Maybe, at this stage, both responses are appropriate.
“That’s twice now, Ghost,” I tell the cat. “Twice that I’ve come back from the dead.”
The cat stares back at me. His eyes are filmy with age, but he seems to understand.
I’ve survived for a reason. I may not have wanted to be don of the O’Sullivan clan, but that’s exactly what I am now.
Time to fucking embrace it.
The Kinahans want to pluck my parents out of our own goddamn home? They want to break my brother’s leg? To start a fucking war?
Bring it on, motherfuckers.
Because apparently, I have nine fucking lives.
And I’m not afraid to use them.