Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
CHICAGO
J onathan paced inside Callen’s study. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn shut, dimming the room to a soft glow. The ambient lighting created long, dancing shadows on the cool, polished marble floor. Despite his best efforts to ignore it, Jonathan’s gaze kept returning to the hideous Chesterfield sofa upholstered in a garish crimson-red velvet. People who came from money always felt like they could improve an already good thing.
He attempted to mitigate his annoyance by pouring himself a drink.
Just a little while longer.
It was a sentiment he repeated regularly.
“Jonathan,” Callen said as he entered the room. “Apologies. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”
Jonathan downed the scotch in one gulp, pouring himself another.
“Tardy and incompetent, an excellent combination,” Jonathan said.
“Watch your tone,” Callen said, moving into the room.
Jonathan, dropping all semblance of decorum, threw his glass, shattering it into a million pieces on the opposite wall.
Two figures appeared, but Callen waved them away.
“I had one request, Callen, ONE!” Jonathan held up a singular finger, in case the imbecile missed his point. “I feed you information, and you stay OUT of my affairs.”
Callen’s gaze flickered towards the broken glass, looking as if the jagged shards were only a minor annoyance. He said nothing and instead moved to the bar. Retrieving two glasses, he walked to a shelf and moved two books to the side, revealing a hidden bottle.
“Macallan 1926, bought it at auction for two million. It’s regarded by many as the most expensive scotch in the world.”
Stunned, Jonathan watched as Callen poured each of them a sizable glass.
When they held the amber liquid, Callen clinked his glass to Jonathan’s. “To our victory.”
“Victory?” Jonathan said.
Callen was calm and almost jovial, and this version of him threw Jonathan off.
The two of them had been friends since childhood. If things were different, Jonathan would have been Callen’s Right Hand, but politics and race got in the way. Jonathan was Russian, and his hand belonged to the Russians. Since Ivan Federov’s death, the two had rekindled their friendship. Finding a common goal: power. In that, they both wanted more of it.
Jonathan had worked for months to get his son a spot in Adria’s stable, and now he was being sidelined because Callen had gone rogue.
Callen shook a finger at him before taking a sip of his drink. The ice rattling in the glass.
“I think it’s time we thought bigger than skimming the books and petty schemes,” Callen said .
Jonathan’s anger returned. “You are getting in the way of my plans with Adria.”
“Oh, forget about her for a second,” Callen said with a dismissive wave.
“I CAN’T,” Jonathan exclaimed into the room. He was acting like a petulant child, but every fiber of his being felt it.
He told himself that he would drop the Triune’s letter and leave. However, upon arriving in North Carolina, he found it impossible to leave without seeing her. Even though they had agreed to keep their distance, Jonathan couldn’t help but feel a strong pull towards her.
And when he saw her eyes, her hair, and her skin, what was once a small flame had turned into a raging fire. Making him certain, he needed her by his side.
Callen put his hands up. “All right, all right, I understand.”
“What if my plan suited both of our needs and then some?” Callen said.
“How?” Jonathan replied.
Callen finished his drink and poured himself another. Jonathan watched, shocked, as Callen downed a second and started on a third.
“My son is a real disappointment. This deal with Adria has brought out a truth I simply cannot ignore,” Callen said.
Jonathan poured himself another round of expensive scotch and sat on the heinous opulent red couch.
“Bryson was never meant to lead. Viola and Luca died in that crash. My wife. My son. And Bryson—by some miracle, or curse—walked away from the wreckage without a scratch.”
His mouth tightened, jaw ticking. “Bryson, he never does as told, and his only sense of loyalty is to his two lackeys. The three of them do what they want, and about the only thing you could count on them for is complete chaos.”
“So, you’re starting to see what’s really there, so what?” Jonathan asked.
“That’s just it. Kaydon is the nearest to level-headed between them. Seth is a stick of dynamite that can light his own fuse whenever he wants. The wake of destruction…” Callen trailed off, taking another sip of his drink. “I cannot trust him with the family business. Or the family name. His loyalty lies with them, not with me,” he said bitterly.
“The Triune will never sanction his dismissal, especially after Luca and Elena…” Jonathan said.
“Well, let’s just say the boy can’t die on my watch.”
The glass almost slipped from Jonathan’s hand. He looked down as roughly five hundred grand of liquid splashed precariously in his grip. What was Callen saying?
“You actually want to kill Bryson?”
No one was around to hear it, but Jonathan whispered it into the room.
It was treason.
“The boy practically begged to off himself, when he was in here last,” Callen said, taking a drink. “Pity, I needed Adria’s land, otherwise I would have taken him up on his offer.”
A self-satisfied grin grew on Callen’s face.
“But the alternative is so much sweeter. If he dies on the Federov’s watch, I’ll be able to take out two problems at once.”
Jonathan shook his head. “I can’t walk in there and kill them, people will know. The Triune will figure it out.”
“Don’t be a moron. We don’t kill them there. We get her to sell them to us and then kill them.”
Jonathan stared at his childhood friend, not sure what he was getting out of this. He wasn’t even sure that this was making any sense. Perhaps the hundred-year-old scotch was affecting them.
“I can see you are not following,” Callen said. “We arrange a false buyer for Adria to sell to. When Bryson doesn’t come back in a year, the fallout will be on her. It will be our word against hers.”
Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, but Callen continued, “You, of course, will step up and ask the Triune for her pardon in exchange for her indentured servitude. Which, under threat of death, she will have no choice but to accept. It will be perfect. You could take her place at the table. Russian for a Russian.”
The alcohol was definitely affecting Jonathan, because it sounded like Callen was implying he could be one of the Nine.
“Why would they choose me?”
Callen gave him a level gaze. “Why not? You know the business better than anyone. It would come to a vote, but I, and my ally on the Triune, will support you. Plus, you already have an heir.”
“Illegitimate,” Jonathan grumbled.
Callen waved his hands. “Not for long. When you were a Right Hand, you had to keep him a secret, but as one of the Nine it would be not only acceptable but preferable.”
“Who would be the buyer? Who would we want to take the fall for something like that?” Jonathan asked, liking the last part of the plan.
“That’s the beauty of this. The person doesn’t have to be real. You tell her you have an interested party, give him a fake name and rank. When they don’t come home after their required time, the Triune will have no choice but to knock at her door. After which she won’t be able to produce the buyer, making her look even more guilty. Nothing she says will sway them. Her word against yours. ”
“I have no control over who she sells to.”
“We can ensure he is the highest bidder.”
Jonathan shook his head. He knew Adria.
“There is no guarantee?—”
“Then make it a guarantee,” Callen shouted into the room.
“If I could control her, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. She’s…”
Exquisite, beautiful, perfect.
“A cunt is what she is,” Callen spat. “What you see in her I’ll never understand, even after she blackmailed you with those ridiculous photos.”
“She needed some space,” Jonathan said.
“You are delusional,” Callen said.
Yes, Adria had insisted he stay out of her life, and she had gone to unseemly means to do so. But she was a complicated little flower, and Jonathan had plans to get her back.
“Get the Triune involved. Bend their ear. Do what you have to. Just get it done,” Callen said, settling the matter.