Page 103 of Killaney Fire

"I was not loud. I even tiptoed"

He smiles, turning back to the coffee pot. "Like an elephant."

I lean against the wall. "So why are you up drinking coffee at four a.m.?"

"It's what time I get up." He pours a second mug without asking if I want one. "I like to stand over you for a few hours before you wake up."

My stomach flips. "What?"

He sets the pot down. "Kidding."

I off the wall and take a seat at the island. "Okay. I like the recent influx of jokes from you, even if they are kinda creepy. We'll work on it."

He hands me the second mug and takes a seat across from me. "Why are you up?"

I take the cup, wrapping both hands around it and it instantly warms me.

I shrug, staring into the coffee. "I… just. It's everything. The gala this evening. My dad, which everyone's just leaving me in the fucking dark about." I rub my forehead, the usual tape playing in my head. "So, anyway, I was thinking. I feel like I don't know anything about you."

He exhales slowly, watching me over the rim of his mug. "There's nothing to know."

"Says the quiet, mysterious man. You know that makes us women want to know everything about you, right?"

He smiles, just barely, and takes a sip of coffee.

"You don't do that much, you know?" I say.

"What?"

"Smile."

He shrugs, his gaze dropping to his mug. "Too focused, I guess."

The kitchen falls silent, and I watch him, studying the way his jaw tightens when he drinks, the way his fingers curl around the ceramic like he's holding something fragile.

"Tell me about your family," I say.

His eyes lift to mine. "You mean my brother?"

Embarrassment floods my face. "What? No! I didn't mean that."

He waves it off. "It's okay. I get it," he says and looks down at his arm. "Dead brother's face tattooed on me, it raises questions."

"Well…" I shrug, guilt twisting with my curiosity. "I mean, yeah. But you don't have to."

"I was sixteen," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Thought I was twenty-five. Figured I knew the whole world. I started working for my family, the Ionescus. They're like your family but in Romania. Uncle and cousins on my mom's side."

He pauses, looking down at his cup.

"One night I was outside a club to pick up some drugs, and my younger brother showed up looking for me. I was so mad. I told him to leave. He begged me to stay. I said okay."

His voice doesn't waver. It doesn't crack. But something in his eyes shifts, something dark and hollow.

"It was the first night I ever heard what grenades sound like. It was a hit meant for the Ionescu family, but they weren't there. Me and my brother were… so yeah."

My throat tightens. I reach across the table without thinking, grabbing his hand, my fingers wrapping around his. "Octavian. I'm sorry."

His hand is warm, and for a second he doesn't move. Then his fingers curl slightly, just enough to acknowledge the touch.