more sunken than his left one.
Even his smile, small as it is, isn’t lifting on the left side of his face.
His hair is thin and his skin pale. He looks like a ghost standing before me and I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
He’s thinner than the last time I saw him, like someone’s tried to draw him from memory and they’re missing all the parts that make him unique while getting a general idea of what he looks like.
Cormac leans against the door and blinks slowly, then his lips move, but whatever he says doesn’t reach me through the pounding sound of my own heartbeat drumming in my ears like my end of days is fast approaching.
He’s alive.
He’s alive?
How the fuck is he alive?
No, this can’t be possible. Did I die? Did Faina and I die on the flight back to New York and this is some kind of fucked up afterlife where the remains of my brother wait for me? It’s the only thing that makes sense.
“Cian?” He says my name, and the sound of his voice hits like a physical blow to the chest.
My heart squeezes as if those words have formed a fist and they’re prying me open for all to see. Tears begin to fill my eyes as I refuse to blink in case this mirage of my brother fades away and only a similar-looking guard stands there instead.
Then he reaches for me. I flinch back on reflex but Cormac doesn’t stop. He keeps reaching until his hand touches my arm. I expect it to phase right through but instead his firm, warm hand closes around my elbow.
He’s real.
“You’re real?” I croak hoarsely. My eyes flicker and tears spill down my cheeks while Cormac remains standing in front of me. “How? How are you real? How is this…?”
It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. My gut lurches like I’m falling with nothing to catch me and when Cormac opens his mouth to speak again, the sound tears right through me.
“Cian. I’m so sorry.”
He’s sorry?
He’s fucking sorry?
I lash out before I can stop myself, and my fist collides with his jaw, but it’s like I punched a brick wall, and pain explodes through my knuckles and forearm. It angers me, so I punch him again, and this time, I hit the soft flesh of his shoulder.
He steps back but he doesn’t stop me.
I punch him again and again. “You’re alive? You’re fucking alive? This whole fucking time?” I scream at him as my fists thump harder and harder against his chest, pouring all my anger and hurt into trying to make him feel even a fraction of the agony I’ve suffered these past months.
He takes it all without a word to defend himself and the anger inside me surges up like a burning fever raging through my mind. I punch his face and blood spurts from his nose, then I punch his chest again and freeze as something I missed finally catches my eye.
Cormac only has one arm.
He wasn’t leaning against the door. There’s no arm there to lean with.
My fist stalls in the air and my anger, with nowhere to go, surges up inside me like rising vomit.
A pained sob rushes past my lips and the tears pour.
Wailing, I collapse to the ground and Cormac is there to catch me the best he can.
He winds his single arm around me as strongly as he can and holds me close even as I weakly try to push him away, but he’s as unmoving as his jaw was.
“I’m sorry,” Cormac croaks, and his voice breaks as the upset takes him. “I’m so sorry, Cian. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Over and over and over he apologizes, each one cutting through the agonizing sobs that seem to rise from the pit of darkness in my soul. “Why?” I gasp. “Why?”
“I’m sorry.” Cormac weeps as he tightens his hold.
“Tell me,” I gasp, finally regaining the strength to push him away. “What the fuck is going on? How are you here?”