1
CIAN
“You look good, Cian.” Cormac Gifford, my older brother, stands next to me in front of the mirror as we adjust our ties to smooth out all the invisible creases and inconsistencies we can barely see.
I look at his reflection, studying the aging wrinkles and fine lines that have deepened over his face in the five years he’s been Captain of the Gifford Clan. It’s been a turbulent five years for all of us but the past six months might have been the roughest to date.
“You have to say that,” I reply. “You’re my brother.”
“I’ve never bullshitted you.”
“Fuck off.” I snort. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Well, okay.” Cormac smirks and finally pats his tie now he’s satisfied with it. “But I wouldn’t bullshit about this. What you went through…” He cuts himself off briefly and sighs. “I just want to say I’m glad you’re by my side for this.”
I squint at him. “It’s just a party.”
“Sure, but when was the last time we had Irish, Russian, and Italian blood all under the same roof and no one wanted to kill one another?”
“Probably never. It’s weird how we’re all connected now. Does this mean we have to give up the competition?”
Cormac rolls his eyes as he turns to face me and takes over adjusting my tie. “Never. We all just talk about shit now instead of trying to kill one another.”
“How boring.”
Cormac tightens my tie too much for a second and laughs. “Honestly, I’m relieved. I’m tired, Cian. We’ve spent the past five years scraping by our existence. I want to start living. All of us.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me now.”
Cormac finishes with my tie, then slightly claps his hand to the side of my neck. “Seeing you walking around makes me sentimental.”
Just as I’m about to reply, there’s a soft knock at the door and Evelyn, Cormac’s wife, pokes her head around the door. “Sorry to interrupt. Cormac, Rocky’s here.”
“Excellent!” Cormac claps his hands together and smiles widely at me. “See you down there, Brother.”
It’s lucky Evelyn interrupted when she did because the retort I had became stuck in my throat. Cormac leaves with a smile and silence falls in the bathroom, broken only by the occasional rise of the music several floors below.
Cormac. What a sentimental old bastard.
Studying my reflection, I smooth my hands down my suit jacket, but as much as I try to stop myself, all my attention eventually sinks down to my left leg. Eight months of intense physiotherapy is the only reason I can stand here unaided. Eight months of dragging myself through stretches and challenges that somehow felt more painful than the actual torture I suffered at the hands of rogue Italians and the Chinese Triad. People look at me and I smile, telling them I’m fine.
Inside, I try not to think about it. I focus on the positives. I can mostly walk unaided now, and my clothes no longer feel like they’re stripping my skin off each time I move. Improvement has been slow but steady, and that’s all that matters. Now I have to plaster a wide smile on my face and attend a party my brother is throwing to celebrate all the missed birthdays, anniversaries, and general delight that somehow, we’re at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.
“Cian?” Another soft knock at the door and my twin, Saoirse, appears with a soft smile. She steps into the bathroom clad in a golden dress that trails along on the floor behind her. A glittering white shawl wraps around her shoulders and it shimmers as she approaches.
“Hey.”
“You look good.” She smiles, standing next to me. “You ready to go down?”
“Did Cormac send you up?”
“No.” She shakes her head and tucks some strands of her matching auburn hair behind her ear. “I know you, though, and I know you don’t want to walk down those stairs by yourself.”
“I was thinking of taking the elevator.”
Her eyes widen. “What elevator?”
“The drain pipes outside the window?” Jerking my thumb in the direction of the stained-glass window, I laugh at the truly alarmed expression on my sister’s face. “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”
