15. Cady
Cady
Killian's idea of a perfect birthday is lamb so tender it falls apart, candles on a cake, and no one to make him feel like he has to be anything other than himself for a single hour.
So that's what I gave him.
The dining room at Da's estate is warm and low-lit, the long mahogany table loaded with every comfort food Killian has loved since we were kids.
Nothing over the top, just good food and the right people crowded around a table.
I love nights like this.
More specifically, I like having something to do with my hands.
There's always a glass to refill, a plate to check on, a reason to be in motion rather than sitting still long enough for someone to ask me something I don't want to answer. Hosting is the socially acceptable version of hiding, and I've been doing it since I was sixteen.
Killian is in his element. His tie is loosened, his hair is a mess, and he’s laughing too loudly at his own jokes while his friends try to get a word in edgewise.
Rian stands near the fireplace with a whiskey. He’s not capable of fully relaxing, but he’s trying his best out of love for his brother. I catch him almost smiling at something Killian says, and it softens something in my chest.
I love them both so much.
Killian has always been the loud one, the firecracker, the one who says what everyone else is thinking. He makes no apology for it, and people love him for it, and on nights like this, watching him hold court with his fork in the air, I think he's the most genuinely alive person I've ever known.
Rian is quieter and more observant, steadier, which means when he talks, people listen. He is the first person in the room to see what’s going on beneath a performance, and he’s the person I trust most in this family because of it.
Which makes knowing I’m lying to him tonight that much worse.
In about an hour, one of them will find out what my father asked me to do, and neither will be able to fix it. I’m going to have to watch them try anyway.
I'm reaching for the breadbasket when I feel my father behind me.
It’s not a sound. Just the subtle shift that happens when someone used to commanding a room walks into it.
"Caitlin."
Low. Private. Not for the room.
I set the basket down and straighten the linen in front of me because I want ten more seconds before whatever comes next.
Then I turn.
"Da."
He's dressed well, as always. Charcoal suit, no tie because we're home, silver threading further into his red-gone-grey hair. His eyes are the same piercing blue all three of us inherited from him.
"Walk with me," he instructs.
I glance back at Killian, who is demonstrating something with his fork that's making the table erupt with laughter, and then at Rian, who's watching us leave with quiet attention.
I follow my father down the hall and into his study, which smells of leather, old books, and the ghost of cigars he's not supposed to smoke anymore but still does when he thinks no one's paying attention.
He moves to the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
I stay near the door.
"Have you made any progress?" he asks. "With the Volkov bratva."
"I've been working it," I reply. "Misha, the Manifold connection, both. It takes time."
"That's not what I asked."
"No," I agree. "It's not."
He turns from the window to look at me, and I see the faintly disappointed expression he's given me since I was old enough to push back on anything.
"Artem Makarov being in your space has slowed things considerably," he notes. "I understand that."
I keep my face even. "I'd have moved faster without a babysitter. If you'd sent your own men after the shooting instead of letting the Makarovs position theirs—"
"The shooting was theater."
"Artem doesn't do theater," I say flatly. "He does results. He's not muscles and posture, Da. If you're underestimating him, you're making a mistake."
My father waves his hand to signify that he's heard me and decided I'm being emotional about it.
"I have other plans," he continues. "Better ones. Plans that will give us everything we need from the Makarovs without you having to extract it one dinner at a time."
"Okay."
"You're going to marry Misha Makarov."
Everything in me goes very, very still.
"No."
"Yes," he says calmly. "A marriage will solidify our alliance with the bratva. You'll have legitimate access. No more intel gathering through half-truths and whatever it is you do with that boy. You'll be protected. Rian and Killian will be protected. And the family will have what it needs."
"You can't be serious."
"When am I not serious, Caitlin?" He clears his throat. "I met with Misha two days ago." He moves to his desk and picks up his whiskey. "We came to an agreement."
Two days ago.
Two days ago, I sat across from Misha in a restaurant and let him think he was charming me. Two days ago, my father was in a room somewhere, shaking hands and deciding what I was worth and what that price bought.
"You met with him," I repeat slowly. "About me."
