Killian
NINE
I’ve got nowhere to stash Jhene, and she gets restless on her days off from the pub, so I’m forced to bring her with me to Callahan House.
It’s the only way to kill two birds with one stone—make sure the girl’s safe while also conducting my first meeting as Clan Chief. An event I’ve put off long enough.
If I had my way, there’d be no meeting for the entirety of the time Ronan’s gone.
I pull up to the front entrance of the large red-brick family estate.
Callahan House has always carried a lived-in quality about it that I appreciate more than most rich bastard’s homes. The Callahan family hasn’t bothered doing a damn thing about the ivy crawling up the walls or the cracked marble statue in the garden.
It’s old. It’s historic. Real evidence of a family legacy.
I was poor as shit growing up—secondhand schoolbooks and duct-taped sneakers kind of poor—but I spent plenty of time behind these walls.
Me and Ronan ran through the halls, usually roughhousing and getting into trouble. Driving the keeper of the house, Oona, batshit crazy (because god knows Seamus Callahan was always busy being Clan Chief and Mrs. Callahan was never around).
This was the place where I realized I never wanted to follow in my dirtbag father’s footsteps. I wanted to be part of the clan and join the Irish mob.
“This is where they live?” Jhene asks from the seat beside mine. She peers out the passenger window as if studying for an exam.
“The Callahans themselves, not the rest of the clan.” I wrench the key from the ignition and hop out of the SUV. “Come on. Remember, no wandering off.”
She shoots me her signature moody look capable of curdling milk, though she doesn’t bother verbally battling me on it. I understand the look fine enough.
Over the past couple weeks, you could say I’ve become an expert at reading her expressions.
Oona answers before I even knock, the silver-blonde caretaker instantly opening her arms up for a hug. Though she’s more than a head shorter than I am, I let her engulf me in an embrace and give me a squeeze like I’m her son.
“You get beefier every time I see you, don’t ya? Anybody ever tell you that?”
“You, the last time I came around,” I grunt.
“There’s a limit, Kill! No need to be the size of a bloody mountain!”
“I’ll shrink when I get older.” I gesture toward Jhene who’s been more than happy to hover off on the side unnoticed. “This is—”
“Yes, yes. The girl from the pub. I’m aware.” Oona’s sharp eyes sweep over Jhene in a typical maternal manner. “Ah, you poor thing, you look like you could use a proper meal. Lucky for you I’ve made sandwiches. Come on now, come on.”
Jhene’s brows jump, then she spares me a bemused look before she listens. I watch her pad after Oona, who leads her down the hall and out of sight.
Let’s hope Oona’ll be able to keep her entertained long enough for the clan meeting to take place.
I pivot down the hall that leads to Ronan’s office.
The room’s already crowded when I walk through.
Sean’s sprawled in one of the leather armchairs, his red hair sticking up at odd angles and a smirk permanently etched on his freckled face. Teagan’s by the window, arms folded, his expression almost as disgruntled as mine.
A handful of other buttonmen, like Cian and Brady, fill the remaining chairs while others opt to lean against the walls.
But they’re not the only ones who’ve turned up—Seamus Callahan sits by the fire with his whiskey, his face gaunter than I’ve ever seen it. Yet no matter how sickly, his rheumy eyes still track my every move as soon as I stride into the room.
Ronan’s spoken about how his father’s never satisfied. He’ll never be good enough; he’ll never have his true approval.
It’s easy to understand how his younger son would feel that way—I’m now on the receiving end of his hard, unblinking, dissatisfied glare.
Thing is, I couldn’t give less of a fuck. I never asked to fill in as Clan Chief. It was never a position I’ve coveted, so he can shove his dissatisfaction up his ass for all I care.
Judging by how frail and gnarled he looks, he should be more concerned with the cancer eating away at his insides.
“Glad you could join us,” Sean calls out, adding a chuckle. “We were starting to think you got lost!”
“Blame traffic or whatever the fuck’ll make you feel better about being stood up,” I growl in answer. I stride over to the front of the room where Ronan’s desk is. “Let’s get this over with. What’s the situation with the Bratva?”
The casual energy evaporates from the room as the men straighten up and we get down to serious business.
“The situation,” Teagan answers, “is that tensions are still escalating. The Bratva hit another one of our associates’ businesses the other night.
This time the car wash. Trashed the place and intimidated Mr. Gonzalez, the owner.
