Epilogue: Cillian
Six Months Later
I fasten the silver cufflinks Ma gifted me a few days ago and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“Damn,” I say. “I look fucking good.”
My little brother rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t I be the one complimenting you?”
I smile and turn around. “Go right ahead,” I offer, raising my arms to showcase the impeccably tailored black suit I’m wearing.
Italian-made. Paired with German hand-crafted shoes.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. Can’t quite remember.
“You look like the best-dressed waiter in the room,” Kian quips with an evil grin.
He’s dressed in a navy-blue suit with a razor-thin black tie. His outfit choice is understated, but he looks sharp.
He also looks better than I’ve ever seen him.
Probably because, six months after everything that happened at the castle in Crannagogue, all external threats to the clan have been more or less eviscerated.
Which means that Kian’s had time to heal.
He no longer walks with a limp. All his wounds have long since scarred over or vanished altogether.
“Don’t be jealous,” I tell him.
“Of what?”
“The fact that I’m clearly the better-looking brother.”
Kian snorts with laughter. “Yeah, okay, big bro. If you’re gonna drink that Kool-Aid, I can’t help you.”
“You only just healed up. Don’t make me cripple your ass again.”
“I’d like to see you try, old man.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “If I weren’t getting married today, I would teach you a lesson in the laws of the universe. Older brothers are undefeated. So if you insist on fighting, the only possible winner is—”
“Me.”
Kian and I whirl around at the exact same time.
The voice that just spoke so eerily familiar that it makes my heart thud unevenly against my chest.
And the man standing at the door of the dressing room belongs with the dead.
At first glance, he’s exactly the same as the day he left. It’s only after Sean has fully stepped into the light that I start to notice the differences.
His features are still brooding. His coloring still dark and hooded.
But there’s a certain lightness about him as he walks into the room.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “Sean O’Sullivan, as I live and breathe.”
“Who else, little brother?” he asks, a smile playing across his lips.