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“My name is Tommaso Zaccaria,” he confirms. “I am the man who ordered your father to London twenty years ago. Against all expectations, he succeeded in making London a strong hold for our organisation… Until tonight.”
“My father didn’t start this war, mister,” I say in a rush. “He was trying to end it.”
My outburst is met with three measured puffs of his cigar. “Did he ensure that his family’s allegiance would fall the right way following his death?”
There’s a warning in his words.
He’s testing me.
“There’s only me left now, mister, and m-my allegiance will always be with you.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, becauseyouare all I need to remedy this, ah, situation.” For the first time, he aims his cold smile at me, and I shiver. “You can’t end wars, Francesco. One minute, they’re an inferno, and the next, they’re smouldering embers waiting for the next spark to come along and reignite them.”
In my head, I see the Irish flag burning again. I see the corners of the cheap material melting in the heat.
“Men like Cian O’Sullivan care more about the flames than peace. Your father should have remembered that.” Zaccaria takes another puff on his cigar and blows a thick trail of silver smoke in my direction. “There is no elegance in that man’s violence. No loyalty... London is a game to win at any cost.”
And just like that, I don’t feel so empty anymore. Another emotion is filling up the spaces where love used to be:
Hate.
“Where should the flames blow next, Francesco?” he asks huskily.
“Back at O’Sullivan,” I mumble.
His cold smile widens. I’ve pleased him with my answer. “Exactly.”
There’s no more talking until we reach the clipped green edges of Clapham Common. I keep my face pressed up against the window, the heat from my tears fogging up the glass. It feels like I’m standing on the edge of something, but I can’t see the drop.
The car cruises to a stop beneath a line of Sycamore trees, opposite three smart white townhouses.
“There.” Zaccaria points to one with black steps flowing down to the street like crude oil. There are a couple of men smoking under the porch light and another two by the front gate.
Soldati. Soldiers.
“Do you know who owns that house?”
I shake my head.
“Embers.” Zaccaria slides closer, pressing his hard thigh against mine, making my insides twist. “Cian O’Sullivan is in there, right now, raising a glass to your father’s death. Tell me, how does that make you feel?”
I don’t bother to hide my tears this time.
“I know what your heart seeks, Francesco. You want to strike the match. To avenge your father... mother... brother... sister....” He lingers over each name, making each word feel like a punch to my chest.
Swiping at my wet cheeks, I reach for the door handle.
“But notyet.”
I whip my head around in shock. “I don’t understand?”
“How do you hope to achieve your revenge when you have no gun? No training?” He motions to my empty hands, then resumes puffing on his cigar. “You need to strike when your enemy is at his weakest, not at his strongest. That way, when you look into O’Sullivan’s eyes at his end, you’ll see fear and respect, not scorn.”
“But he k-killed your men, too. Why aren’t you—?”
“He isn’t my kill to make.”
I blink, trying to make sense of his words. Zaccaria makes me feel like I’m listening to a conversation through a closed door, catching half the details but not the whole plan.
