I've had many names, all have their tales to tell. Well, most.

Brennan.

My mothers name, brought to America from the Emerald Isle. I've got a nostalgic, emotional bond with this name, though it triggers memories of a time I was feeling deep animosity and bitter hate. 

The young woman stood outside The White Cat bar in Chicago. It was closed now, or at least abandoned. Broken windows and a burnt out doorway, it overlooked several overturned barrels and empty crates in the gutter. Small, vague impressions in the brickwork suggested gunfire and the sign was worn, aging. 

Throughout the years of my childhood I was supporting my mother, managing the importation of high quality Irish Single Malt, into Philadelphia. My father must have been famous for his whiskey, and had a taste for it himself. He would take a bottle out to LA to retreat from the burden of office and was able to walk relatively unknown, basking in the west coast sun from the sanctuary that was West Cat Tavern.

Back in New York and Detroit, he would sell the stuff by the crate, though it all started here. He made his bones selling that stuff. In the early days, the entire operation was administered by my mother and I. I would use the skills I learned at school to manage the numbers, while my mother overlooked the deliveries and shipments. 

But that's all I ever did. My father would ensure that I had nothing to do with his business, with the dark and dangerous life he lead. To make certain of that, he had me married off to a man he knew, some Italian who wanted to work with my father. He never had any intention of letting him do that, he saw a suitor for me, to keep me in check and nothing more, for him, or me. 

His name was Tommy DeLuca.

She walked among the broken glass and disturbed furniture, the revelry that must have occurred there still echoing from the walls. She approached the bar and lifted a broken bottle of whiskey, his whiskey. A coin fell from inside it, and she sighed softly.

I was married and became Tammy DeLuca, wife to a young, bold Italian. Tommy was a prick, he never cared for me. He wanted the life my father had. He couldn't though, my father had him on a tight leash, he was bound by a thousand threats of pain and misery, should anything happen to me. So now I had a second man in my life who made all my decisions for me. Tommy would spend his nights testing my fathers connections, loitering on street corners with the local thugs, a pantomime of the life he wanted to live, there to send a message to my father.

Christian would often send one back though, and Tommy often arrived home with a face you'd think fought a locomotive. He would curse my father, curse me, destroy our home. A wild rage fueled by depression and drink.

She dropped the bottle and what remained of it shattered on the wooden floor.

Then one day, my father died.

The business came to a halt, my mother had already passed and friends and family scattered. They sent me his things, including some notes he made on the day he died. I never knew how to feel about it, but I didn't have time. Tommy saw his opportunity and took it. I was dragged around the country as he chased his dream of being a gangster. Money, power, fame, he wanted it all. I was away from home for years, loyally supporting him, as he was all I had left. Tommy never got far though, he ended up shooting himself in the face one night while pissed up and feeling sorry for himself.

As for me, I wandered the streets of Detroit, the last place my family had any connections, eventually finding Miss Logan. She was wonderful, a true woman of honour. We saw in many nights and worked through an initially abrasive relationship. It wasn't long before she discovered my past, and things began to look up. Though, she soon was taken, too. The last of my fathers contacts, the last that knew him for what he is, what his name truly meant. 

She left the White Cat, looking up and down the streets of Chicago, the streets where Christian made his name. She kicks a coin across the sidewalk and it clinks into the road.

I've had many names, though this one still has a tale to tell.

Looking back over the history of my family I now know who I am, what I'm supposed to be. The life I wanted, that my father tried to keep me from, is a life which comes with the name I despised when growing up, a name that I associated with hate and anguish.

It's now a name that I take to the grave, a name I'm proud to have been born destined to wield, and the responsibility it holds.