He talks like a man who knows what he’s doing.
He’s got confidence. An easy swagger about him.
I shake my head, trying to reconcile the image of the ten-year-old in my head with the man sitting in front of me now.
“You’re imagining me playing with train sets, aren’t you?” Kian asks with a knowing smile.
I laugh. “Actually, I was just thinking that you’re almost as pretty as I am, you little fucker.”
Kian snorts and waves the bartender over. “Two pints for my brother and me,” he orders. “And keep ‘em coming!”
I’ve already consumed my fair share of alcohol tonight, but I’m not about to turn down a drink with my kid brother. Especially not after thirteen years of absence.
“Well?” Kian asks, turning back to me. “You’re back from the dead. What’s the plan now, big bro?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
Kian’s expression turns serious. “You didn’t come back for nothing.”
The bartender plunks down two large pints in front of us. I accept mine gratefully and pass the other to Kian.
“Da doesn’t want me back,” I point out, pulling one of the beers towards me.
“Fuck Da and what he wants,” Kian says. “He doesn’t always know what’s right.”
I smile. “We can agree on that. How is the old tyrant?”
“He hasn’t aged a fucking day.”
“Not surprised.”
“I think he may be a vampire.”
“Again, not surprised.”
Kian laughs. “He never talks about you or Sean,” he admits, his laugh dying slowly. “If anyone mentions either one of you, he gets this look on his face. It’s fucking terrifying.”
“Is this your way of trying to convince me to come back?” I ask. “Or are you trying to warn me to stay away?”
“My point,” Kian presses on, “is that Da wouldn’t have such a strong reaction if he didn’t still care.”
I shake my head. “Sean and I embarrassed him. Disappointed him. He’s never going to forgive us for that.”
“He’ll come around.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You think so?”
Kian shrugs. “Vampire or not, no one lives forever,” he says. “The future of the clan is up in the air.”
I frown. “No, it’s not. He has his heir,” I say, gesturing towards Kian. “And a perfect one at that.”
Kian shakes his head, his brows knitting together.
I recognize that look. I’d experienced that feeling for several days when I thought I was going to be the next O’Sullivan don.
“I’m not perfect at anything,” Kian says. “And even if I was, I doubt it would matter.”
“What do you mean?”