“Very.”
I lean back in my chair and consider what this means. The Vances have been dealing with their own wars while I’ve been running mine. Territory conflicts, rival families, the endless violence that comes with this life.
Years ago, I might have seen this as an opportunity. Victor weakened, distracted by the Colombians, maybe vulnerable enough that I could push for information about Aurelia.
But it’s been a long time.
Long enough that the sharp edges of obsession have dulled into something else. Something more like a dream I had once that felt real at the time, but seems impossible now. A woman on a plane. A night in a hotel. A face I can barely remember clearly anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if she was even real.
“You still have people watching Vance properties?” Declan asks.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t push, but I can see the question in his eyes.Why are you still looking for someone who clearly doesn’t want to be found?
I don’t have a good answer.
The search has become routine. Background noise. My people send reports every month, and the answer is always the same. No movement. No sightings. No trace of Aurelia Vance anywhere. She’s either dead or so well hidden that finding her would require resources I’m not willing to burn—at least anymore.
“I’m going to Ireland next week,” I say, changing the subject. “Visiting my mother.”
“How long?”
“Four or five days.”
Declan nods and picks up the folder. “I’ll handle things here.”
“I know you will.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with the view of Manhattan spreading out beyond my office windows and the faint, fading memory of a woman I spent one night with almost five years ago.
Nothing about Ballycotton asks to be noticed anymore. The damp, the narrow streets, the slow harbor all blur together, familiar enough to pass without comment. What still catches me is my mother, waiting on the porch in her worn cardigan, smiling in a way that makes time fold in on itself.
“You brought flowers.” She eyes the bouquet in my hand with suspicion. “What did you do?”
“Can’t I bring my mother flowers?”
“Not you. Not without a reason.” But she takes them anyway, brings them inside to find a vase.
I follow her in. The cottage smells like rising dough and the lavender soap she’s used for thirty years.
We have dinner that night. Lamb stew and brown bread she baked this morning. She asks about business without actually asking, and I give her vague answers that satisfy her need to know I’m alive and working.
“Are you taking care of yourself?” she asks halfway through the meal.
“Yes, Ma.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Enough.”
“Eating properly?”
“When I remember.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. Just refills my bowl and tells me I’m too thin.
