The morgue is colder than the rest of the hospital. Not just temperature, though that drops the second I push through the double doors, but atmosphere. Like stepping into a vault where warmth goes to die.
My men stay outside. I don't need them seeing this.
The hallway is narrow, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting everything in a white glow.
At the end of the hall, a desk. Behind it, a man in a doctor's coat. He looks up when I approach, no surprise on his face.
I explain who I am, and he stands, clipboard in hand, glasses sliding down his nose. He speaks in choppy English, explaining the paperwork, the autopsy delays, the bureaucratic nightmare of transporting a body across borders.
I sign everything he puts in front of me without reading it.
"Can I see him?"
The doctor, at least I think he's one, hesitates, then nods. "Of course. This way."
We stop, and he turns back to me.
"Oh, we found this under the pillow," he says and pulls out a plastic bag with a black feather inside it. "Maybe it was a good luck charm, maybe it fell from somewhere. We don't know. But we don't need it." He stretches his arms out to me. "You want it?"
I stare at the feather. The edges are slightly bent from being sealed in plastic. The black is deep, almost iridescent under the lights.
A good luck charm.
I want to laugh. I want to grab this man by his collar and slam him against the wall. I want to tell him what this feather means. Who left it. What it represents.
But I don't.
Because he wouldn't believe me. Because he doesn't care. Because this man is part of a system that sees my father as just another body, another case file, another signature on a form.
So I reach out, take the bag, and slide it into my pocket.
"Thank you," I say, and think, this is the feather I shove down Cormac Donoghue's throat.
We continue walking, and he leads me through another set of double doors and into a cold, sterile room. Steel squares line thewalls, and we approach one. He opens it and pulls a body draped in a white cloth out.
My father.
The doctor pulls the sheet down from his face and steps back. "I’ll give you a moment" he says and leaves.
For a second, I can't move. I just stand there, staring down at Darragh Killaney.
He looks different. Not the man who built an empire. Not the Don who commanded respect with a look. Not the father who taught me how to survive in a world that eats the weak.
The surprising feeling that hits me is that there's no going back now. No more denial. No more hoping the detective got it wrong, that my mom was misinformed, that this is someone else, that my father is still alive somewhere, smiling at how close I came to believing he was gone.
My fingers curl into a fist, and I step forward. Closer, and the air leaves my lungs when I smell the faint scent of his cologne, or I think I do anyway.
His skin is pale, almost gray. His eyes are closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, and for a moment he looks like he's sleeping. But no one sleeps like this. No one lies this still.
His hair is silver, combed back the way he always wore it, but it looks different now. Lifeless. Like someone tried to make him look presentable but forgot he was never the kind of man who needed fixing.
As I stare at his face, everything comes rushing back.
I'm seven years old, standing in the backyard with a baseball glove too big for my hands. My father is across from me, sleeves rolled up, a baseball in his grip.
"Keep your eye on the ball, Callum," he says, and he throws it.
I miss. The ball sails past me and thuds into the fence.
