Chapter 33: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 33

Clodagh’s right about the subway; sometimes, it is superior to an air-conditioned SUV.

Since we’ve been at a standstill on the Brooklyn Bridge for twenty minutes, I’m tempted to jump out and walk the rest of the way.

I used to love coming to Brooklyn when I was a kid. Mom would take us to Coney Island Beach, only fifteen miles away from our home in Queens, but that would be our summer vacation. I hadn’t been outside the state when I was Teagan’s age. Teagan has traveled all over the world.

It’s always a fear of mine. When you bring your kids into wealth, and I mean extreme wealth, are you really giving them a better life? Teagan has never had to hope or wish for anything, even if I impose limits on her pocket money.

But where is her passion and desire to accomplish her ambitions if nothing ever presents an obstacle? Am I raising her to expect everything to come easy?

“Traffic is clearing now, boss,” my driver says with a hint of relief.

I let out a quiet hum in response and lean back in my seat.

Good. I’ve had too much time to think on this journey.

My gaze dips to the image on my phone. Teagan would be shocked if she knew how much time I spend scrolling on social media; no doubt I’d be accused of double standards.

Except I’m not here for likes, connections, or any other way others get their dopamine hit. All I feel is pain. Every post is a stab in the heart, a reminder of what I’ve lost.

Because I spend my time staring at pictures of a red-haired Irish vixen with gorgeous green eyes. My fear intensifies with each swipe that the next will show she’s moved on, that I’m nothing to her now.

I’ve gone through a lot of things in my lifetime; Harlow’s death being the worst. Years of having a deadbeat father, threats on my life, a stalker, and almost having my business go under in the beginning years.

Not having Clodagh in my life is right up there, too.

But at least I know she’s safe, far across the Atlantic Ocean, away from me.

It’s been weeks since she last posted anything on social media. I mainly look at pictures of her in New York, taken when she was living with me, trying to convince myself she’s still close. It’s torture.

I lie awake in the middle of the night as waves of unease hit me like a storm surge. She’s so fucking far away from me now.

But the distance between us keeps her safe.

The bridge behind us, we finally arrive at the casino site after a half-hour drive.

Connor and I have always been hands-on, which is why I’m about to don a hard hat and talk to the foreman and workers of the construction company. Phase 1—the demolition of the old motel—should be complete next week. I want to meet the team to look into the whites of their eyes and know they’re telling me the truth.

My driver pulls to a stop, and I get out and am immediately hit with a cacophony of construction sounds.

The cranes, diggers, and half a demolished hotel make the building site an eyesore. But in six months, the Brooklyn skyline will contain a new addition: a sleek hotel and casino that blends aesthetically with its surroundings. I haven’t been out here in a few months now.

I wonder if this is where Clodagh wanted to live in Brooklyn. I wonder if it’s near the restaurant she went to for her birthday. I’m always fucking wondering.

I look around. Clodagh would like the area. It’s an eclectic mix of office blocks, Brooklyn brownstones, cafes, and restaurants.

Something, call it insanity because I’m on a path of self-destruction, has me wandering over to the cafe next to the site. The sign tells me it’s been serving traditional Polish cuisine for over fifty years. I barely noticed it on my previous trips here.

My gaze drifts to the window.

Inside, only two tables are occupied. A young couple laughs at one table as the girl feeds the guy. Her long red hair falls into the soup, and she grimaces.

On the tables, old green glass bottles are being used to hold candles, their sides glistening with melting wax. I wonder if the green of the glass is the same shade as Clodagh’s eyes.

My chest tightens. Everywhere, there are reminders of her, or maybe I’m actively seeking them out. Clodagh believes all that hokey-pokey shit like astrology. She would probably say this is a sign.

“Do you want to come in, Killian?” comes a voice behind me.

I turn to see pale-blue eyes decorated with wrinkles staring at me.

“I tried calling, but your receptionist wouldn’t let me through,” Marek Sr. says sadly. “I wanted to say sorry.”

“It’s ironic that you’re apologizing to me,” I reply.

“It’s necessary. I’m doing it on behalf of my son. I want you to know he wouldn’t have done anything serious.” He pauses, looking broken, and I feel sorry for the man because I’m a parent too. “He’s a decent kid at heart; he just has a short temper. Hopefully, the police caution will make him wise up a bit.”

“It’s fine,” I say curtly, because the man isn’t responsible for his son’s actions. Just like I wasn’t responsible for my father’s.

