I reach for my Glock. I press the muzzle to his forehead.
The steel is hot against his skin.
My finger tightens on the trigger.
He killed my father. He tried to kill Alessandro. He tried to kill Rory. He put a target on everyone I love.
"Killian!"
Alessandro's voice. Distant. Shouting over the dying echoes of the gunfire.
"Killian! We need him alive!"
The voice cuts through the red haze. It anchors me.
Alive.
If I kill him, he becomes a martyr. If I kill him, the knowledge dies with him. If I kill him, I am just the weapon my father made. I am just the dog that bites when it’s told.
I pull the gun back.
My hand is shaking. The urge to pull the trigger is a physical ache in my finger.
I reverse the gun. I bring the heavy polymer grip down on his temple. Hard. Just to be sure.
He doesn't move.
I stand up.
I sway. The world tilts. The pain in my side is a living thing, eating me alive. I press my hand against the wound. It comes away soaked in blood. My new suit is ruined.
The gunfire has stopped.
The silence is ringing, heavy and absolute.
I turn around.
The dry dock is a graveyard. Bodies on the floor. Smoke drifting in the layers of light. The smell of cordite is suffocating.
I walk back toward the center.
Padraic Kavanagh is where he fell.
The blood pool has spread. It is dark, viscous, reflecting the overhead lights like oil.
His eyes are open. Green. My green. Rory’s green. The only thing he ever gave us that was worth anything.
They are seeing nothing.
I stand over him.
I wait for the grief. I wait for the tears. I wait for the crushing sense of loss that the songs talk about.
They don't come.
I remember him standing in the garden with a cigarette, watching me bleed. I remember him looking at the dead man in Rory’s room and telling me to clean it up. I remember the way he looked at me when he told me I was marrying a Falcone—like I was a currency he was spending.
I feel... relief.
