Chapter 28
28
C ALLAN
Calm, I watch her disappear in the foyer before a mask of ice slides over my face.
I zip my phone to my ear and spin around like bitten by a snake, quickly heading back.
Back to where they’d almost killed her before I got to her.
“Tell me,” I say, my teeth grinding.
“Two are down,” my man says at the other end of the line. “And two escaped. The place is clean.”
“Thanks.”
I end the call and tap another number.
“What the hell was that?” I ask Carlos, the man in charge of keeping everyone alive, myself included.
“We’ve gotten played.”
“Obviously. Who were those people?”
“Friends of some friends of your illusive friend.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They knew we were watching the building. They also knew we weren’t there because of the neighbor and the people she kept company with. They had men at the building as if waiting for the girl. They either followed her in Manhattan as we did or covered a bigger area on her street. Or they simply put a tracking device on her. Either way, they made their move and sent a message.” He sighs. “That’s not even the biggest problem,” he continues. “They want to hurt her to hurt you, which pretty much gives it away.”
“Yes, it fucking does…” I say, sunk in thought, my voice trailing off. “All right,” I add in a different voice. “You know what to do. I’ll have her with me tonight. Check her place for listening devices and surveillance equipment. I’ll take care of the rest.”
I end the call and pivot to check the street.
Things look normal.
There’s not the slightest sign of unusual activity.
Muffled noise comes from behind the windows where people celebrate.
A cab crawls down the street and stops short of her building. I watch a pair climbing out, crossing the street, and entering a different building.
Nothing strange is going on.
And yet, only minutes ago, four men, four––the thought makes my fists tighten––chased her out of the park.
Yeah, she had heard that right.They wanted to kill her.I can almost see the headline on TV.
‘Young woman fished out of the water under the Brooklyn Bridge on New Year’s Eve,’ or wherever. ‘Foul play suspected. The police are opening an investigation.’
Right.
This is them.
The people who killed my parents.
But that is an old story. And we’ve taken care of it. I thought we had.What the hell is going on?
I need to call Beverly.
No. This is above her pay grade.
I tip my gaze up, check Mackenzie’s windows, and notice some movement in her dimly lit apartment.
Carmen’s windows are dark.
Without the slightest hesitation, I shift my eyes to my phone and dial a phone number I put in from memory.
The other end of the phone line rings quite a few times before someone answers the call.
A gruff voice. An old voice.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Callan?” the man replies. “Long time, no talk.”
He talks slowly with a hint of humor in his voice, and I begin to wonder if age and physical ailments have caught up with him.
“How are you?” I ask.
Hudson takes his time.
“I’ve been better, but I don’t expect my health to be on your mind tonight,” he says with warmth in his voice.
“Indeed, it’s not,” I confess. “I wouldn’t have called––”
“Get to the point, son,” he cuts me off.
I take in a long breath, not deterred by his abrupt style.
Hudson Mayer was my father's closest friend and advisor up until he miraculously survived the bloodshed.
It took us some time to clear him of any suspicion of betrayal.
He had been a treasure chest of secrets, and of course, we suspected he’d been part of the plot to kill my family.
Time and some hard, cold facts we discovered later cleared his name and also compelled him to give up on a life of crime.
He didn’t want to have anything to do with it anymore, and I couldn’t blame him.
We wanted the same thing, but unlike him, we didn’t have that choice, so we were stuck. To him, it was a no-brainer.
He retired in Costa Rica, and for the most part, we’ve respected our agreement to never get in touch.
“The past has paid us a visit tonight…” I say, looking up at Mackenzie’s apartment. “They almost killed one of my own.”
His silence is deafening.
“Are you back home, by any chance?” I ask.
His response comes quickly.
“You know where I am.”
“Fine…” I say dryly. “I’ll be on a plane the first thing in the morning.”
We end the call without another word before I shove my phone into my pocket and inch closer to a dark nook from where I can watch the entrance to her building.
MACKENZIE
He walks out of the dark just as I set foot on the sidewalk and look up and down the street.
The air is imbued with the scent of winter and floral notes from my perfume.
He doesn’t move, and that’s my cue.
