Chapter Seven-Remy
It’s been a week since I saw her.
Seven days since the Callahan family dinner party in Verona.
And still, it circles my brain like a hawk over a carcass—unrelenting, waiting to strike.
Ono, Liam, Sammy—hell, even Connor himself—they all spent the night wrapped around their wives’ fingers like it was instinct.
Like that kind of loyalty was woven into the very fabric of who they are.
Old guard, new generation—it didn’t matter.
The Volkovs and Furys treat their women like they’re sacred.
Like they’d burn down the world just to make them smile.
And then there’s me.
Standing in a corner like some outsider with a predator’s stare and a dick that wouldn’t quit.
Because every time Andrea Ramirez so much as laughed, I forgot how to fucking breathe.
Junior clocked it.
So did Balor.
They both cornered me separately that night—one subtle, the other not.
Balor gave me the soft-voiced genius hacker routine, all grace and veiled threat.
Junior? He just said, “You break her heart, and I’ll break your legs. I don’t say that as a Viper or your friend giving you a warning. I say that as her cousin, you fucking prick.”
I expect nothing less from the man I’ve known since we were kicking the shit out of each other on the kiddie soccer field when we were four.
No, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t done a damn thing.
Just looked too long.
Let too much show.
But fuck, man.
Can you blame me?
She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.
Yeah, Andrea’s beautiful—soft curves, wild eyes, full mouth that makes my brain go static—but it’s more than that. It’s her.
The way she talks. Sharp. Smart. Unapologetically herself.
She called her brother out on his Giants delusions over dinner, quoting fucking stats like she belonged on ESPN.
When she handed Sammy his ass on a silver platter over the Daniel Jones debate, I nearly proposed right then and there.
And later—God.
Out in the yard, down on her knees with a pack of wild toddlers crawling all over her and a camera strap swung over her shoulder? She looked perfect.
Andy didn’t flinch at the noise or the mess.
She got right down in the wet grass with the whole lot of messy toddlers and preschoolers, and she built mud pies.
Didn’t care about her fancy clothes or shoes.
Or that camera that had to cost thousands.
She just laughed and played and took pictures.
Got good and dirty.
She shrieked like a lunatic when one of them smeared sludge in her hair, gasping for air as she tickled in retaliation and grinned like she was made for it.
I couldn’t stop picturing her like that—with my little Callie.
Andrea. Standing there in soft pajamas, sleepy and gorgeous, barefoot in my kitchen, telling my daughter princesses don’t drink coffee but they do drink milk. And Callie? Clinging to her like she’s already claimed her as hers.
Like she knows something I don’t.
My kid.
Well. Technically, my sister’s kid.
But the state made it official the day Renee overdosed.
Not that it mattered—Renee had left Callie with Mom when she was barely six weeks old.
Said she couldn’t do it. Said she wasn’t cut out for the kind of love that demanded everything.
She signed the papers before she ever signed a birth certificate.
God, I miss her.
Renee.
She was born three minutes and fourteen seconds after me, and from the second she opened those bright green eyes, I felt like I was supposed to protect her.
Like maybe I was made for it.
Twins, sure—but polar opposites.
She was small, soft, full of spark and trouble. Blonde curls. A raspy little voice and a laugh that came in fits.
I was the giant with dark hair and a scowl, already over six feet by the time I hit junior year.
We shared the same eyes though—vivid emerald green.
The kind that turned heads.
The kind that looked for action and adventure around every corner.
I found mine by serving our country. Renee? She found hers at the bottom of a pill bottle.
But she was always a little too wild. A little too reckless.
Callie has the same eyes as us.
It’s eerie sometimes.
Beautiful and painful all at once.
Like looking at Renee and the best parts of me, all wrapped into one tiny, messy, pink-glittered package.
I will do anything to protect Callie. To make sure her future is better than Renee’s or even mine.
As an adult, I chose a dangerous life.
There’s blood on my hands and battle scars under my skin.
I wasn’t there for my sister when I should have been.
Yeah, I sent money when our parents cut her off. I paid her rent. But that wasn’t enough.
I hate myself for failing her. But I don’t dwell on it. I can’t.
Time marches on and Callie deserves more from me.
Yeah, Mom's been raising Callie these past few years in a quiet house outside Roseland while I get my shit in order.
Suburbs. Good school system. Close enough that I can visit on weekends, holidays, random Tuesdays when I can’t stand being away.
Callie’s almost three now.
Fine baby hair. Bright green eyes that seem to know everything.
She still lives with Mom full-time, but she calls me every single night and insists I hold her pinky whenever I’m near.
Like it’s some kind of magic talisman.
It is magic.
The kind you don’t fuck around with.
And now Mom’s talking retirement. Florida, beaches, bingo nights.
“It’s time,” she said. “She’s yours now, Remy.”
I’m trying.
Hell, I’m trying so hard.
I want to be the man who doesn’t just keep Callie safe, but makes her proud.
The kind of father figure who shows up for school recitals, who coaches her soccer team, who teaches her how to fight and how to forgive.
I want to be the one who gives her stability. Who teaches her how to ride a bike and tie her shoes and scare the living shit out of her future boyfriends.
I’ve been looking at houses in Roseland.
Nice ones. Big yard. Good bones. Extra bedrooms.
That’s the plan.
Correction: That was the plan.
Until Andrea Ramirez waltzed into my life all curves and sass and a smile that flipped my whole world on its head.
Because now I can’t stop thinking about her. With me. With Callie.
I can’t stop picturing her in that house I’m going to buy.
And for the first time since my sister died, the future I imagined is shifting.
Getting bigger.
Messier.
Better.
Maybe.
If I don’t screw it up.
Ever since she smiled at me with soft eyes and pirate’s smile, I started thinking about forever like it was something I could actually have.
“Yo, Remy.”
Connor’s voice yanks me out of my head, grounding me. He’s standing at his office door, brow raised.
Serious. Focused.
I push everything down—lust, hope, guilt. All of it. Lock it behind my ribs like I was trained to.
“Yeah,” I say, walking in, keeping my tone even. “What’s up?”
He motions to the chair. I sit.
“We just got a request in. Private bodyguard detail.”
My brows lift. “One guard or a team?”
“Just one.”
“Okay. You want me to assign someone?”
He gives me a look.
The kind that says I already know you’re going to say yes, but I’m gonna drag it out anyway because I’m your boss and also a smug bastard.
“Thought you’d want this one yourself,” he says, then slides a slip of paper across the desk.
I reach for it. He yanks it back with a shit-eating grin.
“Are you sure about this?”
I grit my teeth. “Give me the paper, Connor.”
“You’re positive? You’re not gonna screw it up? Get handsy? Go full caveman in a ballroom, maybe start growling if another man talks to her?”
I stare.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He sighs, sobers.
“It’s Andrea,” he finally says. “She’s got some kind of gala tonight. Requested an armed escort.”
She requested me.
Whether she knows it or not.
And just like that, everything in me tightens. Snaps into place.
I hold out my hand.
“Give me the address.”
He passes the paper over.
My fingers close around it like it’s a fucking lifeline.
Because I’ve spent a week fantasizing about being with her.
Now? I get to do it for real.