Dad’s voice pulls me from my dissection of the past several hours. “Do you think you’ll have time to come to my birthday party?”
“It’s on the calendar.” I’ve never known him to celebrate his birthday, but my aunt decided that for his sixtieth, he needed to go big.
“Hmmm,” he mumbles. “Luis said this client is a big one. I wasn’t sure with how busy you would be. You’re always off doing something.”
He’s not referring to my new business. “Look. . . you know. . . that’s over.”
My time as the Ghost has ended.
“Really?”
“Yes.” All those names, every person connected to that bitch Marissa. They’re gone. Killed. Gunned down by the Ghost.
There’s the pop of a spring like Dad just stood from his chair. “You know all your cousins will be here. And your tía is spending a fortune on cake.”
“Dad, I’ll be there.” It’s several weeks away, and it’s on the calendar. I’ll shuffle whatever I have to.
He’s my dad after all. He’s all I’ve got left. Well, he and about a million cousins, including Luis, who hasn’t stopped texting me all night long. I should’ve never hired him, but my baby cousin is a thorn in my side I’ve never wanted to get rid of.
“You know Luis will drag me there even if I try to skip.” The joke falls flat. I guess he really thinks I’d miss his birthday.
There’s a shuffle on the other end of the line. More audience laughter.
“All right.” With those two words, the conversation ends. “Call your old man when you can find the time.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, cutting off the image of a lit-up skyline. “Night, Dad. Love you.”
“Same, Tristan, same.” He ends the call first.
I’m miles away from him in a different part of the city, but I can picture him perfectly. He’ll place his phone down on the tray table that’s always set up beside his chair. He’ll snack on pistachios, and the late-night show will reflect off his glasses.
Juan Paul Trevino is a good man. I’m not sure how he ended up with a son like me.
The shower turns on in the bathroom, and I pick my phone back up. It’s late here, but the time difference works in my favor.
The line rings three times before he picks up.
Envisioning Ciaran O’Connell is slightly harder than the predictable nature of my father.
That’s because he’s changed so much in the past few years. But the throaty, gruff laugh tells me that somewhere buried beneath this new Ciaran—the one who acts more like Hadrian Hallow—is the old Irish bastard I used to drink with.
Back then, it was dive bars and cheap beer. The last time I saw Ciaran, he sported a wristwatch worth more than any contract I’d ever taken when I worked with the Irish. I rolled my eyes when I heard about the sports car he’s been driving around in.
“Tristan Trevino.” I smile, hearing the typical breath of humor in his voice still. “The sun’s barely risen here, but shit, is there some news coming out of New York or what?”
“What have you heard?”
“Something about a good old fashioned shootout.”
Ren would be pleased to know that even overseas, she’s the talk of the town.
“Shit, you should have seen Russo with his son and grandson. They were lobbing Molotov cocktails.”
A full-bodied laugh comes from across the Atlantic. “No fucking shit. Russo’s got to be what, seventy now?”
“You wouldn’t know it.” It’d been amusing, albeit odd, watching the family bonding session. Ren had no idea just how close she was able to bring people together.
“And you were there?” Ciaran asks.
