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Chapter eleven

Dramatic Irish

Eoghan

I spent the rest of that day walking the grounds, chain smoking my Dunhill cigarettes, trying to unravel the damned web I was caught in.

My wife was a spy; that much was clear. Her spy friends were taking me in, somewhat, even if Jericho and I still despised one another. They wanted to take my son somewhere safe—that was good.

That safe place was not near me—that was bad.

My wife would stay—which was good, and bad, because I wanted her safe.

The safest place for both of them was far, far away from me.

Fuck!

Afternoon turned into evening, and I knew my solitary wanderings would have to stop soon, if for no other reason than I had already missed dinner. Wasting any more time away from the two people I loved would do me no good.

When I returned to the house, Dairo was there waiting for me, leaning against the banister of the grand staircase that led to the Vasiliev castle’s front door.

“Care for a smoke?” I offered.

To my surprise, he pinched one of the cigarette butts and put it in his mouth. Interesting. He’d quit for a while.

“What ails you, Dairo?” I asked, handing him the silverZippo lighter.

“Nothing,” he lied. Then he winced and amended, “Nothing of consequence, given these circumstances.”

“Is that right?” I pried, happy to care about someone else’s drama for once.

Since Shiny and Ajax had been married, we’d been sorely lacking in gossip among the Irish families. O’Malley was a fucking saint, and had no drama to speak of. It was nice to think of someone else’s problems.

“Rose is unhappy,” he said, letting out a long stream of smoke with a sigh. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Then he dropped his head. “I don’t know if I’m the cause of it.”

“God, isn’t that our lot in life?” I chuckled, letting out my own smoke, enjoying the smell of it, because God damnit, I loved the smell of my Dunhills. But I also swore not to smoke around my son. “The Green curse.”

“Marriage,” Dairo chuckled. “The cause of, and solution to, all of our problems.”

It was funny because it was true. The curse of my father, and his father, and probably our grandparents before that as well. Would our children be so haunted as well?

“They do keep things interesting, though,” Dairo said, letting his smoke out in a long white stream.

“Interesting?” I scoffed. “God, I want nothing more for my boy than a long and absolutely boring and predictable existence.”

May you live in interesting times wasn’t a well-wish. It was a curse.

“May our sons fall for simple women, and live long, uneventful, fruitful lives. May they never fire a gun in anger, or be shot at by an enemy,” I said, thinking of all the ways I wanted my son to live a life different from my own.

“May they never doubt that they are unconditionally loved by their fathers.”

Dairo didn’t agree or disagree. He simply stood beside me. His silence, I knew, was agreement.

I took in one deep breath, before saying the thing that had been plaguing my mind since I stepped out of the dining room and went on my little walk around the Vasiliev estate.

“Swear on your life you’ll keep Cillian safe,” I said, not wanting to dance around what I needed to hear. “That you’ll support Kira, should she ever need it. Support her as you would me.”

Christ, I hated the earnestness in my voice. But it couldn’t be helped. This would be the single most important thing I ever asked of him.

“I swear on your life that I’ll keep Cillian safe,” Dairo said with a small laugh. “And on my own children’s lives, Eoghan. I’ll treat him as my own. You know that.”

“Aye, I do,” I said, taking in a sharp breath, feeling relief course through me. “But I needed to hear it anyway.”

We smoked in silence for a while, and it almost felt like it did when we were fifteen, running through the damn woods like big men, pounding our chests, and acting the fool. We used to smoke and stare out at the stars. I wondered if Cillian would have a friend like that himself one day.

“If something happens to me—”

“Don’t fucking say it, Eoghan.” Dairo ashed his cigarette, scraped it on the banister until the red ember died, then flicked it out into the lawn. “Dramatic Irish.”

“English twat.”

The women and children departed the next day with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

At the end of their private flight, they’d get whatever they needed.

Kira very sternly told Dairo the brand of toothpaste that Cillian liked and the diapers he wore. She wrote it all down, and made Dairo swear to read it before they landed in Scotland.

My dear cousin failed, again and again, to show the right amount of eagerness to obey every item on her painstakingly written list.

“Love,” I said, grabbing her by the waist, pulling her away from my cousin. “If he doesn’t get the fluoride-free blueberry toothpaste, you have my permission to geld him when they get back.”

