Page 4 of Sins and Salvation

"Can we get ice cream after school?" he asks.

"We'll see," I say, which means no, but I can't bear to disappoint him twice in two days.

At the school gate, I kneel to straighten his collar. "Be good. Learn lots."

"I will." He hugs me tight, then runs to join his friends.

I watch until he disappears inside, then turn toward the clinic. Every step takes me farther from my son and closer to the grind that keeps us clothed and fed.

But I feel eyes on my back as I walk, and I know the shadows of the past never stay buried for long.

CHAPTER3

DECLAN

The Dublin air hits me like a punch to the gut as I step off the plane. Home. A word that tastes bitter on my tongue.

I never planned to come back. Not after what my father tried to make me become. But death has a way of dragging us to places we don't belong.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—Cormac, for the third time today. I ignore it. My older brother can wait. The last thing I need is his judgment before I even get my feet on the ground.

The taxi driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. "Where to?"

"Trinity Street." I give him the address of the hotel I booked. Not the family home. I can't face that shitshow yet. I need at least three drinks and a Xanax to prepare for that.

Dublin passes by the window, familiar and foreign at the same time. Seven years changes a city. Changes a man, too.

The bruise on my rib’s throbs, a souvenir from my last fight. The underground circuit pays well when you win, and I win more often than not. Pain is an old friend now.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from Finn, my younger brother.

Will you at least come to the wake tonight?

I don't respond. I don't know yet.

The hotel is small and anonymous, probably only two stars at best, but it's exactly what I want. The room key card in hand, I drop my duffel on the bed and stare at the reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under green eyes. A scar above my right eyebrow. Hair that needs a cut.

I look like him now. The man I swore I'd never become.

The shower helps wash away the travel grime but not the memories. I change into clean clothes and stand at the window, watching Dublin go about its business. People with normal lives. People who don't wake up fighting.

My father, Patrick Donovan, was feared across Dublin. The kind of man who made problems disappear. The kind of man who expected his sons to follow in his footsteps.

I chose exile instead.

The bottle of whiskey from the minibar burns going down. Liquid courage for what comes next.

* * *

The wake isat the family home, a place I swore never to enter again. The taxi drops me at the end of the street. I walk the rest of the way, giving myself time to prepare.

The house is lit up, cars parked along the drive. Voices spill out—mourners paying respects to the Donovan patriarch. Or making sure he's really dead.

I pause at the gate, the weight of the past heavy on my shoulders. A figure steps out of the shadows—Cormac.

"You came." His voice is neutral, but I catch the surprise.

"He was our father." The words feel hollow.

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