Chapter 2 Callum
CALLUM
For a long second, neither of us speaks. I just stare at him.
Ionescu. The Romanian mafia.
The same family run by Nicolae who had a psychotic plan to allow my sister to be kidnapped to force an alliance. The very family that nearly got Keira killed before Octavian came to his senses.
I step forward, needing him to confirm it.
"Ionescu," I say, my hand inching toward the gun holstered under my jacket. "From the same Nicolae Ionescu who put my sister in jeopardy? The same family trying to stage an alliance?"
He hesitates and nods.
"For what your father did," I continue, my fingertips brushing the handle of my pistol, "I should put a bullet in you right where you stand."
Matei tilts his head slightly, almost curious. "You could." His gaze shifts past my shoulder. "And of course my men would do the same to you."
I sweep the room with a subtle turn of my head.
Three men. No, four. One near the concierge desk, pretending to read a newspaper.
Another by the entrance, hands in his pockets, too still to be a tourist. A third leaning against a marble pillar, phone in hand but the screen dark.
The fourth sits in one of the velvet chairs near the bar, legs crossed, watching us.
All armed, I am sure, and my men are upstairs with my mother. I'm outnumbered, and Matei knows it.
My jaw locks as I force my hand away from my gun and cross my arms instead, the fabric of my suit pulling tight across my shoulders.
I look back at Matei. "You're a long way from Bucharest, so I'll give you thirty seconds to tell me why you're here before I decide I don't care about the odds."
Matei exhales, not quite a sigh, and slides his hands into his pockets. Casual. Like we're here to catch up.
"Look," he says, voice dropping lower. "I'll be straight with you.
Me and my brothers don't always agree with how our father runs things.
He's old school. Grew up under Communism, you know.
Different rules, different world, always suspicious.
" He pauses, glances briefly at the lobby around us, then back to me.
"But one day, me and my brothers will run the family.
And we want to do things differently. It's because of that, I'm here. "
I study him, looking for the lie, any crack in the mask, but his eyes don't shift. His breathing stays even. No tells I can see.
"Okay," I say, still not sold but willing to let him dig his own grave.
"My oldest brother, Lucian, who will take over, like you have, sent me.
" He shifts slightly, hands still in his pockets.
"It's no secret we want a share of the U.S.
market, but we sure as fuck don't want to make enemies before we've even arrived.
So, we want to help. Our connections are strong here in Germany. "
"For what price?"
The question comes out aggressive, but I'm done playing nice. My father's dead, my mother's upstairs falling apart, and some Romanian prince is standing in front of me offering favors like we're friends.
Matei shakes his head, his hands finally coming out of his pockets. "Nothing. Righting a wrong. And..." He pauses. "Making sure we do get a piece of America. But you already knew we'd want that."
I scoff.
"My brothers and I want to build a legitimate legacy in the U.S.
and have real allies there. Like you. Kastaris.
Bonventi. Families who know how to operate.
My father..." Matei exhales through his nose.
"He's more worried about people taking what we have.
We're more focused on working with others to take more. "
I let the silence stretch. Let him sweat, even though he doesn't look like he's sweating.
My mind runs through the angles. What he's offering. What he wants. What it costs.
The Ionescus have reach here if what he's saying is true. Maybe they've got connections in Germany that could cut through red tape faster than I ever could alone.
But trust?
That's a different currency.
Still, I don't have the luxury of time.
I know the Morrígan Order killed my father, but I want the actual person responsible, and if Matei Ionescu can deliver that, I'll take the devil's help and deal with the consequences later.
"Okay," I say. "Bring me who killed my father. Then we'll see about your alliance."
I walk away and just as I’m about to step into the elevator, I hear Matei call out. "You'll get what you want. We'll be in touch."
The doors close, and as I head back up to my mother's suite, I realize this only goes one way.
They'll either deliver, or they won't.
If they don't, I'll deal with them once Cormac is in the ground and this Morrígan bullshit is destroyed.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. I go into the suite and see my mom sitting with some suitcases.
"Ready?" I ask. "Let's get out of here."
I have my driver head across town to the other five-star hotel. My mom doesn't want to stay at the same hotel she was at with my father, and while I really want to get out of here, I doubt I'll be able to get everything cleared and on a plane in one day.
Inside, I rent the top two suites for us and walk her up. She's refusing to go back to the hospital, and to be honest, I don't blame her.
I leave two of my men outside her door, and the other two follow me back down, get in the car behind mine, and we make our way to the hospital.
When I walk in, there's that smell that hits you right in the face. The smell that makes me hate hospitals, antiseptic and slow death.
I walk through the corridors with my men a few steps behind me, past nurses who glance up from their stations, past patients shuffling in slippers, past wheelchairs and IV poles and the beeps from machines keeping people alive.
The morgue is in the basement. Of course it is. Just like in life, in the end, down you go.
The morgue is colder than the rest of the hospital. Not just temperature, though that drops the second I push through the double doors, but atmosphere. Like stepping into a vault where warmth goes to die.
My men stay outside. I don't need them seeing this.
The hallway is narrow, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting everything in a white glow.
At the end of the hall, a desk. Behind it, a man in a doctor's coat. He looks up when I approach, no surprise on his face.
