CIAN
Still No Leads In Manor Fire Six Months On.
This is what my family has been reduced to. A footnote at the bottom of an article next to a picture of the hollowed-out shell of Gifford Manor that everyone will gloss over without a care in the world. A catastrophic event in my life reduced to nine words.
Nine.
The Russians have locked down with no information going in or out. I don’t even know who survived.
The Italians are nonexistent because Rocky’s been in a coma since his charred body was dragged from the wreckage.
And my family is gone. Everyone I ever knew, everyone I everlovedis just… gone.
I woke up a month after the explosion to find myself in the hospital with burn scars and a nurse telling me never to speak my real name to anyone ever again. She was so fuzzy in mymemory that it might have been a dream, but I clung to her words and played up the amnesia when the police came calling. I pretended to know nothing, but it wasn’t that difficult since I had no clue what the fuck even happened.
Then, with the help of a remaining Irish soldier, I snuck out of the hospital one night and returned to Gifford Manor. It looked almost exactly like it looks in the picture now, a burnt-out husk with the frame of the structure barely holding itself together. My family were gone. Ma wasn’t returning any of my calls, which fit with the security protocols we have in place for such a disaster, but the three safehouses I checked were empty.
I haven’t seen or heard from her since. The only tiny sliver of hope I have thatanyonesurvived is that fuzzy nurse. It’s been six months.
And my grief is reduced to a nine-word footnote.
Closing the app, I set my phone down next to the saucer in front of me and pick up my coffee. Brisk January air whisks past my cold cheeks while I sip the comforting, warm drink and stare down the length of the Italian Boulevard I’ve called home for the past three days.
I don’t stay anywhere for too long, not anymore.
The grief of everyone I ever knew, my brother and my sister, their partners and kids… their deaths have broken something inside me. Something that small sliver of hope can’t fix. I have one singular goal.
I will find the bastard who did this and I will kill them.
Nothing beyond that matters. That is my goal.
For five months, I’ve been dragging myself across the United States and finally into Europe, chasing the only lead I have—the third unknown benefactor of the human trafficking ring Saoirse discovered and dismantled. They’re the only person with enough motive to target all three of the New York Mafias and try to wipe us out all at once.
But I don’t know how.
Countless nights were spent trying to work out how they got into Gifford Manor and rigged it to explode, how they knew we would all be there on that night, how they managed to time it perfectly to gain the biggest chance at killing everyone, and how they even made a move in the first place without us catching some sort of hint.
The coffee burns as it tracks down my throat but I keep drinking, savoring the pain until my cup is empty. When I set it down, a waiter seems to materialize at my side.
“Another, sir?”
I nod silently. The empty cup and saucer are removed, and I’m left to the cool January afternoon. People hurry past me with their coat collars turned up and their hands shoved deep in their pockets against the cold. Thousands of people hurrying about in their daily lives, and I hate them for it. Every single one of them.
How dare they get to go to work, have a nice dinner, and return home to their families? How dare they get to sleep peacefully without a care in the world and plan things for their future like holidays?
Every face I see, even the ones that shoot me a polite smile when our eyes meet in passing, fills me with an overwhelming hotrage.
Saoirse would tell me that it’s my unresolved grief and I should do something about it before it kills me.
If she were here to tell me that, I wouldn’t be hurting in the first place.
“Here you are, sir. Can I get you anything else?” The waiter is young for his age and when he smiles, there’s still hope in his eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s ever seen heartbreak in his life. I want to punch that light right out of his eyes.
“No,” I reply stiffly. “Nothing else.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll be inside if you need anything.” He clasps his hands together against the cold and hurries back inside, sending me a curious glance as he does so.
He probably thinks I’m odd for sitting out here in a long-sleeved T-shirt—to hide the burn scars down my arm—and light jeans when it’s cold enough that I see my breath each time I part my lips. The cold is the only thing keeping me numb. A numb body numbs the soul, and it’s the only defense I have.
