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grab the world by the horns. A far cry from this retiring wallflower who sat hiding herself from the world in a leather armchair in a room full of mobsters.
    Careful not to get myself caught staring, I let my eyes flicker over toward the bar and saw where Conor stood with a half-empty pint of Guinness in his hand, and my father's arm still draped possessively across his lower back.
    Even now, so many years later, Conor was still the same wary street-fighter I'd first met – he had his weight on the balls of his feet, lithe and ready to make a quick escape at any moment. And he didn't like the fact that my father was touching him. Not one little bit.
    I watched as he brought his drink up to his mouth, his thick forearm bulging, and drained the rest of his pint, and kept staring, spellbound as he handed the glass to a nervous-looking bartender. He looked older than I remembered, a perhaps unsurprising revelation, but also harder – a few more pounds of lean muscle, a couple more inches on his taut biceps, and a short, thick beard on his chin.
    The biggest change, though, wasn't anything physical – it was barely even detectable. I was probably the only person in the room, or perhaps even the state, who would or even could have noticed it. Conor carried himself more seriously now – with his shoulders pulled back, his gaze held firmly in front of him, and a calm sense of undisputed authority.
    You’re a long way from from the funny kid from the streets of Dublin I fell in love with.
    Then again, I guess, so am I.
    I kept my eyes on him, couldn't tear them away. I watched as he dismissively shook my father's hand off his back like another man might flick a speck of dust from his jacket. I saw the surprised, cold anger on my father's face, and I watched as Conor sauntered toward the restroom without so much as a word of farewell. As he passed the bar I thought I saw him stop and grab something out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn't be sure.
    Especially since my father was now striding toward me…
    The man was as predictable as a child. Except at least kids had some sort of excuse. He had no control over his emotions – the moment something angered him, he lashed out. Except for him, unlike a child, lashing out didn't mean resorting to tears, it meant hurting someone.
    Hurting me .
    Oh Conor, couldn't you have just humored him, for me?
    "You're just going to sit there?" He sneered. My head dropped half an inch as another of his verbal assaults washed over me.
    "I'm sorry, father," I said, hauling myself to my feet. I'd long ago learned that the best way to mollify him was to submit entirely. Fighting didn't help – it just made things worse. "Did you want me to meet someone?"
    "Why the hell would I want anyone to meet you?" He snarled, his narrow lips curling with anger. "Look at you – you're pathetic!"
    "Yes, father –"
    He hissed softly, venomously, careful as always to abuse me in secret. It wouldn't do, after all if the great and the good and the bad and the worst of Alexandria saw him cussing out his own family. "– sitting here with your head in your hands. How do you think you cowering here makes me look?"
    Conor's lilting, dulcet tones appeared from nowhere. "Everything alright with youse?"
    My father turned on his heel, his face puce red with rage as he searched for the offending voice, for the person who dared interrupt him in his own domain. I cringed, waiting for the inevitable explosion of rage, a volcanic eruption which I'd experienced many dozens, if not hundreds, of times before. Even my father's own men hung warily a few paces behind him, skulking out of sight in an attempt to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
    It didn't come. If anything, my father blinked, like a long-serving alpha male of a lion pack coming face to face with a true rival for the first time. Any man might have felt the same – after all, Conor towered so far over the squat mobster that he could have been mistaken for a