She lay back in bed, going over the conversation even as she cursed herself for doing it. She wasn’t sixteen anymore, dancing home from school after the popular boy talked to her. Hell, she hadn’t even done that when she was sixteen. And James Halloran wasn’t some harmless jock. He was a Halloran. More than that, he was now the man in charge of all Halloran territory and everyone under their control. One could argue that he was equally as powerful as her father, though she’d never be stupid enough to say as much where Seamus O’Malley could hear her.
She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Sleep. Sleep was what she needed more than anything right now. Maybe in a few hours things would look clearer.
Cillian stared at the untouched drink in front of him. He could almost taste the whiskey on this tongue. The sense memory made him want to lick his lips and puke, all at the same time. He hadn’t touched the stuff in months—not whiskey, not Guinness, not anything else with a drop of alcohol. Guilt was his new drug, and he excelled at it. If he hadn’t been so shit-housed, Aiden wouldn’t have decided that they should walk home from the bar that night. If they hadn’t walked home, they wouldn’t have been vulnerable, and that bastard Halloran wouldn’t have had a chance for a drive-by. If he hadn’t had the chance, Devlin would still be alive. Cillian had been more concerned with chasing skirts than chasing grades in school, but even he remembered that old logic equation—if A equaled B and B equaled C, then A equaled C.
It meant that Cillian was responsible for Devlin’s death.
There was plenty of guilt to go around, or that was what both Teague and Aiden had told him time and time again over the last three months. They could keep believing that if it made them feel better. Cillian knew the truth. He might not have pulled the trigger, but he was the reason they were there in the first place.
He glanced at the table where they’d shared their last drink. The memory of the night was hazy at best—at least before they hit the street—but he vaguely recalled needling Teague about marrying a Sheridan. They’d all been laughing and shooting the shit. For a second, it’d almost been like the good old days. Before Aiden grew up and got serious about his role as heir. Before Teague took it upon himself to save every one of his siblings. Before Cillian recognized the noose around his neck and resolved to live life to the fullest before it yanked tight.
Before.
With Devlin’s death, Cillian’s entire life devolved into Before and After. He barely recognized the man he was now, the hard son of a bitch he was turning into. A wall of ice had started around his heart, and it only seemed to get thicker with each passing day, freezing him from the inside out.
“Is this seat taken?”
He barely glanced at the man. “Nope.” None of the seats at the bar were. There’d been a rowdy group in here earlier, but this close to last call, the place was damn near deserted. Which didn’t explain why the hell this guy felt the need to sit directly next to him.
“Buy you a drink?”
It took a second for him to place the accent. Russian, but a little different. Maybe somewhere eastern European, like the Ukraine. He wasn’t going to ask—it would just mean opening up a conversation that he didn’t want in the first place. Cillian motioned at the full drink in front of him. “I have one.”
“You’ve been staring at it for three hours. It’s no longer drinkable.” The man leaned forward and caught the bartender’s eye. “Two vodka.” His accent turned the v into a w.
Since the man obviously wasn’t going anywhere, Cillian finally gave him his full attention. He was in his mid-thirties and had one of the best suits Cillian had ever seen. There was nothing crazy or loud about it, but it managed to scream money nonetheless. It was more than that, though. Cillian had expensive suits in his closet. Fuck, he was wearing one right now. But he was conscious of the cloth against his skin and the pull of the fabric every time he moved.
This man wore his suit like he’d been born to it.
Cillian frowned. This didn’t feel like a pickup, though. There was no interest in this guy’s dark eyes—or at least no interest that had anything to do with sex. In a way, it was a relief—it saved him from having to explain that he didn’t swing that way—but it also opened up the question: What the fuck was this guy doing?
When the bartender, Benji, dropped the vodka off, the man lifted his. “I’m Dmitri.”
“Cillian.” The exchange of names was so automatic, his was out of his mouth before he had a chance to think better of it. Then again, he highly suspected this Dmitri knew exactly who he was. Nothing about this indicated it was anything but planned. The knowledge sat like a burr in the back of his throat. “What do you want?”