After a short pause, he says miserably, “I feel responsible.”
“Your first responsibility was ensuring your wife’s safety. Your pregnant wife’s safety. Which you did. You put her into the SUV and locked her in. Then you emptied three clips into a car speeding away from you, without a single bullet penetrating the trunk.” I pause for effect. “Where Juliet was.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “My woman, my responsibility. If I hadn’t been in Prague—”
“Hundreds of people would be dead. Who else would’ve stopped Alfassi from setting off that bomb in the mosque?”
I swallow the scotch, enjoying the burn as it works its way down my throat. Then I pour myself another three fingers, because I need it. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: how’s retirement?”
He chuckles. “Getting tired of heading an international criminal empire and being an international superspy, are you? Feeling a tad overbooked?”
I say drily, “It does have its challenges.”
“So quit.”
“You say that like it’s a possibility.”
“You can’t save the entire world, brother. Especially now.”
Because of Juliet, he means. Because my priorities have shifted.
When I remain silent, he suggests, “Or pick one. Ditch the gangster gig.”
“Right. As if there’s a succession plan if I retire from your former job.”
“You know what they say: nature abhors a vacuum. Someone would be there to step in. What about Declan? He’d do a credible job. We could kill you off in some kind of fantastic fiery explosion and let him take the reins.”
“Declan’s strictly back office. He hates the spotlight.”
“How about Diego? You said he was doing well for you. And he’s ambitious enough, I’d guess.”
“You’re suggesting the Irish mafia be run by a Latino kid? How confusing for the competition.”
“He’s not a kid, brother. You’re just old.”
“I’m only older than you by two minutes. So If I’m old, that means you are, too.”
He ignores that bit of logic. “And the Irish have always been more inclusive than the Italians. It’s not so much about pure blood as it is about getting results. By the way, I still can’t believe you bought his mother a house.”
“I had to bribe him somehow into keeping his mouth shut that there are two of us.”
Liam pauses. “Or you thought it was hilarious how he kept trying to kill you because he thought you were me.”
“I admit it was highly entertaining. He still asks about your wife, by the way.”
Liam makes a sound like a bear’s growl. “Will you please find him a girlfriend so he can bury that torch?”
“I’m sure he does just fine with the ladies on his own. He’s got the Latin lover thing down pat. Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you—whose genius idea was it to spell your name backward in the Secretary of State’s listings of your corporations?”
“Mine. Why?”
“Because it’s not exactly an uncrackable code, that’s why. You should really invest in more sophisticated identity obfuscation protocols. Your name should never appear anywhere.”
“Oh, please. Who’d ever put that together?”
“Juliet did.”
Into his astonished pause, I say, “She did her research before breaking into my diaper warehouse. Sorry—our diaper warehouse.”
He sounds impressed. “Clever girl.”
I smile. “You have no idea. But don’t worry, I took care of it. Mail Kcalb no longer exists.”
“Thank you.” He pauses. “Have you told her yet?”
I exhale slowly, drink more of my scotch. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“She’s sleeping at the moment.”
He knows me better than I think he does, because he sees right through that and laughs.
Dropping my voice, I say, “How exactly do you tell the woman you love that you’ve been a spy since you were recruited out of the military and into MI-6 when you were twenty years old?”
“Exactly like that, idiot.”
“Right. Except that’s only the beginning, isn’t it? That’s only scratching the surface. How do I find the right words to explain how I hated working for the government so I went freelance? How I’ve spent the past two decades killing bad guys all over the world in an attempt to avenge the murders of our entire family and prevent the same thing from happening to others?”
I’m starting to get worked up. Saying this out loud makes it all the more impossible to imagine actually doing.
“How can I tell her that I formed an independent group of a dozen like-minded associates who specialize in espionage, intelligence, geopolitics, guerilla warfare, and advanced spycraft to thwart global terrorism? And that we call ourselves the Thirteen because we couldn’t agree on a better name, so now we sound like a boy band?
“How do I tell her all of us are working undercover in some capacity, masquerading as mob kings and corrupt politicians and shady business tycoons, because we know the best way to kill a rat is from inside its own nest? How I’ve killed hundreds of men alone?”
My voice rises. My heart pounds. Heat crawls up my neck. “And how do I tell her that all this carnage started because a lifetime ago I put a bullet in my own father’s brain?”
Liam’s tone turns sharply reprimanding. “That was mercy. He was hanging from a tree, hamstrung, and on fire. In agony. Dying. He was beyond saving, but you saved him more misery in his final moments. Then you saved me. Used for target practice, shot five times and left for dead, you still somehow crawled into a burning house and saved your brother. I owe you my life.
“Don’t get it twisted around, Killian. Eoin McGrath and his gang murdered our family. The only thing we could do was sweep up the ashes.”
When I gulp the dregs of the scotch, my hand shakes. My laugh, when it comes, is cold and dry. “Aye. And now I’m standing here twenty-seven years and three thousand miles later, faced with confessing my bloody history to a woman who thought merely being a mafioso was bad. Christ. She’ll run away screaming. And no one would blame her.”
We sit in silence for a long time, both of us lost in dark memories. Finally, Liam sighs.
“If she’s really the one, brother, she won’t run away. She’ll love you all the more for what you’ve been through.”
I promised her I’d tell her everything, so I suppose we’ll just have to see.
After a beat, he says brightly, “I have an idea.”
“Oh no.”
“Write her a letter.”
“I know you can’t see it, but I’m making a face.”
“Women love getting letters. It’s a thing for them. It’s even better than flowers or jewelry.”
He sounds very sure, but I hesitate. “Really?”
“Aye. Really.”
“Would Ryan Reynolds write a woman a letter?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’m definitely not fucking doing it.”
He sighs. “Christ, you’re such an arse.”
“On that note, I’m hanging up. I’ve got an important phone call to make.”