The lobby of the Bank of Ireland is all marble and mahogany, the kind of old-world opulence that makes me painfully aware of my rumpled clothes and hastily brushed hair. A security guard gives our ragtag group a suspicious once-over as we enter, and I don’t blame him. We look like we’ve spent the night in a border town hotel—because we have.
“I’ll handle this,” Declan says, stepping forward to approach one of the tellers.
Kane’s hand tightens around mine as we wait, his palm slightly sweaty. I glance up at him and see the muscle in his jaw working overtime. He’s nervous. I squeeze his hand back, trying to offer whatever comfort I can.
After a brief conversation and the presentation of various forms of ID, we’re led through a series of increasingly secure doors until we reach the safety deposit vault. The bank manager, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and a perpetually concerned expression, hovers nearby as Declan completes thenecessary paperwork.
“Only two visitors at a time in the vault,” the manager announces, looking pointedly at our group.
“Kori. You go with Kane,” Declan says, shocking both of us.
The manager leads us into the vault—a sterile room lined with metal boxes of varying sizes. He locates box 1867 and uses his master key in one lock while Kane inserts Tomas’s key in the other. With a soft click, the box unlocks.
“I’ll leave you to it,” the manager says. “Press the button when you’re finished.” He exits, the heavy door closing behind him with a sound of finality.
Kane stares at the box without moving.
“Do you want me to...?” I ask, gesturing toward it.
He shakes his head. “No, I should do it.” With a deep breath, he slides the metal container from its slot and places it on the small table in the center of the room.
The box is surprisingly light. Kane lifts the lid, revealing a thick manila envelope and what appears to be an old photograph.
He picks up the photo first. It shows a dark-haired teenage girl standing beside a younger Tomas MacGallan. They’re on a dock somewhere, a lake or sea stretching behind them. They’re both smiling, and the resemblance between them is unmistakable.
“Ella,” Kane breathes, his voice thick with emotion. “She has my eyes.”
He’s right—even in this faded photograph, I can see the same distinctive shape, the same intensity. It’s unsettling how clearly the genetic connection shows, even across decades and continents.
Setting the photo aside with trembling hands, Kane opens the manila envelope. Inside is a letter, several legal documents, and a hand-drawn map. He unfolds the letter first, his eyes scanning the page rapidly.
“What does it say?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
Kane starts reading aloud, his voice steady despite the emotion I can see building in his eyes. He begins to read,
“To my son Kane and my daughter Ella—if fate has been kind, you are reading this together. But I suspect that is not the case.”
He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing.
“‘I have made many mistakes in my life, but none greater than keeping you apart. By now, you know the truth of your birth, Kane. What you don’t know is the full story of your sister.”
Kane’s hands are shaking now, but he keeps reading:
“Ella was born in Moscow to Irina Petrova, with whom I had a brief but passionate affair during mybusiness expansion in Russia. I did not know of Ella’s existence until she was four years old, when Irina contacted me in desperation. Her husband, Viktor Petrova, had discovered that Ella was not his biological child but mine. His rage was terrible, and his revenge calculated. He arranged for Ella to be betrothed to his son from a previous marriage—a cruel, violent young man cut from the same cloth as his father. Through this marriage, Viktor intended to gain control of all MacGallan holdings in Ireland and Canada. If I refused, he swore to kill Ella and then come after any other children I might have—including future ones. Declan, Kat, and Connor were all safe, but you weren’t. That is why I had the Murphy’s raise you as their son.
But I couldn’t allow Ella to be married off when she turned sixteen, and I certainly couldn’t let the Russians take over our operations. They could all fuck off.
With Irina’s help, I smuggled Ella out of Russia and brought her to Ireland. For her protection, I placed her with a trusted caretaker, George Finnegan, and his wife, Marie, a man who had served the MacGallan family for decades. They live in a cottage deep in the Wicklow Mountains, isolated and safe from Viktor’s reach.
I have stayed away all these years to protect you both. Viktor’s men have been watching me, waiting for me to lead them to Ella. I could not risk it. But now my time grows short, and I fear what will happen when I am no longer able to maintain this deception.
Find your sister, Kane. The map enclosed will leadyou to a place called Miners Village. It’s the ruins of an old mining operation. Once there, go to the Square Tower and look around. You will find the next clue as to where Ella is.
But be careful, there is a reason for such secrecy—Viktor is old now, but his grudge has not weakened with time. If anything, it has hardened into something more dangerous. And he has people following you.
I am sorry for all I have kept from you, for the father I denied you. I hope someday you can understand that every choice I made, however flawed, was made out of love for my kids.
Your father, Tomas MacGallan.”
