19. Rowan
19
ROWAN
“A re you ready for this, son?”
I look at my father from where I’m standing across from him in his office, and I nod, despite the fact that I’m not at all sure that it’s the truth. Am I ready to meet with the other heads of the families, whom I know for a fact don’t believe that I’m capable of filling my father’s shoes?
Truthfully, I don’t think I am. I think, in fact, that they might be right about me. The weeks that have passed since I’ve come home have done nothing to make me feel better about my future, or to make me feel more capable of taking on the responsibility that’s being passed down to me.
In fact, I’ve started to think it might have been better if I hadn’t come home at all, and just let the Gallagher name die. That maybe I should have accepted that I didn’t deserve the money I lived off of and stood to inherit, and accepted that I’d have to find my way in a more mediocre life. After all, what have I really done since I’ve come home?
Nothing much, other than contributing to ending my now-wife’s ballet career through my obsession with her, and somehow stumbling into an arrangement that will end with us having a child that I’ll have no idea what to do with.
An arrangement that she’ll walk away from in the end, leaving me with nothing.
My father snaps his fingers with a vigor that would fool anyone into thinking that he isn’t actually riddled with cancer. “Pay attention, son,” he snaps, and I blink back into focus, giving him a quick nod.
“Sorry.” I shift on my feet, meeting his gaze. “Just thinking about how the meeting might go.”
It’s a lie, of course—I was thinking about Genevieve, just like I am most hours of the day. But I do my best to refocus, because today’s meeting is important. Everything I’ve done and sacrificed and arranged so far to fulfill my father’s wishes could all be for nothing if Dimitri and Antony refuse to accept me as the future boss of the Irish mafia. And while it would be highly unusual for them to do so, it’s not impossible.
“You should be,” my father says tightly. “This is your chance to make an impression, son. Don’t fuck it up.”
I press my lips together, biting back the first five retorts that come to mind. “I won’t,” is all I say, when what I really want to say is if you were so sure I’d fuck it up, you should have left me in Ireland.
Of course, then I would never have met Genevieve. And maybe she’d still be dancing, still gliding across that stage like a work of art. One thing’s for sure, I wouldn’t have learned what it felt like to feel as if, for the first time in my life, there’s something that I want more than a simple fuck.
Life was easier when that was all I wanted.
“Let’s go.” My father pushes himself up from behind the desk with some difficulty. He’s still able to walk and move around on his own, though the treatments have made him tired, and the doctors aren’t sure how much longer that will last. For now, though, he’s maintained that much independence. I have a feeling that once that goes, the rest of him won’t be far behind. My father was never someone who wanted to be coddled or cared for. He won’t take to it well now that he’s ill.
I nod, following behind him as we head out to the blacked-out SUV that’s waiting in the driveway. My thoughts are still lingering on Genevieve—on her appointment tomorrow, on what the doctor will say, on what the results will be once they’ve taken her cast off and looked at her ankle. She’s firm that her career as a prima is over, but I can’t help but hope that maybe she’s wrong. That maybe it wasn’t that bad, and she can have all she used to and more.
Of course, I know nothing about ballet, so I’m probably wrong.
“This is a huge responsibility you’re taking on,” my father says, turning to look at me. “All the businesses we’ve talked about, the deals I’ve gone over with you… all of it will be yours to manage and run as you see fit. That’s no small thing, son.”
“I know.” My jaw tightens. “I handled some of your business in Ireland. I’m not completely unaware of?—”
He scoffs. “Ireland. A bunch of falling-down old estates and a few low-level businesses to deal with. It’s nothing compared to what I’ve built here. What I built here for you .”
“I wouldn’t call arms dealing with motorcycle clubs low-level,” I mutter. “There were some close calls over the years.”
My father snorts, shaking his head. “Maybe I was wrong to believe you could handle it. Yashkov and Gallo certainly think so.”
“I’m sure they do.” I can feel my teeth grinding together from how hard they’re clenched. I could walk away, I think, looking out of the window at the scenery passing by. Just leave it all behind and fuck off completely. What if I did that? What if I just gave it all up?
It’s not just the feeling that I’m not built to be poor that’s keeping me tied to this any longer, though. If I walk away, I walk away from Genevieve, too. She’s not going to follow me into poverty and probable crime. She’s not going to follow me at all. We had an agreement, and all I’m ever going to get with her is what is allowed within the bounds of that contract.
If I could just shake my obsession with her, maybe I could walk away. But I already know how that line of thinking ends.
