The transition. Like Seamus's death is just a business inconvenience to be managed.
I stand on shaking legs, Dante rising beside me with fluid grace, and I let Patrick pull me into a hug that smells like expensive cologne and cigars.
"I am so sorry for your loss," Patrick murmurs into my hair, his arms tight around me. "Seamus loved you like his own. You know that, right?"
"I know," I manage, my voice hoarse from crying.
He pulls back, keeping his hands on my shoulders, and looks at me with what I assume is supposed to be sympathy but looks wrong somehow. "All things happen in time, Rosalina. That is what Seamus always said. All things in time."
The phrase sends a chill down my spine, though I cannot articulate why.
Patrick's gaze shifts to Dante, and his expression cools slightly. "Dante Salvatore. Thank you for bringing her home safely."
"Of course," Dante says, his voice carefully neutral. He has been like this since we arrived—polite but distant, watching everyone with the focused intensity of someone expecting an attack.
"I need to speak with Rosalina," Patrick says, turning his attention back to me. "Privately. There are some Irish matters we need to discuss regarding Seamus's affairs."
"Anything you need to say to her, you can say in front of me," Dante says immediately, and there is steel beneath the politeness now.
Patrick's smile tightens fractionally. "I am afraid this is an Irish matter. Family business. Surely you understand the need for privacy in these situations."
"Rosalina is my wife," Dante counters, his hand finding the small of my back. "That makes Irish business my business."
"Actually, it does not." Patrick's voice hardens. "Rosalina may be married to you, but she is still a part of the O'Connor family. Still Irish. And there are some things that need to stay within the family."
The tension in the hallway ratchets up several notches. Dante goes very still beside me, and I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves, can see his jaw tighten as he processes what Patrick just said—essentially, that Dante is not family and never will be.
"Dante," I say quietly, placing my hand on his arm. "It’s okay."
"No, it is not?—"
"Please." I look up at him, trying to communicate with my eyes what I cannot say out loud—that I am exhausted, that I do not have the energy for a territorial pissing match, that I just want to get through this conversation so I can go back to the hotel and fall apart in private. "Just wait outside. It will be fine."
Dante looks like he wants to argue, looks like he wants to physically remove Patrick from the premises, but after a long moment he gives a tight nod.
"I will be right outside this door," he says, loud enough for Patrick to hear. "If you need me, you say the word."
"I know." I squeeze his arm.
He presses a kiss to my forehead—brief and fierce—and then steps back, moving to lean against the wall opposite the office door with his arms crossed and murder in his eyes.
Patrick opens the office door—Seamus's office, though it does not feel like his anymore—and gestures for me to enter.
The room hits me like a physical blow.
Everything is exactly as Seamus left it. His desk is still covered with papers. His reading glasses are folded neatly beside his laptop. There is a half-full glass of whiskey on the side table that no one has cleared away, and the sight of it makes my throat close up completely.
He was here. Days ago, he was here, living and breathing and existing in this space.
And now he is gone.
"Sit, please," Patrick says, moving to close the door firmly behind us.
I sink into one of the leather chairs facing the desk, my legs too unsteady to hold me up any longer. Patrick does not sit behind the desk—Seamus's desk—but instead leans against it, looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
"How are you holding up?" he asks.
"How do you think?" The words come out sharper than I intended.
