So this is it. Kian O’Sullivan’s family.
His brothers. His parents. His little niece.
He must love them. Why else would anyone have a photograph blown up so large, framed and hung up in the center of the room like it’s the fucking crown jewel?
The longer I look, the hotter the anger in my belly grows.
He has all of this.
I have none of it.
And why is that? Because of him. Because he snatched it all away from me when I was five years old, in a storm of blood and gunfire. I find myself turning from the mantel and back towards the door I’m fairly certain Kian is behind.
I’m aware that I’m not thinking straight. Emotion is what’s driving me forward, not logic. But I’m too angry, too bitter, too short on options to reconsider what I’m doing.
Either I’ll succeed or I’ll die. It feels like a risk worth taking.
I press my ear to his door, but I don’t hear a sound. Or, wait—yes, I do.
It’s the clattering of running water. He’s in the shower.
Perfect.