"Again."
He throws it again. I miss again.
"Again."
This time I catch it, the impact stinging my palm through the glove, and my father grins. It's rare, that grin. It makes my chest swell.
"Good," he says. "Now throw it back."
I do. It's a terrible throw, too high and too far to the left, but he catches it anyway.
"We'll work on it," he says.
Then I'm sixteen again, sitting at the kitchen table with a Guinness in front of me. My father sits across from me, his own glass half-empty.
"You're a man now," he says. "Time you drink like one."
I take a sip. It's bitter, thick, and I hate it. But I don't say that. I just nod and take another.
He watches me, eyes sharp, and then he raises his drink. "To family."
I clink mine against his. "To family."
And finally, I'm twenty-four, sitting in a bar after closing a deal that nearly went south. My father is beside me, bourbon in hand, and he's smiling. Actually smiling.
"You did good tonight," he says.
The words are simple, but they hit me harder than any punch because my father was reserved with his compliments.
"Thanks."
He nods, takes a sip, then looks at me. "You're ready."
"For what?"
"To lead." He sets his glass down, turns to face me fully. "When I'm gone, this falls to you. You know that, right?"
I nod.
"It's not going to be easy," he says. "People will test you. Try to take what's yours. But you're a Killaney. You'll hold the line."
I meet his eyes, see the years of blood and sacrifice and decisions that kept us alive.
"I will," I say.
He grips my shoulder, squeezes once, then lets go.
"I know you will."
But now...
Now he's here.
On a table. Gone, and whether I feel ready or not, it's my time to lead.
I just didn't think I'd take the throne because my father was murdered.
That's what this is.