It always ends with me back at her door, wanting her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
The meeting is being held at Antony Gallo’s mansion. A security guard opens the door of the SUV as it parks in front of the massive white-stone mansion, and I step out first, pausing to see if my father needs help getting out. He’d likely slap me for trying, but I can’t exactly let him fall on the gravel. Our strained past aside, he’s still my father.
He makes it out of the SUV without issue, walking haltingly toward the front door. I keep pace with him, just in time to see a black-uniformed man open the door and gesture us in. Shortly after, we’re being escorted to a large room located in the east wing of the mansion that’s set up much like a conference room. At the head of the table is Antony Gallo, looking portly and aged far more than I remember him, and to his left is Dimitri Yashkov. Neither of them looks to be in particularly good moods.
“Padraigh. Rowan.” Antony greets us, gesturing to the seats to his right. “Come. Sit.”
“Good to see you, Paidraigh,” Dimitri says. “I’m sorry about your health.”
“Not as sorry as I am, I imagine,” my father says with a wet, coughing laugh. “But there’s no need to talk about what can’t be undone. What we need to discuss is what comes next.”
“Yes.” Antony looks in my direction. “Your son’s inheritance.”
“Indeed.” My father looks at me, then back at the other two men. “I know there have been concerns?—”
Dimitri drums his fingers against the table. “Concerns. Yes. You’ve built an empire, Padraigh. The alliance among the three of us has served us well—financially and in terms of our strength. There are no other fledgling families warring for territory with us, no other gangs or businesses encroaching. With the Crows gone, there are no challenges to our control over the city’s underbelly. The police leave us alone. The motorcycle clubs and other gangs run our product for us. We have a hand in nearly every club in the city. But it’s a delicate balance.”
Antony nods, his gaze resting on me. “It is. The wrong business partnership, a word spoken in offense, a deal that goes against one of our interests…this triad that we’ve established is one that could be weakened. If challenges do arise—to our business, to our territory, to our families—Yashkov and I need to feel that the leader of the Irish will respond with strength and wisdom. What guarantee do we have that you can do that?”
He’s looking at me as he speaks; there’s no question that it’s to me that the challenge is issued. I hesitate a moment too long, because I’m not sure I have an answer. Not one that will satisfy. I can rattle off the details of our businesses and the importance of the major deals that we have, and which of our products are channeled through which avenues, because my father has drilled it into me relentlessly for weeks now. But this—a question about why I’m fit to lead… I’m not sure what to say.
I’m not sure that I am.
“For instance,” Antony continues, “there’s the matter of your marriage. My daughter, Estella, is still not engaged to anyone. A match could have been made between the two of you, perhaps. But instead, you married… a ballerina? One who can’t even dance any longer? What benefit does she bring to the family?—”
My composure snaps the instant he begins talking about Genevieve. My jaw clenches, and I straighten in my seat, glaring directly at him. “I don’t recall hearing that you had anything similar to say about Dimitri’s marriage,” I bite out. “If my facts are correct, he married a boutique owner. A similar marriage to someone outside the families. Someone who came with no connections and problems of her own?—”
“Don’t bring Evelyn into this,” Dimitri breaks in icily. I swivel my glare to pin him with it.
“Antony brought my wife into it first.”
“I approved of the marriage,” my father interrupts. “If there is fault, it’s mine. It was clear that my son was smitten with the girl, and with the newness of his responsibilities and the pressure there, I saw no reason to buck against his choice of bride.”
“So the poor judgment was yours.” Antony looks at my father. “Marriages matter when it comes to our children?—”
“That’s an old way of thinking,” Dimitri interrupts, clearly perturbed as well by the turn that the conversation has taken. “But I have questions about your marriage, too, Rowan.”
My jaw tightens. “Like what?”
Dimitri pins me with a cool look. “I’ve known Genevieve for some time. She’s a close friend of my wife. And she’s never struck me as the romantic type. Yet we’re meant to believe that the two of you had a whirlwind romance that resulted in a quick marriage, right after a devastating blow to her career?” His eyes narrow. “I feel that there’s something we’re all not aware of here.”
I pause, thinking carefully about what I’m going to say. “The fall was devastating,” I say finally. “We were caught up in a whirlwind romance, yes. And the marriage seemed like a good way to make the best of a bad situation.”
From the way Dimitri is looking at me, I can tell he isn’t buying it. “She was in a relationship just before—possibly even during this ‘romance’. What about that?”
