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"Always am." It's a lie—I've never felt less certain of anything. But I can't show her that.
"Promise me you'll come back," she says, a plea wrapped in the thin veneer of a demand.
"Promises are dangerous things, little rabbit. But I'll do my best." It's the most I can give her, and the least.
She nods, accepting the unspoken truth that hangs unsaid between us: that in our world, promises are as fragile as a spider's web caught in a storm. With a final glance, she gets into the car, starts the engine, and pulls away, leaving me standing alone amidst a sea of gravestones.
I watch the car until it's nothing more than a speck in the distance, swallowed up by the dreary afternoon. Then I turn on my heel and walk away, each step carrying me closer to retribution or ruin.
Shaking off the melancholy, I stride to my car, the leather of the steering wheel cold under my grip. The engine roars to life, and I peel away from the cemetery, leaving behind the dead and focusing on the task ahead.
The safehouse is nondescript, a forgotten building in a sea of industrial decay. I park and step inside, where my men are waiting, faces grim and determined. The air is thick with tension, the scent of oil and metal mingling with the faint odor of sweat and fear.
"Alright, listen up," I bark, my voice echoing in the space. "We've got one shot at this—taking down the Irish where theyleast expect it. Tonight, we hit them hard, fast, and without mercy."
I lay out the plan, every detail honed by weeks of surveillance and preparation. It's a dance with death, and each man here knows the steps, knows the risks. I catch their eyes, one by one, seeing the resolve mirrored in their own dark gazes.
"Arm up," I command, pointing to the stack of guns. "But don't be stupid. We're not looking to make martyrs of ourselves. I want Declan alive—he's mine. Everyone else... fair game."
Nods ripple through the crowd, their faces grim masks of determination under the flickering fluorescent lights. My hand instinctively tugs at the hem of my coat, feeling the weight of the pistol holstered underneath. It's a dance I've done a thousand times before, but the absence of Sebastian makes each step feel uncertain, like walking through a minefield blindfolded.
I turn sharply, the motion so routine it's like muscle memory. I'm looking for that familiar smirk, the one that says, 'Got your back, boss,' but it's not there. Not anymore. The void where Sebastian should be standing gapes at me, a silent taunt from beyond the grave.
"Damn it..." I mutter under my breath, pressing my fingers against my temples as if I could push out his ghost haunting me.
"Boss?" A voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.
"Right," I snap, shaking off the phantom pain of loss that gnaws at my insides. "Gear up, and keep it tight. We move out in five."
Boots scuff the concrete floor, hands gripping steel as they arm themselves. The click-clack of magazines sliding home is a chorus that sings of coming retribution. I watch them, these men who look to me for leadership, and feel the solitude that command brings. They see the leader; they don't see the manwho's still bleeding internally from a wound not even Evelyn can stitch up.
"Hey, Constantino," someone calls out, "you good?"
"Never better," I lie through clenched teeth, offering a half-cocked grin that doesn't reach my eyes. They buy it because they need to, because believing I'm unbreakable is easier than facing our vulnerability in this forsaken game we play.
"Let’s paint the night red, boys," I shout, a rallying cry to stoke the fire in their bellies. They echo it back to me, a wave of sound that crashes against the walls.
But as they file out, I linger for a second, letting the silence settle over me like a shroud. I close my eyes and picture Sebastian's face, as much as a brother to me as my own by blood.
"Tonight, I'll make them pay," I swear into the emptiness, my vow a whisper meant only for the shadows. "For you, for your boy... for everything."
With that, I step forward, leaving behind the sanctuary of ghosts for the carnage of war. Tonight, vengeance is our creed, and I am its dark apostle.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The cardboard edges of the puzzle piece dig into my fingertips as I slide it into place—a perfect fit in the midst of chaos. Evan's small hands fumble with another piece, his brow furrowed in concentration. He squints at the half-finished skyline of New York City sprawled across the kitchen table. The puzzle was meant to be a distraction, an attempt to fill the silence with something other than our thoughts, but it's like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.
"Will Constantino know where to find us if he comes back?" Evan's voice is small, laced with a vulnerability that tightens something in my chest.
"Of course, sweetie," I say, forcing a smile. "He knows exactly where we are." But the truth is, I'm not sure of anything anymore. If Constantino doesn't make it out alive, what then? What happens to this little boy who has already lost so much?
"Can we get pizza for dinner?" Evan asks suddenly, looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Sure," I respond, grateful for the diversion. Anything to dull the sharp edge of worry gnawing at my insides. Pizza sounds like heaven—or at least, a slice of normalcy in a world that's turned upside down.
"What kind do you want?" I ask him, unlocking my phone to pull up the menu from the local pizzeria.
"Umm..." He scrunches up his nose. "I don't know."
