Page 1 of Cillian

Prologue

Queenie

Heartless. Rageful. Fearsome and cold. Nothing but evil coursed through those cruel blue eyes. A man my mind wouldn’t let me forget.

Never will I forget that man begging for his life, as he called out to his mother and prayed to his god.

But the other man…the one with evil in his eyes. It was like nothing was behind that soul—certainly not a person—as he emptied his gun into his victim.

Bang. Bang...Bang.

It all happened so fast—the blood of the priest’s splattered across his face, an exploded head left behind in place of it. But the evil man…he shot one more bullet into his chest. What could he have possibly gained from one more bullet?

If the first shots hadn’t killed him, surely the shot to the head had. But that didn’t matter to someone void of emotion, devoid of empathy and most of all, devoid of God.

I’d told that story over and over. To the Boston Police department. To a private jury. Even to a judge. My testimony had been closed for my protection, so I thought I’d get to move on with my life.

Until my papa made a deal with the devil.

Greed made you do horrible things, but I never thought I’d be asked to take back my words. I couldn’t object to it, because Papa said I didn’t have a choice. And I was being promised to someone.

I just pray that I’ll never have to look in the eyes of such savagery again…

One

Cillian

“Lift up your tongue,” the medical examiner demanded, looking around the pockets of my mouth. The last examination had to do with the fight I’d been in yesterday. But given my time locked up, they’d seemed less concerned that I got my arse kicked and more concerned to whether I had started the fight.

They weren’t lying when they said inmates would do everything in their power to sabotage your release. Three or four wouldn’t have been a challenge for me, but getting jumped by that many at once, I endured it because my family told me not to do anything dumb enough to force another charge on me.

My family were my everything and I thought it’d be a long time before I saw them again, but with God as my witness, it would be the last beating I ever took. Pa gave me enough practice for a lifetime with that.

“Inmate 29B0119, all clear.” The medical examiner dismissed, passing me back to the CO meant to lead me to receiving and discharge. It was to my understanding, over a year ago my family had left clothes for me to change into, but since I’d asked them to stop coming, they weren’t aware of how tall I’d gotten.

Since none of it fit, I was encouraged to wear a white t-shirt, plain trousers and boots a half size too small. Cashing out my commissary, the last thing before I was released was to retrieve the belongings that had been taken from me upon my arrest.

Verifying my identification didn’t take long, as I was handed a small box and bag of clothes. The box didn’t hold much, so it was easy to see what I’d been looking for was nowhere in sight. “There's supposed to be a pocket watch in here,” I challenged the attendee at the desk.

“That's all that was signed off on during your intake.”

“You've gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mumbled under my breath until I couldn't hold in my frustration anymore. “That was my father's watch— Jesus Fucking Christ, the man gave it to me before—you know what? Fuck it.” I snatched the rest of my shit and took it as a loss. Keepsakes didn't matter. What mattered was getting the hell out of here.

Running back to receiving and discharge, I joined two inmates to verify our identification, signing paperwork necessary for our release.

“Name?”

“Sullivan, Cillian.”

Each of us were instructed to the final checkpoint. I wasn’t one for detail, but it resembled a small gate house with travel information on each side. Since my family name ended in S, I was the last one called before I could exit, placing me into a driveway where I hoped to meet my brothers and sister.

The CO guiding me to the parking lot must have been on a power trip because the second my brothers came into view, he deemed it necessary to give me an unwarranted pat down.

Gathering myself together, there was no missing my eldest brother Tadhg. Growing up, everyone called him ‘Big Red’ on the count that he was six-foot-five by the time he was twelve. Despite us being both the gingers of the family, his signature coif favored more a traditional red, where depending on the part of year it was and how the sun hit it, mine was cross between that and strawberry blond.

“Tadhg,” I said, in the respectful tone I’d come to use addressing the head of the family.

“Cillian.” He fixed his coat closed, giving a nod of approval. With Tadhg, that was the most you were going to get from him. He’d always been stoic and real particular, and over time we just learned that he didn’t mean anything by it.

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