Small potatoes in the grand scheme, but it’s the third incident this summer. ”
“So we hit them back,” Sean says, cracking his knuckles. “Show those grimy bastards what happens when they fuck with the Irish. Simple.”
“It’s not that simple,” Teagan counters. “We’re spread thin ever since we expanded our territory. Then the men we lost dealing with the Albanians and even Lochlan and his crew months ago. Ronan—our real Clan Chief—isn’t even here to decide. Starting a war right now would be—”
“Ronan’s on his honeymoon, not dead,” Sean interrupts. “He’ll be back in a few weeks. In the meantime, we can’t just let the Russian fucks walk all over us.”
“No one’s suggesting we let them walk all over us, you asshat. I’m suggesting we be strategic about our response.”
“Strategic.” Sean snorts. “That’s a fancy word for doing nothing.”
The argument continues, voices rising and falling as the men debate tactics and territory and the best way to handle a threat that’s been growing since before Ronan left.
I try to follow along, offering input where it makes sense, but the truth is, I’m out of my depth here.
I’m not a leader. Not a commander who wages wars.
I’m a boxer and an enforcer, good with my fists and not much else. The only reason I’m sitting in this seat is because Ronan trusted me to keep things together while he’s gone, and Lochlan—who everybody actually wanted for the job—is too busy playing house with Chantal upstate.
I’m the backup choice. Everybody knows it, even if no one says it out loud.
“Enough squabbling like schoolgirls, you fucking pansies.”
Seamus has thrown himself into the argument, his gravelly voice booming despite his failing health. He takes a long sip from his whiskey, gnarled fingers curled tightly around the glass.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you all have pussies instead of dicks and balls,” he says.
“Here’s a history lesson for those of you with your mother’s breast milk still on your breath.
The last time the Irish and the Bratva went head to head, I knew how to put those fuckers in their place.
We didn’t debate and deliberate and wring our hands over strategy.
“We hit them hard and we hit them fast, and we made damn sure they knew who the hell they were fucking with.” His watery green eyes find mine across the room, his scowl deepening.
“Perhaps if the current leadership showed the same resolve, we wouldn’t be having this useless conversation.
We’d have already put them in their place. ”
I’m grinding down on my jaw. It’s the only way I can keep the irritation at bay. Keep from erupting at the frail old man and putting him in his place.
I’m not his sons—I won’t tolerate his bitching and down talk.
I endured enough of that growing up from my own father.
“Speaking of current problems,” Sean says, breaking the tension with his usual lack of tact. “What are we gonna do about Kill’s little stray?”
Several heads turn in my direction. I resist the urge to turn my growing anger on Sean and put his head through the fucking wall.
“Her name’s Jhene,” I grunt. “Refer to her as such.”
“She’s a liability,” Brady pipes up, his pale face pinched with worry. “The Bratva wants her back, and as long as we’re harboring her, we’re painting a target on our backs.”
“So what do you suggest? We hand her over?” Teagan asks.
“I’m suggesting we consider all our options,” he answers with a shrug. He avoids my glare. “What’re we even gaining from protecting her? She could be useful as a negotiating tactic. A way to calm tensions without any blood being spilled.”
“She’s not a bargaining chip,” I growl. “She’s a person.”
“Right… but a person who’s causing us a lot of problems,” the pale bastard counters. “Problems we didn’t ask for.”
I’m on my feet, hands balled into fists, before I realize I am. “I said she’s not to be used for bargaining! It’s not up for fucking discussion. Anybody who’s got a problem with that can take it up with me personally.”
The meeting breaks up shortly after that, the men filing out in twos and threes ’til I’m left in Ronan’s office with only Seamus remaining.
He heaves a pained sigh as he pushes himself out of the armchair he’s sat in then starts for the door. “They were right,” he says as he goes. “About the girl. Her battle isn’t ours. She’s dead weight, and there’s no sense taking a stand for her. Be smart for once in your life, Kill.”
He’s gone in the next second.
I scowl to myself and sink back into the chair behind the desk. I still don’t give a fuck about what Seamus thinks of me or the decisions I make, though I can’t negate what he said.
My gaze drops to the stack of paperwork that’s accumulated in Ronan’s absence. Invoices and bank statements and contracts full of paragraphs of bullshit I have no interest in sorting through.
I’m no Einstein. I’ve never been known for my brains. It’s never bothered me that I wasn’t.
But filling in as Clan Chief only serves as another reminder.
The numbers on the pages swim and float before my eyes. They blur the longer I look at them.