If Cillian had lived into his fifties, this is what he would have looked like.
The thought twists in my gut like a serrated knife.
Ronan O’Sullivan’s eyes fall on me. Despite the startling blue, they darken with anger.
He moves his gaze over my shoulder to skewer the idiot who’d let me in.
“Any fool can see that this man is not my son,” he says, his native brogue booming out like rolling thunder.
Then he sighs and waves a dismissive hand.
“Kill him.”