17. Killian #2
Oona and the rest of the staff have draped black fabric over the windows and replaced every floral arrangement in the house with dark blooms.
I find out from one of the maids that Mrs. Callahan hasn’t left her room in days. She’s barely eating or speaking, spending most of her days shut off from everybody. She and Seamus might not’ve had the most loving marriage, but it’s clear the woman cared about her aloof husband in her own way.
Both Ronan and Lochlan are in the office when I turn up.
Ronan’s behind the desk that used to belong to his father. Lochlan’s in one of the leather chairs across from him, his expression unreadable.
“Close the door,” Ronan says as I enter.
I do, then take the other chair beside Lochlan.
“There’re still a lot of questions to be answered,” Ronan begins. “One thing’s clear. The Raguzins know us well. They’ve been able to use our patterns and behaviors against us. Time for us to do the same to them. Approach this using their tells against them.”
“Easier said than done,” Lochlan says. “The Bratva keeps everything under wraps. Fedorov’s excused himself from public life. He almost never goes out in public. Hasn’t for almost a decade now.”
“Ever since the Albanians almost took him out with that car bomb,” Ronan adds with a nod.
“Which is why the bastard’s paranoid as hell,” Lochlan says. “He keeps his location off the grid on purpose.”
Ronan scowls. “Then we need intel. Inside information about him. Some way to find out his vulnerabilities.”
Both his and Lochlan’s gazes shift to me. It doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to figure out why.
“The stray,” Ronan says. “She was with them for years, right? She has to know something useful.”
“I’ve already extracted intel from her. She’s told me as much as she knows. She went through hell with those people. Shit I don’t even know the specifics of. Fedorov had her from the time she was fourteen. At one point, she lived in a fucking cage. You think she wants to relive that shit?”
“Look, nobody’s saying it isn’t fucked up what she’s been through.
But this goes above her,” the younger Callahan brother argues.
“The fact remains, a lot of this shit’s popped off because you took her in.
We’re offering her protection. The least she could do is give us every fucking thing she knows.
“The more she tells us, the quicker she can help us end this. She’s the only advantage we have. She lived in Fedorov’s house and saw how he operates. She probably knows things that could help us take him down. We don’t have the luxury of protecting her feelings right now.”
“It’s not about her feelings, it’s about her fucking trauma—”
“There’s another option,” Lochlan pipes up suddenly. “We might have somebody else who knows Fedorov and the Raguzins well.”
Ronan cocks a brow. “Care to share with the class, Loch?”
“My crew of misfits—we had a Bratva soldier who was excommunicated.”
“The fucker with the eyepatch,” I grunt. “The big Russian guy who was your muscle?”
“Aleksei Mashkov. He was banished from the Raguzins a while ago. Fedorov punished him by taking his eye.”
Ronan regards his older brother for a second then folds his hands on the desk and nods. “Set up a meeting. See if he’s willing to align with us. We’ll make it worth his while.”
“He’s doing freelance work these days.” Lochlan rises from his chair. “I’ll make some calls.”
Once he walks out of the room, I’m left with Ronan, aware of the sudden tension between us.
“I get you care about her,” he says. “Everybody in the clan’s noticed. But we’re running out of options. We’ve got to take care of our own interests first.”
I don’t address what he’s said. I stand up from the chair across from his desk and follow Lochlan out of the room.
We bury Seamus Callahan a week after the Bratva assassinated him. The morning’s bright and humid, the opposite of the grim mood the funeral brings.
Blood relatives and clan members alike show up to the cathedral to pay their last respects.
Every pew’s filled, the aisle crowded with people who traveled from outside of New York for the send-off.
I’m seated toward the front with Jhene beside me, her slender hand clasped in mine. She’s wearing a simple black dress Chantal lent her, her curls pulled back from her face, and she hasn’t said a word since we walked through the doors.
Events like these tend to make her uncomfortable. Being around the Callahan family does.
But we’re each other’s anchors today.
She’s anchoring me from the guilt and rage and frustration this war with the Bratva has brought me. I’m anchoring her against the tide of social anxiety she tends to have.
The priest drones on about eternal rest and God’s mercy and all the other shit they say at funerals. Truthfully, I’m hardly listening.
My gaze drifts to the polished mahogany casket with its brass handles, draped in white flowers and the American and Irish flags.
His body lies inside, embalmed and made presentable by the mortician.
The service was put together by Oona and a few other staff members considering Mrs. Callahan was in no shape for handling any of his affairs.
She’s in the front row, first seat, quietly sobbing into a handkerchief. Oona’s beside her with an arm around her shoulders.
Ronan and Simone are a few seats down from them, both composed in the dutiful way that’s expected of the clan’s new chief and his wife.
It’s up to them to set the tone going forward.
Lochlan and Chantal have come from upstate for the service. Seamus’s death is even more complicated for the eldest Callahan son, who never fully repaired his relationship with his father. It’s hard to tell how he feels about the situation.
I had the same impression days ago at our war planning meeting.
Others like Cian, Brady, and Sean are in rows behind us. Sean’s brought Cara, Lochlan’s ex-wife. Probably one of the most puzzling things about today’s guest list.
Next to the fact that Tom’s come with Bridget. The pub owner’s on the mend from his burn injuries, and the busty redhead seems eager to be included in anything clan related.
As my gaze drifts vaguely in their direction, she catches my eye and aims the smallest, faintest smile at me.
Minutes later, it’s no surprise the first chance she gets, she wanders over. The service is over, and it’s time for everybody to bid last goodbyes to the casket. The room’s full of movement as people get up and make their way to the front.
Bridget comes straight over to me.
“Hey, tough guy,” she says, tone light and sympathetic. “Sorry for your loss. Seamus Callahan was a great man. If there’s anything I can do—”
“Thanks.”
I’ve risen from the pew with Jhene’s hand in mine and pull her along with me as we maneuver away from the redhead.
Rude? Without question. Do I give a damn? Not even a little bit.
I can’t bring myself to care about petty shit like Bridget’s feelings when I’m battling the complexities of everything that’s happened.
Seamus was dying anyway. The cancer was going to take him out sooner rather than later.
But he was meant to go out because it was actually his time. Not because the Bratva decided to execute the clan’s patriarch for revenge.
They killed him in humiliating fashion, smothering him as he lay terminally ill and helpless in bed. They don’t plan on stopping anytime soon so long as we’ve got Jhene.