And they all knew it.
Aiden crossed his arms over his chest. “And getting shit-housed drunk every night of the week is honoring our brother? Please. Don’t play the martyr to cover up that you’re doing what you’ve always done—skipping out on family business when we need you the most.”
“If I need to drink to deal with shit, then I’m going to goddamn well drink.” If they thought that’s what he was doing, he wasn’t going to set them straight. Alcohol had become the enemy the same way the Hallorans were the enemy. He’d been so fucking weak his entire life, had always chosen the easiest path. He was done with that shit now.
“Enough.” Seamus didn’t raise his voice, but he might as well have roared by how the single word cut through the room. He waited, but neither Aiden nor Cillian made a sound. Apparently satisfied, their father sat back. “We all mourn Devlin in our own ways. You, of all people, should know that, Cillian. Cut down your drinking and take one of our men with you when you go. I refuse to lose another son to carelessness.”
God forbid another one of your beloved assets slips away. The thought wasn’t fair, but Cillian could give two fucks. Maybe their father loved them. Maybe he didn’t. But if he did, then he had a hell of a way of showing it.
But Seamus was letting him get off easy this time, and he damn well knew it. “I’ll take an escort.” For now. He pushed to his feet. “If we’re done here—”
“Sit.”
His legs went out from beneath him before he made a conscious decision to obey.
“Bartholomew is retiring. You will begin training with him next week. Once he’s satisfied you know what’s necessary, you will take over his position.”
Next week. He’d known it was coming up fast, but he’d had no idea how fast. Fuck. It wasn’t that Cillian didn’t like the idea of keeping the family’s books. Ever since he’d shown an aptitude for numbers and the morals required for creative accounting, it was assumed he’d step into that role when the time came. Hell, a part of him had even looked forward to it. He might never run the O’Malleys—and, seriously, that wasn’t a position he aspired to—but with their finances within his control, he’d have the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. Every cent that filtered through their businesses—both legit and illegal—went through the bookkeeper.
But then Devlin died, and Teague was married off and helping to run things on the Sheridan side now. And Carrigan…
Every time he thought about the lost and terrified look on her face when she told him she was going to have to marry a stranger, it made him want to hit something. If that Dmitri guy was any indication, the sharks were already circling, scenting blood in the water. He couldn’t imagine his strong-willed sister married to someone like that. But she didn’t have a choice any more than the rest of them did.
He was getting off easy. He knew that. He’d always known that. Once upon a time, he’d even reveled in the knowledge.
Not anymore.
But that had more to do with him than the job he was expected to step into. There wasn’t much he got excited about these days, and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to be keeping the books with a side of computer hacking that convinced him that the night Devlin died hadn’t been a horrible case of fate making a mistake.
He blinked, realizing that both his father and brother expected a response from him. A harsh laugh slipped free. “I’ll be there.” He stood again. “If there’s nothing else…”
His father waved a hand. “Go.”
“Gladly.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the room before Aiden could chase him down and yell at him for being disrespectful.
It used to be that he didn’t lose sleep over his siblings’ fates—not when he always knew his. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about them—about what Devlin would be doing if he wasn’t six feet underground. He’d have started his junior year of college in the fall, going about school with the same enthusiasm he went about life. It wasn’t the same way Cillian had always lost himself in the partying and good times. Devlin genuinely enjoyed everything from his morning coffee to the lectures from his professors to whatever book he was buried in at the moment. At twenty, part of him had just been so…young. Full of potential.
Potential that had been cut short because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And his other siblings?
Teague was fine. Hell, Teague was better than fine. He had a banging-hot wife who seemed to genuinely care about him. If anyone in their family was living the dream, it was Teague. They didn’t see him nearly enough these days, what with his attention being focused solely on solidifying the Sheridans’ hold on their portion of Boston. Cillian didn’t blame him for that. His theoretical future kids would be as much Sheridans as O’Malleys—more, really.