Page 2

The call ends, and I stare at the phone, memories flooding back. Maeve's smile. Her laughter. Her tears when I told her I was leaving Dublin. The look of betrayal in her eyes.

I press my forehead against the cool concrete wall, trying to push away the ghosts. But they cling to me, whispering of unfinished business and hidden regrets.

"Bad news?" Sato asks, watching me.

"My father died."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I toss the phone back to him. "The world is better without Patrick Donovan in it."

"Will you go back?"

The question hangs in the air. Will I return to the city I fled? Face the family I abandoned? See Maeve again after all these years?

"Book me a flight to Dublin," I say before I can change my mind.

Sato nods, not asking questions. He knows better than to dig into my past. "When?"

"Tonight."

I throw my gear into a duffel bag, muscles aching from the fight. Every instinct tells me to stay away from Dublin, from the Donovan name, from all the darkness I left behind. But Cormac mentioned Maeve. After six years, why bring her up now?

In my apartment above the gym, I pack what little I own—some clothes, my passport, a worn photograph I never look at but can't throw away. A picture of Maeve and me, taken the summer before I left. Before I broke both our hearts.

The taxi arrives at midnight. As Bangkok's neon lights blur past the window, I try to prepare myself for what waits in Dublin. My father's funeral. My family's empire. The ghosts I've been running from.

And Maeve Brennan—the biggest ghost of all.

CHAPTER2

MAEVE

My fingers tremble as I count the euros in my wallet again. The numbers refuse to change. Twenty-three euros to last until payday, three days from now. I close my eyes and take a breath.

"Mam, can I get these?" Conor holds up a pack of football cards, his green eyes wide with hope. I know all the lads at school have them, they trade, and he is feeling left out.

Those same green eyes that haunt me every day. The eyes of his father.

"Not today, love," I say. "We need to get milk and bread."

His small shoulders slump, but he puts the cards back without complaint. At six years old, he understands sacrifice better than most adults. I wish I could give him the nice things, but for now I give him what I can.

I ruffle his dark hair, so likehis, and we make our way to the register with our meager groceries. The cashier rings up our items looking bored and tired.

"That'll be twenty-one euros."

I hand over the money, my stomach clenching at how close to the bone we're cutting it.Again.

Conor carries the lighter bag as we leave the shop. The Dublin sky hangs gray and heavy above us, threatening rain. The walk to our flat isn't long, but today each step feels like a mile.

A black car crawls past us on the street, moving too slow to be part of the traffic. The tinted windows hide the occupants, but I feel eyes on me. The car continues down the road, but my nerves prickle.

"Race you to the corner?" Conor asks, already poised to sprint. I shake my head, too tired to even try run a few paces toady.

"Hold my hand when we crossroads, remember?" I tell him, reaching for his small fingers.

Our flat is in a tired building on the edge of a neighborhood that was once respectable. Now it clings to that reputation by its fingernails. The stairwell smells of damp and someone's cooking. Mrs. Flanagan from number six nods to us as we pass her door.