“Bloody hell, Eoghan. So much for family loyalty!” Dairo mocked offense.

I ignored him.

“Let’s say farewell to our son.” This was the part Kira was trying to avoid.

She thought that if she fretted and fussed, maybe the goodbye would never have to come at all.

But it had to happen, and I knew it. That’s why I was allowing it after she and I had fought about this exact topic. She was right about his safety. I was wrong to have doubted her.

Kira looked at me, almost betrayed by my interference, then she nodded.

She knelt before our son, taking his face in her hands.

She pulled him into a tight hug, and he wrapped his arms around her neck, letting out a long, playful, “Squeeeeeeeze!”

Then she kissed his forehead, blinking tears from her rich, brown eyes.

“I love you, my sweet boy.” She kissed his head, lingering in his hair so long that Cillian began to squirm from her hold. “I’ll see you real soon, okay? I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Kira stood up, turning away from him for an instant to wipe her tears away.

“High five, little man?” I said, putting up my palm.

He smacked our hands together, smiling at his accomplishment.

“I love you,” I said to him, and like Kira, kissed his forehead, then embraced him close, putting my nose to the crown of his head, memorizing him with all my senses.

My son would not come to me as a robin redbreast in a casement window, I thought idly. He’d come to me as a great-horned owl.

The thought was so bizarre, but I think the carnivorous owl would suit him. Wise, powerful, but also territorial. Just like his dad…

One day, Cillian would grow up better than my wildest imagination. He would surpass me in every way. I was sure of it. As sure as I was that the sun rose in the west and set in the east.

For now, though, it was clear that Cillian understood nothing of what was happening.

He resisted Aoibheann, who came and took his hand, pulling him toward the plane.

“Come on, little man,” Dairo said, holding a hand out to him.

Cillian looked at me, then back at Dairo, then back at me. He tilted his head to the side, exactly like the great-horned owl, before shrugging and going with Dairo.

I came to my feet, watching them go, before taking Kira in my arms to let her find solace against my chest.

“He’ll be back, Love,” I said over and over again, as I rubbed her back.

“I know,” she said with a swallow, straightening herself back up. When she looked at me, her eyes were dry, though barely.

We watched the plane take off before walking, hand in hand, to the car.

For her part, Kira was admirable in how she held back her tears until we were home, alone in our guest room, at the Vasiliev castle, where our men mingled with the Russians, forming a tighter security around those who remained to fight the war.

She was forlorn. It was written on every single part of her body.

She stared forlornly at the bed, as if he should have been there, sitting in the middle of it all.

“It’s only for a few days, Love.” It had better be no more than a few days, or I would tear my own hair out.

Whatever frost existed between us melted away as I touched her lower back, and she leaned into me.

She turned in my arms and wept into my chest.

“A few days, and he’ll be back,” I promised.

“I know, but I’ve never… I’ve never...”

“I know.” I held her, rocking her back and forth in my arms until she settled herself into soft sniffles.

She wiped her tears, then blinked away her sorrows. She was letting me soothe her, and that was a great comfort to me.

“I’ve barely spent any time with him, and separation already feels unbearable,” I admitted, placing her forehead against mine. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

My poor, sweet Muse. If I could kiss her pain away, I would. But even I knew that seducing her now would not lessen the ache she felt.

She pulled away, and I let her go, even though I wanted nothing more than to feel her skin against me. I needed her warmth now, more than ever.

“Andres Lutkus, or as many of us call him, Blink, was the man who helped me get rid of Giorgio Morelli’s body.” She turned away, clasping her hands in front of her, her shoulders slumped.

The confession took me by surprise, but I stood there, quietly waiting for more. Patience hasn’t always been a virtue ascribed to me, but for her? I had all the time in the world.

“He is my mentor, of sorts. He trained me.” She turned to me, her face grave. “He was my handler, and my friend.” She went onto her tiptoes, planting a kiss on my cheek. “I thought you should know.”

I was either the luckiest or the unluckiest man who ever lived.

Lucky because every time she trusted me, I felt like a real man.

A father, a husband, a person worthy of the Muse that had inspired me.

Unlucky, because all of these precious moments were happening too late, and it could all be slipping from my grasp.

“Thank you,” I said, kissing her forehead, the way I had kissed Cillian’s earlier. “You did not have to tell me. I appreciate your trust.”