"About the family." He says it like there's no difference. "You're a part of this family, Caitlin, so yes."
"And why would you think this was an idea I should be flattered or excited about?"
"I never said you would be. But you're family—"
"I'm property of this family."
Something flickers behind his eyes, but he remains calm. "Don't be dramatic."
"You just told me that I'm being sold into a marriage for access and alliance. How would you like me to be?"
He sets down his glass and ignores my emotion. "You are talented; I'll give you that. Clever. Resourceful. You've surprised me more than once." He pauses, and I see what's coming. "But your real value—"
"Don't."
"—lies in—"
"Da. Don't."
"—your ability to secure what this family needs." He finishes it cleanly. "Misha is manageable. You're smart enough to run circles around him. It won't be the prison you're building it into in your head."
I look at my father for a long moment.
I think about all the languages I taught myself.
The databases I've learned to move through and manipulate.
The rooms I've walked into alone that would make his men sweat, only to walk back out with exactly what I’d come for.
I think about every piece of intelligence that's kept this family a step ahead, and every calculation I've run so quietly that no one gave me credit for.
And I think about how none of it has ever made him look at me the way he looks at Rian.
It has never been enough.
I don't know why I still expect it to be.
He is who he is. He has always been who he is.
The man standing at his desk with his whiskey and the calm, closed face is the same man who missed every school play, my graduation dinner, and every moment that mattered to me personally because something else mattered more to the family professionally.
I am not surprised.
I am just tired.
"Do Killian and Rian know?" I ask quietly.
"Not yet. I didn't want to interrupt the evening."
He didn't want to interrupt Killian's birthday. He didn't want to cast a shadow over the table, over the lamb and the candles and the too-loud laughter. Instead, he pulled me aside in the middle of it and made sure everyone else got to enjoy their evening intact.
He has always done this.
"I'll think about it," I tell him, which is a lie.
But it's the only answer that gets me out of this room without a war tonight, and I am very, very tired of wars I didn't start.
He nods like that's settled.
I turn, open the door, and walk out.
The hallway is bright and warm, and sounds drift down from the dining room. Killian laughing, someone's chair scraping back, and the comfortable noise of people who don't know anything is wrong.
I stop for a moment.
My hands aren't shaking. That's the thing about being raised the way I was raised. Your body learns to hold things until you're somewhere private enough to put them down.
I take a deep breath and check my reflection in the hallway mirror. I find myself composed, pleasant, and absolutely fine.
When I walk back into the dining room, Killian is holding court about something, gesturing with his fork like it's a conductor's baton. Rian refills glasses without being asked. My father settles back at the head of the table as if he’s wrapped up his business for the evening.
No one notices that we were gone for too long.
No one notices the smile doesn't go all the way up.
I slip back into motion, laughing at the right moments. The whole time, underneath all of it, I'm thinking.
Not about Misha or Artem, but about what I have. What I've squirreled away over years of not trusting that any of this would hold. Cash in places my father doesn't know about. Contacts who owe me favors and have no reason to call my family. A passport that's mine, not family-issued.
I'm thinking about the difference between “I'll think about it” and “no.”
I'm thinking about how far the word “no” can take a person if she's smart about when she says it.
Killian blows out his candles, and I clap with everyone else and mean it, because I love him and I'm genuinely glad I could give him this night.
I just don't know if I'll be here for the next one.
I watch Killian pull Rian into a headlock while Rian stands with his whiskey held carefully out to the side, perfectly level, not spilling a drop, which is the most Rian thing that has ever happened, and it makes my chest ache.
I love him for letting Killian be who he is without making him feel like it's too much. He quietly holds everything together while the rest of us pretend we don’t need him to.
I love both of them in a way that makes what I'm planning feel like swallowing glass.
But I'm still going to do it.
The alternative is standing at the head of a table that isn't mine in a house that isn't mine, beside a man I didn't choose, while my father raises a glass to the life he built for me without asking what I wanted it to look like.
My father catches my eye across the table and raises his glass.
I smile back.
I'll think about it, I told him.
And I will.
Just not the way he thinks.