I explain who I am, and he stands, clipboard in hand, glasses sliding down his nose. He speaks in choppy English, explaining the paperwork, the autopsy delays, the bureaucratic nightmare of transporting a body across borders.
I sign everything he puts in front of me without reading it.
"Can I see him?"
The doctor, at least I think he's one, hesitates, then nods. "Of course. This way."
We stop, and he turns back to me.
"Oh, we found this under the pillow," he says and pulls out a plastic bag with a black feather inside it. "Maybe it was a good luck charm, maybe it fell from somewhere. We don't know. But we don't need it." He stretches his arms out to me. "You want it?"
I stare at the feather. The edges are slightly bent from being sealed in plastic. The black is deep, almost iridescent under the lights.
A good luck charm.
I want to laugh. I want to grab this man by his collar and slam him against the wall. I want to tell him what this feather means. Who left it. What it represents.
But I don't.
Because he wouldn't believe me. Because he doesn't care. Because this man is part of a system that sees my father as just another body, another case file, another signature on a form.
So I reach out, take the bag, and slide it into my pocket.
"Thank you," I say, and think, this is the feather I shove down Cormac Donoghue's throat.
We continue walking, and he leads me through another set of double doors and into a cold, sterile room. Steel squares line the walls, and we approach one. He opens it and pulls a body draped in a white cloth out.
My father.
The doctor pulls the sheet down from his face and steps back. "I’ll give you a moment" he says and leaves.
For a second, I can't move. I just stand there, staring down at Darragh Killaney.
He looks different. Not the man who built an empire. Not the Don who commanded respect with a look. Not the father who taught me how to survive in a world that eats the weak.
The surprising feeling that hits me is that there's no going back now. No more denial. No more hoping the detective got it wrong, that my mom was misinformed, that this is someone else, that my father is still alive somewhere, smiling at how close I came to believing he was gone.
My fingers curl into a fist, and I step forward. Closer, and the air leaves my lungs when I smell the faint scent of his cologne, or I think I do anyway.
His skin is pale, almost gray. His eyes are closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, and for a moment he looks like he's sleeping. But no one sleeps like this. No one lies this still.
His hair is silver, combed back the way he always wore it, but it looks different now. Lifeless. Like someone tried to make him look presentable but forgot he was never the kind of man who needed fixing.
As I stare at his face, everything comes rushing back.
I'm seven years old, standing in the backyard with a baseball glove too big for my hands. My father is across from me, sleeves rolled up, a baseball in his grip.
"Keep your eye on the ball, Callum," he says, and he throws it.
I miss. The ball sails past me and thuds into the fence.
"Again."
He throws it again. I miss again.
"Again."
This time I catch it, the impact stinging my palm through the glove, and my father grins. It's rare, that grin. It makes my chest swell.
"Good," he says. "Now throw it back."
I do. It's a terrible throw, too high and too far to the left, but he catches it anyway.
"We'll work on it," he says.
Then I'm sixteen again, sitting at the kitchen table with a Guinness in front of me. My father sits across from me, his own glass half-empty.
"You're a man now," he says. "Time you drink like one."
I take a sip. It's bitter, thick, and I hate it. But I don't say that. I just nod and take another.
He watches me, eyes sharp, and then he raises his drink. "To family."
I clink mine against his. "To family."
And finally, I'm twenty-four, sitting in a bar after closing a deal that nearly went south. My father is beside me, bourbon in hand, and he's smiling. Actually smiling.
"You did good tonight," he says.
The words are simple, but they hit me harder than any punch because my father was reserved with his compliments.
"Thanks."
He nods, takes a sip, then looks at me. "You're ready."
"For what?"
"To lead." He sets his glass down, turns to face me fully. "When I'm gone, this falls to you. You know that, right?"
I nod.
"It's not going to be easy," he says. "People will test you. Try to take what's yours. But you're a Killaney. You'll hold the line."
I meet his eyes, see the years of blood and sacrifice and decisions that kept us alive.
"I will," I say.
He grips my shoulder, squeezes once, then lets go.
"I know you will."
But now...
Now he's here.
On a table. Gone, and whether I feel ready or not, it's my time to lead.
I just didn't think I'd take the throne because my father was murdered.
That's what this is.
Assassination disguised as natural death, and they think they can get away with it.
They think they can take Darragh Killaney, Don of the Irish Killaney family, and bury him under bureaucracy and paperwork and indifferent cops who don't give a fuck about justice.
But they're wrong, because I'm not going to let this go.
I'm going to find who did this. I'm going to find Cormac Donoghue and every single member of the Morrígan Order. I'm going to burn them to the ground and make sure everyone knows what happens when you come for a Killaney.
My hand moves from the table to my father's shoulder.
His skin is cold. So cold it almost doesn't feel real.
I lean down, close enough that if he were alive, he'd hear me.
"I'll fix this," I say, voice low. "I'll avenge you. I'll right this wrong. And I'll make our name stronger than it's ever been."
The words hang in the air, a vow spoken over a body that can't answer back.
But I feel it anyway. The responsibility.
This is on me now.
All of it.
I straighten, pull the sheet back over his face, and turn toward the door.
My father is dead.
But the war has just begun.