I pound on his door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
“Open up, Ronan. I know you're in there.”
Silence follows.
I pound again, harder this time. “You've got about ten seconds before I kick this door down.”
Barely a second passes before the lock clicks and the door swings open. Ronan stands there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His face is pinched with irritation.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“You selfish bastard.” I shove past him into the apartment. “Our little brother is in the hospital with his head cracked open and you're sitting here boozing it up? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Cillian said the scans came back clear. He's fine.” His eyes narrow. “I got the messages.”
“Oh, lemme nominate you for brother of the fucking year,” I sneer. “And just so you know, he's not fine. He got jumped by three guys and beaten until he couldn't stand up. He's got sixteen stitches in his head.” I push against his chest and back him against the wall. “And you couldn't be bothered to show up to check on him?”
Ronan takes a sip of his whiskey. Completely unruffled, not a modicum of concern visible anywhere on his face. He’s way too much like our father. “Gavin's reckless. He's been asking for something like this for years. Maybe now he'll finally learn to be more careful.”
Jesus, it’s like he just puked up our father’s words from a little while ago. I stare at him, too stunned to even respond. This fucking guy isn't the brother I grew up with. This isn't the kid who used to sneak me comic books when I was grounded, or cover for me when I stayed out past curfew.
This is Eamon Molloy’s son. Cold and calculating, emotionally empty and arrogance personified.
“You sound just like him,” I finally say. “Do you know that? Do you even care? You sound exactly like Dad.”
He shrugs. “Maybe Dad has a point.”
“Dad doesn't give a shit about any of us. He never has. We're just pieces on his chessboard, tools he uses to get what he wants.” Weeks of rage finally boil over, at the whole fucking situation that our father manipulated us to be part of. “I thought you were different. I thought underneath all your bullshit, you still cared about this family. About your brothers.”
“Fuck you, Lochlan. I care about what matters,” he says, his menacing tone grating against my ears.
“And Gavin doesn't matter? I don't matter? Cillian and Wolfe don't matter?"
Ronan rolls his eyes and walks past me into the living room. “Don't be so dramatic.”
But the asshole won’t answer. And that alone speaks fucking volumes.
“He's your blood, Ronan.” My voice cracks on the words. “He's your fucking blood. And you couldn't drag yourself off your couch for twenty minutes to make sure he was okay.”
Ronan twists around and puts down his whiskey glass. His blue eyes narrow, fury swirling fast and hard. But nowhere do I see any shred of humanity. No guilt, no shame, no tiny glimpse of the brother I used to know.
“Are you done?” he says.
And that’s when I know it’s really over. Maybe part of me came here because I wanted to give him one last chance to show me that he’s not completely lost to us. The last bit of hope I was holding onto, the stupid belief that maybe there was still a way to fix this family, cracks in half, just like my heart.
“Yeah,” I say. “I'm done.”
I head for the door, the weight of our reality crushing me. I stop with my hand on the handle, my other hand gripping the wall.
“Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't show up at my place.” Iturn to look at him one last time. “As far as I'm concerned, you're not my brother anymore.”
I walk out and slam the door behind me. The walls shake at the force.
The hallway is quiet, leaving me to process the toxic thoughts looping through my mind.
I've spent years trying to hold this family together, trying to protect my brothers from our father, trying to believe that blood means something, that we'd be there for each other when it mattered.
But Ronan just showed me the unavoidable truth. He chose our father. He chose power and position over his own brothers.
