He stares at me for a moment, his teeth nibbling his lip as he contemplates how to proceed. A huffed breath flees his nostrils, accentuated by the dip of his shoulders. “Rohan phoned me early this morning. Said he had to take care of a few things after last night. He was stressing about you being here alone with everything that happened.”
Resting my elbow on the countertop, I tuck my hand beneath my chin, nodding at him to continue.
“He asked if I could drop in with some food and bring you some clothes. When I pulled up, I heard the gunshot. I was halfway up the stairs when Donnacha ploughed into me.”
My brows narrow. With the injuries Donnacha had, Aodhán could have easily stopped him from taking off. My mind is reeling, and after everything that has happened, I’m questioning every move and the motive behind it.
Trust is earned, not given freely.
The words my mother wrote on the back of the photograph—the same words Rohan spoke in the closet on my first day of school—blast through my mind, echoing like a freight ship foghorn. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
“Because getting to you was more important. I had to make sure you were okay.”
His tone is sincere, and his eyes hold a genuineness I can’t ignore. I know I shouldn’t trust him blindly, and I don’t, but something about the unadulterated concern painted on his boyish face makes me believe he’s telling the truth. About his arrival, at least.
My next question flees my mouth unfiltered. “Did Rohan tell you where he was going?”
“No.” His tone is firm. Another truth. “And honestly, I didn’t ask. In case you haven’t noticed, Rohan isn’t very forthcoming.”
“Well, that’s a fucking understatement,” I mutter. It’s no secret half of the time Rohan talks in riddles. His words hold a million different meanings and even more hidden messages. Every sentence that leaves his mouth is purposeful, and unfortunately for those around him, you never know what the purpose is until you’re headfirst in, trying to remain afloat.
With nothing to lose, I probe Aodhán for more answers, pushing a little further. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that every time he disappears, something bad happens to me?”
“No, not really.” Aodhán pushes off the counter and plonks himself onto the stool across from me. He rests his forearms on the counter, exposing his chest. I’m not a body language expert, but his entire profile is open and relaxed. There is no sign of him hiding or concealing himself. As he speaks, I pay attention to the set of his lips, and the truth beaming from his eye contact. “Contrary to his recent actions, Donnacha isn’t stupid. He would never make a move if Rohan were around because he knows Rí is lethal. There would be no hesitation, Saoirse. He’d tear Donnacha apart, and D knows that.”
My eyes narrow into slits as I work over his statement. “Why is that?”
His face twists with confusion. “Why is what?”
“Rohan. He’s eighteen years old. How is he so… lethal?”
For the first time since we started talking, Aodhán’s shoulders stiffen, and even though it’s subtle, I notice a slight twitch in his left eye. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s pondering on how much information he should give me. I don’t back down, though. Raising my brow, I silently push him to continue. His tongue slides across his front teeth, and his eyes narrow. “How much do you know about the syndicate?”
Lowering my eyes to my mug, I draw circles around the rim with the tip of my finger. “Rohan told me a little.” My gaze settles back to his, and I add, “Four families control the four provinces of Ireland, right? Reilly, Connelly, Murphy… and the Ryan families.”
He nods.
“But when my mother failed to complete her trials, the syndicate gave her place to Gabriel King. He was supposed to keep things running in the Leinster area until the next Ryan heir became of age. Which is… me?”
“Correct. There are sixteen main families. The four head families—one for each province—and then each quarter has an additional three families that make up the syndicate council. There are other foot-soldier families involved, but the main sixteen have all the power. When one of the main families can’t fulfil a leadership role, they will vote one of the other families as a placeholder. That’s how Gabriel got your mam’s seat.”
“So, the other families voted him in?”
“Unfortunately, yes. From what I heard, it was a close vote between Oliver Devereux and Gabriel. But Gabriel is ruthless, and his name holds a lot of weight in the syndicate’s world.”
“What has this got to do with Rohan being lethal?”
“Nothing and everything.” He pauses, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “Being a syndicate heir comes with its own stipulations. Our training starts at about thirteen. We don’t get to be kids.” His eyes flick towards the countertop, and when they find mine again, they’re glazed with sadness. “Instead, we’re thrust into a world of men. We learn things that most children wouldn’t understand—fighting, guns, drug deals, sex. Nothing is off-limits. We aren’t normal eighteen-year-olds, Saoirse. This lifestyle has hardened us. We’ve become products of our environment.”
His prominent Adam’s apple bobs with his deep swallow. “Rohan’s circumstances were different. Gabriel brought him into the fold far younger than the rest of us. His story is not mine to tell, but Rohan has never had it easy. While we were out enjoying the small ounce of youth we had, he was living in the shadows his father kept him in. He worked twice as hard as any of us, but no matter what he did, he could never come close to the expectations his dad placed on him.”
For the first time since I arrived in Killybegs, I’m thankful to my mam for shielding my childhood from the shackles of the syndicate. And even though I’m completely ill-prepared for everything I am about to face, at least I had some semblance of a normal life. My heart aches for the young boy Rohan never got to be, that none of them got to be. Suddenly, the image of a drunk Rohan—lying on my bed—filters through my mind. That version of him was so different from the stone-faced guy he shows the world. There was a vulnerability to him that night, a need for affection. I didn’t know it then, but now I see it for what it was. A little boy craving love.
“Rohan’s hatred for his dad fuelled him to be the best,” Aodhán continues, pulling me from the memory of that night. “That’s where Lorcan comes in. He saw something in Rohan that his father didn’t—a hunger to win, to be better than all the others. Maybe he saw a younger version of himself. I don’t know that much about Lorcan’s story, because, like Rohan, he keeps his cards close to his chest. But while the rest of us were training at the gym and gun range, Rohan spent all his time training alongside Lorcan. He taught Rohan everything he knows, and that’s why Rohan is so fucking lethal. He had the best mentor in the syndicate.”
A deep, Northern brogue rumbles from behind me, sliding across my skin and leaving goose pimples in its wake. “Now, now, pup. Keep talkin’ like that and you’ll give a man a complex.”
I don’t move, frozen to my chair as Aodhán peers over my shoulder at the intruder. That voice… I know that voice.