There would be no forgiveness.
There was no going back.
“Grandfather,” I whispered. “Be patient.”
His expression worsened. “How do you think I’ve lived this long?”
By taking a spoonful of revenge one day at a time.
“Gigi?”
At the sound of his deep and composed voice, both my daughter and I turned to see Ethan as he stepped onto the patio, finally free from the clutches of his family’s never-ending questions. He was dressed in grey trousers and a button-down shirt. His dark hair was still a bit wet, so I knew he also snuck in a shower. His green eyes shifted to my grandfather as Gigi hopped down and ran to him.
“It seems I am in your debt, Fiorello,” Ethan said as he lifted Gigi into his arms.
“Really?” My grandfather grinned. “A debt from a Callahan, whatever could I have done for such a mighty reward?”
“My wife and my daughter would not be here without you,” he replied. “I am grateful.”
“Do not be too grateful,” he chuckled, nodding to me. “This one is the true handful, but then again, I’m sure you are starting to notice.”
“I am.”
“I am sitting right here,” I said, looking between the two of them. “This conversation feels very chauvinistic. I dislike it.”
“See ‘handful,’” my grandfather snickered, rising from his seat. He looked us over, and because he could not help himself, he had to add another line. “Though I wonder, if you are so grateful. Why did it take me to bring them here? Why weren’t you reasonable from the beginning, Ceann Na Conairte?”
Ethan’s hand flexed and his reply was chilling and cold. “I wasn’t aware.”
“Ah, right.” He nodded but his tone was clearly full of disbelief. “Well then, I guess I cannot fault you for that.”
I watched as he walked away.
“Does he really have Alzheimer’s?” Ethan asked when he was gone.
“He said he does, and so do his doctors,” I answered. “But then again, anything can be faked.”
Medical records.
Death records.
Taxes.
…Even love.
I glanced up at him as he stared down at me. But before we could talk, we were once again interrupted because God forbid we have one dull hour in this house.
“Sir,” Greyson said, holding a phone.
Ethan sighed gently.
“Heavy is the head…” I said.
He didn’t put down Gigi, he just walked over and took the phone from Greyson. The man stepped out of his way, closer to where I sat. He nodded to me. “Ma’am.”
I lifted the tablet. “Ryan Greyson, age 34, born in Chicago, 6’6”, 260lbs…” I started to read.
“Yes, ma’am.”