The moment Ricky had gotten home, he had wrecked his gaff. Furniture was broken, glasses smashed, and he’d broken more plates than at a Greek wedding. It looked like a bomb went off and that bomb’s name was Ricky Moore. It wasn’t grief that moved him, it was anger, white hot anger burning inside him. That Xavier Moore had died and his legacy would live on, and nobody would be any wiser that he was simply a power-hungry prick.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, Ricky slugged straight from the bottle of Jack and stared at the baggie of pills. It was strange, to be void of even a smidge of magic. It was just Ricky and Ricky alone, but he thought that might not be such a good thing.

Taking a white tablet from the bag, he chucked it inside his mouth before slugging the Jack again. The high was instant and he felt as if he could walk on air. Numbness spread out across his limbs and he rested his head down on the table.

Ricky wasn’t sure how long he had drifted off for, a loud banging on his front door waking him up. Groaning as his muscles protested, he managed to stand without swaying too much, afraid he would keel over again. He swung the door open and came face to face with Fionn.

“Jaysus, Fionn. It’s the middle of the night. Come back tomorrow.”

“Sadie’s dead, Ricky.”

Ricky snorted. “Means fuck all to me, mate. My da’s dead as well.”

“Watch your mouth, Ricky.” The ginger-haired cat snarled at him, glancing down at someone Ricky had glossed over when he opened the door.

Shoulder-length black hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, Ricky’s heart stopped the moment the saddest moss-coloured eyes met his. He knew what the next words out of Fionn’s mouth would be before the cat spoke, and Ricky felt like he was drowning.

“Ricky, this is Zachary. Zach-attack, this is Ricky.”

The little boy, who must be all of five years old, pushed his glasses up his nose as Fionn continued to speak.

“Zach, please say hello to your dad.”