Walking carefully so I don’t land on my butt, I navigate the icy pavement, heading his way.
The closer I get, the more telling his expression becomes as he clearly hasn’t expected this––a woman who truly wanted to celebrate this festive time of the year with him. A glint of satisfaction beams in his eyes as he takes inventory of my clothes.
My short coat is open, and the plunging neckline of my jacket reveals my neck and the top of my chest.
He stretches his hand out to meet mine, and once we connect, he pulls me into him and kisses my lips.
“I thought you’d be changing at my place,” he murmurs against my temple.
“I wanted to surprise you,” I reply, looking at him. “Is that bad?”
“No,” he says, smiling and dragging his eyes and fingers down my neck. “You look beautiful,” he murmurs, lifting his gaze to my face.
He rubs my cheek with his thumb before placing a kiss on my lips.
“What would you like to eat tonight?”
“Um… What are my options?” I ask with a grin, the darkest memories of this day pushed to the back of my mind.
“Italian. French. Irish. American?”
“Anything will do.”
“All right. Give me one second, and we’ll be on our way.”
He retrieves his phone from his pocket, calls the restaurant, and places the order.
Shrimp Cocktail, Spinach Salad with grilled feta and vinaigrette, Fillet Mignon with sautéed wild mushrooms, Collard Greens, mashed potatoes, caramel flan, and Champagne.
I’m hungry, and this is by far the best New Year’s Eve menu I could’ve come up with, especially considering that I was planning to spend the evening alone, feasting on whatever leftovers I have in the fridge––cheese, cold cuts, and olives––before digging some cookies out from the cupboard.
“It’s good?” he asks, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“It’s perfect,” I say, grinning and looping my arm through his.
Hand clutched together, we walk to the end of the street, where he signals to a car that smoothly pulls up in front of us.
The driver knows him and rushes to open the door for us before greeting Callan.
The car is unmarked, and it’s not a cab.
No words are exchanged.
“Your driver?” I ask quietly before the man claims his seat behind the wheel.
“Yup,” Callan says softly.
His hand still holds mine as our ride glides away, and a beautiful view unfolds in front of our eyes.
For sure, we’re not going to Long Island.
Manhattan looks like a beehive of activity, with cars moving across the bridge and pouring into the city and lights flickering along the streets.
It’s a magical world, and for a few long minutes, I can’t take my eyes away from it.
I shift my eyes to him, seeking an elaborate answer, but his gaze is disconnected from mine, his mind traveling away from me.
He looks at the view with forgiving acceptance and implied detachment as if he’s lost something to that world.
In the end, he seems to have adjusted his expectations and accepted that hard truth that, now inherently, is sharing with me.
His eyes reflect the story of a past life I know nothing about.
He’s obviously acquainted with the city.
And honestly, I see him living here. As beautiful as the house in Long Island is, I can tell it’s not his home.
He even confessed to that in a way.
But something about this view also triggers him, and no matter how much I squeeze his hand, trying to comfort him, my gesture barely registers with him.
We enter the city and, soon after, head to the East Side, sliding past places filled with people enjoying the New Year’s celebration.
Moments later, we stop in front of a historical building with a neat appearance and a doorman.
The man holding the door for us greets him the second we climb out.
“Good evening, sir,” he says before we move past him.
His smile is friendly and warm, and later, he goes to the car and chats with the driver.
I look at Callan, who leads me to a private elevator.
The interior of the building is well-kept, but nothing has prepared me for what I’m about to see next.
We walk into the elevator and smoothly ascend, the short ride bringing us to the opulent entrance of a penthouse.
“This is me,” he says quietly and somewhat absent, thinking about something as we enter the large room in front of us.
I take a step in and turn to stone, a timid smile lifting the corners of my lips.
“What…?”
I doubt he’s heard me as he walks in front of me without waiting for me to snap out of my genuine disbelief.
I almost suspect we’re visiting a friend’s place.
He’s not home and has left the key for us.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve already figured out Callan is a man of means––money is not an issue for him––and visiting his family’s mansion sealed the idea that he is a wealthy man.
But even so, there’s a long road from the man wearing red Santa pants and sliding onto my balcony and the confident host walking across a Neo–French Classic style place featuring a vast room at the entrance that could easily accommodate a large event.
