The thought makes rage flare hot in my chest. Someone in my house. Someone I trusted. Someone who looked my future wife in the eye and then helped put a bullet through her father's throat.
I'm going to find them. And when I do…
"Where are we going?" Aoife's voice pulls me back.
I realize I've led us to the kitchen. The massive chef's kitchen that gets used maybe twice a year when we host events. It's empty now, quiet except for the hum of the industrial refrigerator.
"Sit." I pull out one of the bar stools at the island.
She sits without argument. That alone tells me how bad she is. The woman who challenged me the moment we met, who looked at me with fury in her eyes and told me I was late, she's gone. This woman is hollowed out. Fragile.
I hate it.
I open the fridge and pull out containers. Roasted chicken. Bread. Cheese. Fruit. I don't even know what I'm doing. Just know that she needs to eat something, and I need to do something with my hands before I put my fist through a wall.
I make her a plate. Simple. Protein, carbs, something easy to digest. When I set it in front of her, she stares at it like it's a foreign object.
"Eat," I say.
She picks up a piece of chicken. Brings it halfway to her mouth. Then sets it back down.
"I can't."
"You have to."
"I can't." Her voice breaks again, and this time she doesn't try to hide it. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The way he looked at me. The blood—"
She stops. Presses her hand to her mouth. Her whole body is shaking.
I should comfort her. Should say something reassuring. Should do whatever men are supposed to do when women are falling apart in front of them.
But I can't.
I can barely keep myself together. Can barely keep the rage and the guilt and the need for violence contained. If I let myself feel what she's feeling, if I let myself step into that grief...
I’ll snap.
And I can't afford to snap. Not now. Not when someone just proved they can get to us. Not when she needs me to be strong enough for both of us. Not when my entire family is relying on me.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I walk away.
"William—"
"I'll be back," I say without turning around. "Just...eat something. Please."
I leave the kitchen before she can respond. My footsteps echo through the empty corridors as I put distance between us. Between her broken voice and her father's blood and the way she looked at me like I might actually be able to help.
I can't help her.
I can barely help myself.
My feet carry me to the gaming room. The one place in this house that's mine. Where I can shut out everything else and just...exist.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, breathing hard. My hands are shaking again. The rage is building, building, building, and I need it to stop. Need everything to stop.
The safe is behind the dartboard. My fingers fumble with the combination. It takes me three tries before I get it right. Inside is a small plastic bag of cocaine.