I press my lips together. “I know you aren’t asking for intimate details of my relationship with my wife, or for me to share things that are better kept between us. Her former relationship is her business. She’s mine now.” The word comes out with more venom than I mean for it to, and I see Dimitri’s eyes narrow further.
“Genevieve and I are married, in the eyes of the law and God.” I look from one face to the other, between the other three men at the table. “There’s nothing that can alter that. And soon, if we’re fortunate, we’ll have a child— my heir.”
Dimitri and Antony exchange a look. “You have no experience leading a mafia,” Antony says finally, his voice harsh. “Padraigh has shared with us your responsibilities while you were in Ireland. They were… minimal.”
There’s nothing I can say to that, because he’s right. I lived my life the way I wanted to—recklessly, and without much care as to the consequences. I did the minimum needed to keep my father mollified, and threw caution to the wind the rest of the time. Now, it seems, my face is going to be rubbed in it every bloody second of the day.
“My father is giving me excellent instruction in the areas where I lack,” I reply coolly.
“This city is at peace.” Antony’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “I have no intention of letting you fuck that up, pup.”
My eyes narrow. “And I have no intention of fucking it up.”
Antony looks toward my father. “I’m working on a marriage for my daughter—the brother of the Las Vegas don, Emilio Gatti. You understand that this is a tenuous time, yes? Bringing in new blood has the potential to expose weak spots. We must all be careful during times of transition, or all that we’ve worked for can come down in an instant.”
“I understand, Gallo.” My father looks at him levelly. “My son will not fail the families.”
He says it with a certainty that I’m not sure I feel. But what can I say to that? What choice do I have but to try to live up to a standard that I’m not sure I ever wanted to meet?
The conversation shifts to other, smaller matters—talks of needing to reevaluate the contributions made to the local police and the mention of a shipment that one of the motorcycle clubs will be picking up. As the meeting winds down, my father looks at Antony.
“I wish you luck in your daughter’s marriage proceedings. New blood is a good thing. It can revitalize us.”
Antony raises one eyebrow. “Maybe new blood would have been best for your family, too.”
It’s an insult, but I can see that it’s one that my father is prepared to let slide. It’s no secret that out of the three families, the Italians are the strongest, and the Irish the weakest. That’s not to say that we don’t have a great deal of strength and wealth—compared to other, smaller families, to other gangs and clubs, we’re a force to be reckoned with. But compared to Antony…
It’s wise for my father to keep the peace. It will be wise for me to do so, too, and I have every intention of it.
So long as Antony and Dimitri keep Genevieve’s name out of their mouths.
I follow my father out of the conference room, shaking hands with the others and murmuring farewells before heading out to the waiting SUV. Once we’re inside and the car is pulling away, my father fixes me with a cold look.
“I hope you appreciate how I stood up for your marriage.” His voice is terse. “I have my own doubts about it.”
“Are you doubting my ability to make a woman fall in love with me?” The question is flippant, but what’s underneath it is not. “I assure you, Pops, we’re head over heels for each other.”
My father’s gaze narrows. “Your smart mouth will be the death of you one day, Rowan,” he bites out. “And whatever arrangement you have going on with that woman, it’s not love.”
My jaw works as I try to manage a response that won’t earn me a right hook to the jaw. “And you’d know what love looks like?” I say finally, meeting his gaze. “Because I think Ma would have something to say about that.”
“Careful, son,” my father warns, but I don’t break eye contact.
“Careful how you speak about my wife.”
Silence hangs heavy between us. A beat passes, and then another, and my father turns, looking out of the window on his side of the car. He says nothing else, and neither do I.
When we arrive back at the estate, I’ve already texted Rory to bring the car. He’s pulling in by the time I step out of the SUV, and I stride toward it without so much as a farewell to my father. I need space. I need time to breathe, to think, before I make a rash decision.
I’ve always been good at rash decisions. Now I need to be measured. Careful. All things that don’t come naturally to me.
I don’t sleep well that night. I lie awake next to Genevieve, listening to her rhythmic breathing, looking up at the ceiling of my— our —bedroom, and I imagine that space beside me empty once again. My chest tightens, and I look over at her.
I’m having a hard time remembering what it was like when she wasn’t next to me. I wanted to tell her about the meeting today, over dinner, but I didn’t, and I don’t have to think too hard to know why.
She might agree with Antony and Dimitri and even my father—that I’m not cut out for this. And while I can stomach their judgment, their disappointment, and even my own…
I’m not sure I could bear hers.