Soaring ceilings, tall windows overlooking Central Park, wood-burning fireplaces, and a modern bedroom with a king-size bed and French doors opening onto a sizable terrace take my breath away.
His footsteps are already trailing the marble floors leading to an oversized bathroom with an open arched entrance and a walk-in shower the size of my apartment.
In a city where every bit of space is utilized judiciously, this place looks like a lavish splurge.
I’m still unsure whether this is his penthouse, the place he occasionally lives in, or someone else’s space, as I said before, and we are mere trespassers––a man eager to impress a woman.
Honestly, the place looks like it’s been staged for a photo spread in a real estate magazine.
Nothing is out of place, and to say this is minimalism at its best would be a big understatement.
I counted a long table in the formal dining room, flowing drapes, a few armchairs, sofas, and a couple of lounging chairs on the terrace.
And that’s about it.
There is a chest drawer in the bedroom and also a working fireplace.
I’m impressed. And I'm also worried that the actual owner might show up and kick us out.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
His voice rings behind me, startling me.
“Oh… I’m sorry,” I apologize for my reaction.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his chin tilted down, a soft smile on his lips as he takes in my baffled expression.
He tugs at his cufflinks while I shift my focus to his clothes for a change.
He traded his regular clothes for a suit and a simple yet elegant white dress shirt.
His diamond cufflinks sparkle against his crisp shirt.
Content with how they look, he tugs at the sleeves and makes sure his jacket sits right.
“Yeah… Yes. I’m fine,” I say in a wavering voice.
“Let me get that for you,” he replies, pointing to my coat.
I hand him my coat, and he exits the bedroom while I walk to the patio doors.
Speaking about a real terrace.
Skyscrapers tear into the sky, supple and daring.
His voice echoes inside the room, and I shift my eyes in that direction. Talking on the phone, he walks across and exits the bedroom before entering the main room.
Moments later, I hear more voices, and curious, I walk in.
“Where would you like to eat?” Callan asks when I enter the dining room.
I notice a couple of people pushing a food cart behind him.
That’s a tough question.
“Wherever you think it’s best.”
He moves his focus to them.
“You can set the table over here,” he says.
“I don’t want to eat that far from you,” I comment, envisioning ourselves at the opposite ends of the long table.
“No problem,” he says, smiling before giving them new directions.
They set the table while Callan answers his phone. He excuses himself before taking the call.
“I’ll be right with you,” he says to me, his hand cupping his phone.
“Sure. I’m in the bedroom,” I reply and make myself scarce.
He’s quite busy at this time of night, and I should be, too. Now that Kayla is still in town, I should check with her.
I stroll into the bedroom, reach inside my bag, and take my phone out when I realize my battery died.
“Shit,” I murmur.
I forgot to charge it.
With so much going on, am I surprised?No, I’m not.
I tuck my phone back into my bag and walk back to the terrace. It’s cold and beautiful, which makes me think this is the last spot I thought I’d be tonight.
Paced footsteps inch closer, and an arm wraps around my shoulders while warm lips leave a kiss on the top of my head.
“How do you like it?” he asks quietly and casually as if asking about how I like my coffee in the morning.
“It’s astonishing. I used to work not far from here, but I could never imagine that these beautiful houses were so spacious inside.”
My answer carries a whiff of na?veté, to which he smiles in response.
“What?” I say, grinning. “You think I’m so easily impressionable?”
“Aren’t you?” he jokes.
“I’m not. Usually…” I add with humor. “Seriously now. Is this truly your place?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
My eyes search his.
“It doesn’t seem like you’re spending a lot of time here,” I comment.
“What makes you say that?”
I softly shrug a shoulder.
“I don’t see you living here. It’s spooky.”
He laughs.
“Spooky?”
“Yeah.”
He narrows his eyes and studies me through his lashes.
“You don’t like it?”
“I love it. It’s great. But it’s not homey.”
“Is your place homey?”
“Yes.”
“Even with me walking on the railing of your balcony?”
We both laugh, remembering that particular moment.
He tilts his head toward the inside of the house.
“What about we eat and talk more?”