“I’d like to say that I raised him better than that,” he says with a heaviness in his voice. “I tried to show him the right way. If you don’t set a good example for your kids, what else matters?” He looks at the restaurant. “None of this stuff.”

I follow his gaze, seeing my reflection in the glass window. Am I setting a good example for my daughter?

The redhead waves through the window to Marek. He nods in acknowledgment. “She’s been coming here since she was a baby with her mom. I’m glad she’s with a decent guy.”

They look like they’re in love. The guy clearly worships her.

I turn to Marek. “This plot of land has been in conflict for a few years now. What were the local folks hoping to get built here?”

“A sports center for the kids and a community center. There’s nowhere for them to play sports around here cheaply. Everything costs an arm and a leg these days, huh?”

I’m silent.

“I’ve made peace with what’s happening. Seeing my son fail to control his anger was an awakening of sorts. Perhaps he isn’t ready to take over after all.” He pauses. “Can we call a truce, Killian?”

I nod. “A truce sounds like a plan.”

“Now, will you do me the honor of showing you some authentic Polish cuisine?”

I look over at the site. I’m due to meet the foremen soon. “Sure. I have twenty minutes.”

I watch people come and go as I eat a delicious stew that I can’t remember the name of. Who’d have thought shredded cabbage could be so good.

There’s a connection with the people who come into the restaurant. Marek knows everyone who walks in, or they know each other.

I fold up my napkin and leave the cash on the table while he’s busy entertaining another customer.

He glances at me, his eyes warm and kind, and I put my hand up in thanks.

“Goodbye, Alfred. You’ll get your community center.”

My words go unheard as I leave. It’s for the best since I don’t want to see his reaction. Best not to mix emotions with business.

***

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” Connor says.

I glance up at him strolling toward the grave. I knew he was here; I saw him park his car in the chapel lot.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask him.

“Harlow? She’d have never placed the blame on you, Killian. The guy was breaking into houses for years. There’s nothing to forgive.” He sighs. “But I’m wasting my breath telling you this again.”

“Are you here to lecture me about the casino?” I ask in a hollow voice, staring at Harlow’s headstone.

“No, that’s JP’s job, not mine. I’m here because you look like you live in a cave. You haven’t shaved in weeks, and the last time you looked like this was after Harlow died.”

“My looks aren’t the priority right now.”

We remain silent for a moment, pretending to pray because Mom drilled into us that’s what you do at a grave.

Connor interrupts the quiet. “I was at The Auld Dog last night, the pub Clodagh worked in.”

“What for?”

“Just stopping by.” Bullshit. “She’s moving to London. Starting a whole new life there.”

I stay silent, letting his words sink in.

I imagine Clodagh in London creating a new bucket list. Meeting new friends. Meeting new guys.

I’m not sure why the news doesn’t sit right with me. Whether she’s in Ireland or England makes no difference. I have no claim to her and can’t stop her from moving on with her life.

The main thing is that she’s happy and safe.

“I figured she’d stay in Ireland,” I finally say.

“Clodagh isn’t going to live in a bubble for the rest of her life. You know crime rates are higher in London than New York?” Connor says, his voice floating through the silent graveyard. “Most likely, she’ll be living in a rough area since rent in London is pricey, and she’s in her twenties and doesn’t have tons of money. She’ll go out, have fun, and the chances are, go home alone on the buses or the subway, perhaps after having a few too many drinks.”

“Why the fuck are you telling me all of this?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out what it’s going to take for you to get over your issues. Because if you continue to live like this, keeping love at arm’s length, what example are you setting for your daughter? Trust no one? Love no one?”

I snort. “That’s very poetic for you, Connor.”

“Exactly. That’s how desperate I am, after weeks, to get through to you. Now, answer the question. What’s it gonna take for you to get over your issues?”

His question hangs in the air.

My gaze rests on Harlow’s grave, a reminder that I’m doing the right thing. “She’s safer away from me.”

“Doubtful, based on the spiel I just said. From what Sam and the team told me, she scraped her knee and bruised her wrist. She’s an Irish woman; she’s tougher than that. Let her decide what’s safe for her.”

He hands me two pieces of paper, a smile playing on his lips.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Two plane tickets to Dublin. There’s a helicopter ready to take you from Dublin to Donegal.”

I scan them in disbelief. “Two?”

He smiles. “Teagan said she’ll be your wingwoman.”