“Tell me about his life in L.A.,” she says. “Tell me what he was like. What kind of man he was.”
I take a moment to arrange my thoughts.
How am I supposed to explain the last ten years?
How am I supposed to condense down a good man’s lifetime into a few short sentences?
“He was… the most optimistic man I’ve ever met,” I start. “He was quick to laugh about everything, including himself. He was unfailingly honest, he was loyal to a fault, and he missed Ireland far more than he claimed he did.”
Sinead looks at me with her powder-blue eyes. Like Cillian’s, but softer, hazier.
“Did he hate us?” she asks.
“I don’t think he hated you,” I say, addressing her directly. “He resented what was done to him. He was hurt. Sometimes he didn’t understand—”
“Didn’t understand?” Ronan barks. “What didn’t he fucking understand? He knew what he was doing. He knew who he was fucking with.”
“Does it matter?” I shoot back calmly. “He was defending his woman.”
Ronan grunts with anger. “That bitch was beneath him. He insisted on entangling himself with her, and then he became sloppy and irresponsible. He prioritized her over the family. He should have known better. Nothing comes above family.”
“Maybe he considered her family,” I point out.
Ronan narrows his eyes. “Is that what he told you?”
“He didn’t have to,” I answer. “I knew Cillian better than anyone.”
“You say that to me?” Ronan challenges. “His father?”
“You knew the boy he was,” I say. “Not the man he became.”
I glance back at Sinead, who hasn’t taken her eyes off me.
I sigh. My chest aches like a bruise. “He fought by my side for almost a decade. He was with my through the worst times of my life and the best. He was my conscience and my toughest critic. And he was talented. If you’d only chosen differently, he would have made an amazing don in his own right.”
That brings about a spark of regret in Ronan’s stubborn eyes. The idea that his legacy might have had a stronger change of success is the only thing that really rattles him.
“He chose wrong,” he replies tensely.
“He was young.”
“Artem,” Sinead says, her voice shaking just a little. “Did he… was he happy? Did he leave behind anyone? A woman, a child perhaps?”
I want to be able to give her something. She so badly wants it. Some hope to cling to.
But I know that lying to them now will only undo all the headway I’ve made since coming here.
“No,” I say. “There was no one in his life. He wasn’t looking to settle down.”
“Was it still her—all this time?” Sinead asks.
I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I shake my head. “I don’t know. He kept his feelings pretty close to heart.”
“Tell me how he died,” she asks.
“Sinead…” Ronan warns, glancing at her pointedly.
“I want to know,” she insists. “Please tell me.”