Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rowen
Walking into Calloway’s Bar & Grill, I paused to take in the warm, old-fashioned charm of the Irish pub.
Its well-worn woodwork and faded photographs on the walls gave the place a familiar, comforting feel.
I found a booth tucked away near the back, far from the main bustle and hidden from any curious onlookers.
It was the kind of spot where you could have a quiet conversation without being overheard.
Before I had time to settle in, Stacy Calloway herself approached, a welcoming smile on her face as she set a menu down in front of me. “Been a long time, Rowen,” she said, her tone friendly but direct. “What brings you here?”
“Meeting a friend for lunch.”
Stacy didn’t say anything more, simply nodding before she walked away to tend to other customers.
Calloway’s Bar & Grill was more than just a local pub—it was a family-run institution that served as a gathering place for New York’s bravest. The Calloway Clan, as they were known, took pride in serving their community and had dedicated themselves to protecting those around them.
Their commitment was forged through hardship, especially after losing nearly half their family on September 11th.
That tragic day took the lives of two of Stacy’s brothers, several cousins, and her husband, who had worked as an investment broker on the 82nd floor of Tower One.
Despite the pain, Stacy pressed on, running the bar with the same resilience that defined her family.
Her daughter, Robin Calloway, went on to become a New York City detective, while her son, Justin—known as Storm—was a member of the Soulless Sinners Motorcycle Club.
I picked up the menu, scanning the options and letting my thoughts drift for a moment when two people slid into the booth with me—one was a familiar face I had expected, but the other caught me off guard. Before I could greet them, Stacy came over, her presence commanding attention.
“Good evening, everyone. Don’t know what I did to deserve your company tonight, but as long as you stay civil, we won’t have a problem. Got me?” Stacy’s tone was firm but not unfriendly, setting clear expectations for the night.
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded quickly, wanting to reassure her.
Stacy’s demeanor softened as she turned to Maddie. “Maddie,” she said with a warm smile, “tell your momma the Fireman’s Ball is coming up, and I’m gonna need her help since Justin is still away.” Her words carried both the weight of responsibility and the warmth of community reliance.
“Can I help too?” Madigan Kelley asked eagerly. “And I know Freyja would love to help as well.”
Stacy nodded, her appreciation evident. “I’ll take all the help I can get, honey. Tell your momma to call me.” Then she glanced at me and the man sitting beside the beautiful Irish woman, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You two, behave. I mean it.”
With that, Stacy left us, hurrying away.
I narrowed my eyes at the large man across from me, unable to hide my irritation. “What are you doing here?” I grumbled, the question laced with suspicion.
Rurik Ryabkin grinned, settling comfortably into the booth, his arm draped casually behind Madigan.
“Heard you were looking for me. Thought I’d tag along,” he replied, his accent hinting at his Russian roots.
Like the men he worked with, Rurik was from Russia.
Among the ranks of the New York Bratva, he was known as Shestyorka—the errand boy—occupying the lowest position within the organization.
Yet his loyalty to Maxim Fedorov, the Pakhan, was unwavering.
“So why am I here?” he asked, his tone both curious and challenging.
I glanced at Madigan, frustration lingering in my voice. “I was expecting to talk with Madigan alone.”
Rurik only smirked, clearly unbothered by my objection. “Well, you got me instead. So speak.”
Leaning forward, I met Rurik’s gaze directly. “I’m looking for information about my birth parents.”
The air in the booth shifted as Madigan stiffened and Rurik took a deep breath. “Why not ask Sinclair? I’m sure he already knows,” he said, his implication clear.
I lowered my voice, glancing cautiously around the bar. “You know Sinclair,” I whispered. “He doesn’t give information away without a price.”
“So why come to me?” Rurik pressed.
I hesitated only a moment before answering.
“Because you are good at what you do, and Sypher is busy,” I admitted, a grin tugging at my lips as I turned to the woman sitting quietly next to Rurik.
“Plus, Illyria gave me Madigan’s name. She seems to think Maddie might be able to help me as well, which I thought was odd.
Then I remembered Sinclair offered you his help once with a particularly delicate situation. It got me thinking.”
Maddie closed her eyes and shook her head. “I won’t put my son in harm’s way, Rowen. Not even for you.”
“I’m not asking you to, Maddie.” I softened my tone. “I know you. Watched you grow up. You and Dante were best friends once. Still are, I think. I’m only asking for who my parents are.”
“Your marker means nothing to me, Rowen. It’s what happens after that worries me,” she cryptically replied.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Maddie opened her eyes, her gaze heavy with worry.
“It means that digging into the past always comes with consequences, Rowen. My father almost died when his past came back to haunt him. Sometimes the truth isn’t what you hope it will be—and it rarely leaves things unchanged.
It also means,” Maddie said, looking me directly in the eyes, “like Illyria, I will do anything to protect my legacy.”
Rurik leaned back, crossing his arms as a heavy silence settled over our table.
The distant sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from the bar seemed muted, as if the world itself was pausing in anticipation of what came next.
My resolve did not waver as I met Maddie’s gaze, my voice steady with determination.
“I have to know, Maddie. No matter the cost.”
“She said no,” Rurik growled, his tone final, as if that alone would end my search for answers.
Leaning back in my seat, I shook my head in quiet frustration. The path ahead was narrowing, and my options were fading fast. Turning my focus to Rurik, I decided to change tactics, my voice measured. “Where can I find Jasper Michaels?”
Rurik let out a low chuckle, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Seems he is the man of the hour. I told you to make sure he was truly dead, but you didn’t listen.”
“Fuck you, Rurik.” My words slipped out, edged with anger and regret.
The Russian bastard only laughed, undeterred by my outburst. “You should know you aren’t the only one looking for him. I heard the Italian Council is searching for him as well.”
I narrowed my eyes, suspicion sharpening my tone. “And let me guess, you are too.”
Rurik’s grin widened, but there was no humor in it.
“Let’s just say Jasper Michaels has a way of making powerful enemies, and some debts never stay buried.
” He drummed his fingers on the table, the rhythm sharp and deliberate.
“But I’ll tell you this—I too have been tasked with finding the man, and unlike you, when I do find him, I will make sure the man stays dead. ”
The room seemed to shrink around us, the weight of unspoken threats hanging in the air.
I forced myself to breathe evenly, refusing to let Rurik see my uncertainty.
Reaching for my wallet, I quickly counted out several crisp hundred-dollar bills and tossed them onto the table—a silent gesture that marked the end of our tense conversation.
Without another word, I slid out of the booth and stood, feeling the heavy weight of disappointment press down on me.
The answers I’d hoped for had slipped further from my grasp.
With a final glance at Rurik and Maddie, I walked out of Calloway’s, stepping into the night no closer to uncovering the truth I so desperately sought.