“What’s past is prologue.”
It’s a famous quote from The Tempest by Shakespeare. People often incorrectly think it means the past predicts the future, that what’s to come has already been decided. But the full quote says the opposite: “Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come, in yours and my discharge.”
In other words, we write our own destinies. The past is simply what comes before the first act.
Watching Juliet sleep, I realize that my entire life leading up to this moment has been prologue.
I’ve been waiting for the first act to begin.
I had to find her before I could really start living.
Careful not to disturb her, I rise from the bed and go into the kitchen. I pour myself three fingers of scotch. Then I call Liam.
He answers after only one ring, his voice tense with worry. “Brother. Talk to me.”
“It’s done. She’s safe.”
His exhalation is heavy and filled with relief. “Injuries?”
A fleeting smile crosses my lips. “Nothing that stopped her from bossing me around the minute she laid eyes on me.”
He scoffs. “Because you would never do such a thing.”
One of the many reasons we’re a perfect match.
I drink more of my scotch. We sit for a moment in silence until he speaks again, his voice low. “I owe you an apology.”
“I know what you’re about to say. Don’t say it.”
“No, it has to be said. I was the one who let them get away.”
“You sank thirty rounds into that car.”
“I should’ve gone inside with Tru.”
“You had no reason to. It was a police station, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get much safer than that. It shows how desperate they were that they decided to take her there.”
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.”
He sounds insulted. “Who’s more important than your brother?”
“My future father-in-law.”
I really wish we were on a video call so I could get the full effect of his astonishment, because I can almost hear his eyes popping out of his skull.
“Mr. Black. To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounds exactly like DeNiro in GoodFellas. The head of the New York mafia has a Brooklyn accent thicker than stew. The sarcasm is that thick, too.
I cut through the bullshit and get right to it. “Your daughter, Juliet.”
Silence.
Then, in an apoplectic roar: “You motherfucking cocksucking son of a ten-dollar whore! It was you who was behind her abduction? I’ll cut off every fucking thing on your fucking body that can be cut off and choke you to death with my bare hands, you worthless Limey bastard!”
Apparently, the kidnappers made contact with him before I made contact with them.
“I didn’t kidnap her. Miro Petrovic did. He’s dead now. I killed him.”
More silence. Then he says in a low, deadly voice, “What the fuck kind of game are you playing?”
“No games. They demanded to renegotiate narcotrafficking routes that were in conflict with yours, correct?” I don’t bother waiting for an answer. He sounds too busy swallowing his tongue in rage, anyway. “You don’t have to worry about that conflict anymore. Their organization is in tatters. It’ll be a long time before they can recover. All the top brass are dead, in addition to the best of their foot soldiers.”
“Oh yeah? How am I supposed to know that? How am I supposed to know this isn’t some fucking joke you’re trying to play on me?”
“I’m sending you their heads on ice. You’ll have them in the morning.”
After an astonished pause, he laughs a short, hard laugh. “Put ’em in the mail, did you? They’re gonna show up on my doorstep first thing?”
“No. I sent them via a private courier who specializes in this sort of transaction. And they’re going to show up on the aft deck of the Penetrator at six o’clock your local time. You’re ten nautical miles off the coast of Krapanj at the moment, if I’m not mistaken. Which I’m not. I never am. That was just a figure of speech.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I’ll give you the courier’s information. I highly recommend them. I’m sure you’ll find they come in quite handy from time to time.”
There follows another blistering string of curses. It’s long and colorful and revolves primarily around separating my genitals from my body and subjecting them to various unpleasantries.
When he runs out of steam, I say, “The reason I’m calling is that I’m in love with your daughter.”
A strange sound comes over the line. A gagging or choking sound. It’s very severe. He could be having a heart attack.
“Sorry—back up. I neglected to mention that I was the one who saved her from the Serbians. They had her in a hole in the ground underneath an abandoned barn in the middle of the Massachusetts countryside. But obviously I wasn’t going to let that stand, considering she’s going to be my wife.”
He sputters, “Y-you…you f-fucking…”
“I know. But if Russia and the United States can make it through the cold war, you and I should be able to work something out.”
To someone in the background, he shouts, “This fucking guy! Can you believe this fucking guy?”
He comes back on the line, seething. “Listen, numbnuts. I don’t like crank calls, I don’t put up with assholes, and I sure as hell don’t allow the head of the Irish mafia to disrespect my family with this garbage you’re talking. Consider yourself dead!”
“That would be inconvenient, since I was hoping we could meet face-to-face sometime in the next few days. I want to do you the respect of asking for your daughter’s hand in person.”
More silence. More strange sounds. Plus some gasping.
I don’t think I’m particularly good for his health.
“Not that she needs your permission, obviously, but I’m old-fashioned. And perhaps we can also come to some agreement about what kind of contact you’ll have with your grandchildren. To be honest, it doesn’t sound like Juliet wants anything to do with you, but maybe I could convince her to let me send along a picture of our kids every once in a while. I can’t promise anything, though, so don’t hold me to it.”
A loud thud comes over the line, followed by a wheeze.
“How does Tuesday at ten in the morning sound? I’ll come alone.” I chuckle. “I’ll have to, considering I’ll be parachuting onto the deck of your megayacht.”
I hear a weak gurgling and take that as an affirmation. “Great. See you then.”
Just to twist the knife a little deeper, I add solemnly, “Dad.”
I hang up, feeling pleased with myself. I think that went rather well.
Then, after wrestling with my conscience for a while, I sit down to write a letter.
