Killaney Crown (The Killaney Irish Mafia #3)

Chapter 1 Callum

CALLUM

The car rolls to a slow stop outside the hotel my mother is staying in, a five-star tower of glass that reflects a gray, warped version of the sky. I'm gripping my phone so tightly the muscles in my forearm are flexing.

The detective's voice on the other end is direct and irritated that I'm still asking questions.

"…as I said, Mr. Killaney, there's no evidence of homicidal action. The medical examiner—"

"That's because you're not fucking looking hard enough," I say, lower than a growl. I don't shout. Shouting is what men without power do.

"Sir, I understand your grief, but—"

I sit forward in my seat, watching rain streak across the tinted window. Berlin's skyline blurs into a gray smear of stone and steel, the kind of city that pretends sophistication while hiding rot beneath pressed suits and polite smiles.

"You don't understand anything about my grief. Or my father." My jaw locks. "He didn't just drop dead in his hospital room in a foreign country. Not with everything happening back home. Not with the threats my family has been under."

"Mr. Killaney, I understand your frustration, but there is no evidence of—"

"There was a feather under his pillow." My voice stays low. "A black feather. Someone got into his room. Past your security. Past the nurses. And you're telling me he just stopped breathing?"

A pause. The kind that says he's already written his report.

"Your father was very ill, Mr. Killaney. The treatments were experimental. His heart was weak. These things can happen."

"These things don't happen with a fucking calling card left behind."

Silence stretches between us and I hear him exhale.

"I will review the file again, but I cannot promise a different outcome."

He doesn't get it. He doesn't know the full story, and somehow the Morrígan Order was able to kill my dad without revealing anything to the police.

So well, in fact, the Germans are dismissing the feather like it's decoration.

"We're done." I end the call before my hand goes through the phone.

He's gone, and I can't change that. My mother is upstairs in a suite she shouldn't be alone in, and a detective, who couldn't find his own spine, is telling me there was nothing suspicious.

What a shit show.

I step out of the car, muscles buzzing with the kind of anger that makes it hard to breathe. The cold seeps through my suit jacket as I walk toward the entrance. My men follow at a distance, two in front, two behind.

I walk through the revolving doors into the golden-lit lobby. It's got white marble floors, polished chrome, chandeliers dripping with crystal.

A concierge nods as I pass, but I don't stop. I know where I'm going.

My men and I step into the elevator, and I press the top floor. I watch the numbers climb, third floor, fourth, fifth, and think about the last time I saw my father alive.

My mother had FaceTimed me. He looked small in that hospital bed, tubes running into his arms, machines beeping, and his skin had gone the color of old paper, but his eyes were still sharp when he looked at me.

He felt better, but we still didn't know the outcome. He swore me not to tell Keira and Declan anything, so I kept our FaceTime calls a secret.

I just wish I hadn't. Given them a few more times to speak with him.

The elevator dings and the doors open.

Her suite is at the end of the hall, away from the noise.

As we get close, I see the door to my mother's suite is cracked open.

She's never careless like that.

I push it open fully and step inside.

The suite looks pristine and untouched. My mother sits on the edge of the bed with a small duffel at her feet, hands trembling around a silk scarf that she keeps folding and unfolding.

I look at her, and she just looks wrong.

That's the only word for it. May Killaney has spent her entire life armored in composure, in an elegance that made grown men straighten their ties before speaking to her.

Even when Keira would cry, screaming and red-faced, or when Declan broke his arm at nine, and when I cut my hand and bled all over the kitchen floor when I was fourteen, she never broke. She always kept it together.

But now her eyes are red-rimmed. Her hair, usually pinned back, hangs loose around her shoulders, and she looks more human than I've ever seen her.

"Callum," she says, her voice hoarse. "They called from the lobby. Said you were coming up."

She doesn't stand to hug me, and I don't try to hug her. We're not that kind of family. But she reaches for my hand and squeezes it once.

My mother, the warrior. She's buried siblings, cousins, men of our bloodline who died in a life they chose. She doesn't break easily. But today's a different story, and I suppose it should be. My parents married young, and my dad started courting her when they were even younger.

"They won't listen," she says, her voice cracking. "I told them. I told them someone must have come in."

"I know, Mom."

"I mean," she stops and fumbles with the scarf, "I was with him that whole day. He was better. Sitting up. We talked about coming home. He asked about you, about Declan and Keira. He was tired, but he was there, Callum. He wasn't dying."

I crouch down in front of her, eye level. "I believe you," I say, looking into her eyes. "Finish packing. We're leaving soon. I'm going downstairs to call Keira and Declan, let them know I'm with you now."

"Yes, but they won't release the body yet. There's paperwork, an autopsy—"

"I'll handle it," I say, standing. "You're with me now. Our men will stay here with you. I'll be right back."

"Good," she says. "I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

I nod. "Give me ten minutes."

I leave her in the suite and head back to the lobby. I don't want her to hear me talking about him.

As I take the elevator back down, I can't shake how my ribs feel tight, like someone's wrapped wire around my chest and keeps twisting.

I step out into the lobby, and it's a bit quieter now. A couple checks in at the desk, their German crisp. A bellhop wheels luggage past. The rain has slowed outside, and the sun is trying to peek through.

I dial Declan.

He answers on the second ring. "You there?"

"Yeah. I'm with her," I say and lean against a marble column. "She's not good."

"Fuck." A pause. Static crackles. "Keira's here. You're on speaker."

"Cal?" Keira's voice cuts through, full of worry. "How not good?"

"Shaken. More than I've ever seen." I glance toward the elevators, make sure no one's close enough to hear.

"And the German police aren't helping. They're dismissing everything.

No forced entry. No signs of tampering. They're calling it a heart attack despite Mom insisting he was healthy yesterday. "

"What about the feather?" Declan asks.

"Yeah. They claimed it was from the pillowcase and not significant. I asked him how often black feathers fall out of pillows at the hospital, and he just said, 'It happens.' Motherfucker," I mumble, shaking my head.

"You think they're covering it up?" Keira asks.

"That, or they simply don't care." I watch a woman in a fur coat glide past, her heels clicking against marble. "Either way, we know what it means."

"I don't care what it takes. I want Cormac dead," Keira says.

"Oh he will be," I say. "But not yet. Not while we're scattered."

"Callum—" Declan says, but I don't let him finish.

"Not yet." The words come out harder than I mean them to. "Listen, Mom doesn't want to stay here, so I'm going to move her to another hotel for now. Then I'm heading to the hospital. I'll make arrangements for the body release and transportation back to Boston."

I pause for a moment. I still can’t believe I’m saying these words.

"We'll be flying back tonight if I can get us on a plane,” I continue, “but it might take some time.”

"Be careful," Keira says. "If they got to Dad in a hospital, they can get to anyone."

I almost laugh. Careful. As if I've ever had that luxury.

"I will. Stay close to Octavian. Don't go anywhere alone. Talk soon."

I hang up before either of them can respond. I slide my phone back in my pocket and turn to walk toward the elevators.

"Callum Killaney?"

The voice comes from behind me. Sharp, but not hostile. I turn.

A man stands a few feet away. He's about my height, six foot three.

Lean, but built like someone who's fought before.

Tailored dark suit. Hair black as ink, cut clean, with a sharp jaw.

Eyes so dark they almost reflect the floor.

Expensive watch. Polished Italian shoes.

A presence that showcases money, power. This is a man who doesn't introduce himself unless he wants something.

"Yeah. Who wants to know?"

He nods and steps closer. "Matei Ionescu," he says, and the name lands like a fist to the gut. "Thought it was time we meet."