I shake my head. “I was born in Boston. Lived there until I was fifteen.” I let out a breath. “She was the best mother a boy could have asked for. And she deserved better than what she got. Better than me."
"Sean—"
"Let me finish." I run my hand through my hair, suddenly feeling that if I stop, I won’t be able to tell the rest of the story. "She was murdered when I was fifteen by a man who worked for a motorcycle gang that did jobs for the Irish mafia in Dublin, handling some of their interests here. He was supposed to collect protection money from her boss at the shop where she worked nights, but something went wrong. I don’t know what happened exactly—whether her boss couldn’t pay or she was in the wrong place at the wrong time… I have no idea. But there was a knock on our door, and it was a cop, there to tell me my mother was dead.”
I can still remember the sinking feeling in my stomach, the realization that something terrible had happened before anyone said anything. I can still remember seeing the neighbors whispering from the other houses, wondering what had happened, speculating about tragedy.
"He shot her in the head while she was stocking shelves," I continue, my voice flat. "Over a few hundred dollars. That's all her life was worth to him."
"Oh, Sean." Maeve's voice is thick with unshed tears, her eyes shining with them. "I'm so sorry."
"I was put into the system after that. Bounced around foster homes for a few months. But I wasn't interested in moving on or getting over it. I was interested in revenge."
Her eyes go wide. "What did you do?"
"I hunted him down." The memory of those months is crystal clear, even after all these years. I doubt it’ll ever fade. "It took me three months to find him. Three months of skipping school, asking questions, following leads. I didn't have a plan beyond making him pay for what he'd done."
“What happened when you found him?” Maeve’s voice is a whisper.
"I killed him." I meet her eyes as I say it, bluntly, wondering if she’ll judge me for it. "I stabbed him to death in an alley behind a pub. It wasn't clean or quick. I wanted him to suffer."
To my surprise, Maeve doesn’t flinch or look away. She watches me, her lip caught between her teeth, her eyes watery, waiting for whatever else I have to tell her.
“The Council found out, of course,” I say finally. “Nothing happens involving their interests that gets by them. I had no idea who they were when they picked me up and dragged me in front of them—all five members, sitting in judgment like fucking kings."
I can still remember that room, cold and imposing, and the men looking down at me like I was something they'd scraped off their shoes. Like I was nothing to them. And I was, back then. Nothing but a scrappy kid who could be a liability or be useful, depending on how things shook out.
“Then they explained who they were. They brought in the leader of the motorcycle gang. Said he'd allowed one of his men to kill an innocent woman, and that was unacceptable—bad for business, bad for the peace they'd established with the other gangs. Then they handed me a gun."
“Oh god,” Maeve whispers, as if she’s already guessed where this is going.
"They told me I could kill him if I wished. It was a test, though I didn't know it at the time. They wanted to see what I was capable of, if I was someone who could be useful to them."
Maeve swallows hard. "And you pulled the trigger."
"Without hesitation." I remember the weight of the gun in my hand, the way the gang leader had looked at me with contempt until the moment I pointed the barrel at his head. Then he'd looked afraid, and that fear had satisfied something dark in me. "I put one shot right between his eyes. I didn’t feel anything but satisfaction that he was dead. They saw that,I think. They gave me a choice—go back to whatever shitty existence I could scrape out for myself, bounce around foster homes until I was eighteen, and then end up on the streets, probably working for some dead-end gang. Or I could work for them. They said they saw potential in me.”
I drum my fingers against the table. “I chose the Council. They gave me money, a home with a woman who provided shelter and food, and relentless, endless training. I did my first job for them when I was sixteen. It’s never stopped since.”
When I meet Maeve’s eyes again, I expect to see horror or disgust. Instead, to my surprise, I see understanding.
"You were a child," she says softly. "A child who lost everything. What else were you supposed to do?"
I shrug. "I was old enough to know what I was doing."
"Maybe. But you were also fifteen and grieving and angry." She reaches out and touches my hand. "I'm not going to judge you for surviving the only way you knew how."
Something in my chest loosens at her words, a weight I didn't know I was carrying. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told besides Flynn,” I admit. “It’s not something I talk about.”
“I’m glad you told me,” she says softly. “I want… to know you, Sean. To know who you are. You know who I am; you know the worst things that ever happened to me. Now I know yours.”
“Then you should know what you're getting into, too. What being with me means." I squeeze her hand. "I'm not a good man, Maeve. I've killed people—not just in self-defense or for a job, but because I wanted to. Because some part of me enjoys it. I don’t regret killing those men when I was fifteen." I pause, pressing my lips together. “It’s not that I don’t have lines I’m unwilling to cross. The reason Brennan is after me, afteryou?—”
“You can tell me.” Her voice is steady, if still a bit watery with unshed tears. “I’m not going to judge you, Sean.”
I let out a breath. “I was given an assignment to kill Cormac Brennan. He’s a politician here in Dublin who called in favors from the Council and then didn’t hold up his end of the bargain. It should have been an easy job. A car bomb, and me in a sniper’s perch on the off-chance that he somehow survived it or tried to get away. But things didn’t go right.”
I glance at Maeve. Her eyes are wide, no doubt at hearing me talk so calmly about contract murder, but she says nothing, just waits for me to finish.
