Chapter 5 Callum
CALLUM
Boston never truly sleeps.
Not even at three in the morning, when the sky is black and heavy over the estate, and the only sounds are the footsteps of my patrolling men and security cameras switching angles every thirty seconds.
I don’t even remember falling asleep, but I did, and now my phone is waking me up.
I reach for it automatically, muscle memory from years of living like this. Always ready. Always alert.
"What?" My voice comes out rough, scraped raw from exhaustion.
"Sir, sorry to wake you, but there's someone here. Says they have a package from Matei Ionescu. Said you'd want to be woken up for it."
The fog clears instantly as I sit up. "Let them through. I’m on my way."
I throw on the pants I'd left on the floor and pull a shirt over my head as I move through the bedroom. My Glock sits on the nightstand where it always does, and I grab it out of habit, checking the chamber as I head down the stairs.
I'm halfway down the stairs when I realize I don't have any shoes on.
Fuck it.
Whatever’s waiting is hopefully connected to the vow I made over my father’s body in Germany.
Matei said he’d find whoever did it. If he’s playing games, he’ll regret it.
The house is dark except for the outdoor security lights bleeding through the windows as cars pull up and my men move to surround it.
I push through the front door and the night air hits me, cool and sharp. An SUV sits in my driveway, engine running, and exhaust curling into the darkness. My men surround it and wait for my orders.
One of the rear doors opens before I reach them. A man steps out, hands raised slightly to show they’re empty.
“Mr. Killaney,” he says. His accent is Romanian. Not thick, but present. “I come with something for you.”
My jaw tightens. “Is this Matei delivering what I asked?”
The man nods, moving toward the back of the vehicle. "He said you'll be happy."
Happy. We’ll see about that.
I step closer.
He pops the trunk and I see it immediately. A tarp covering something roughly the size and shape of a person. It shifts slightly, some movement underneath.
My chest goes tighter, but I keep my face blank.
"They alive?"
“Yes," the man answers. "Sedated. Matei said to tell you he brought this from Germany himself.”
My pulse kicks, the faintest flicker of anticipation threading through. If this person is connected to my father’s death, I’ll rip every piece of truth out of them inch by inch before I kill them.
I turn my head toward my men standing near the house. "Bring this piece of shit down to the basement and secure them. I'll be down shortly."
They move without question, storming the SUV as I step back. The Romanian watches but doesn't interfere as two of my guys reach into the trunk and haul out the body. It doesn’t make a sound, not even a groan.
The men carry the body toward the house and the man shuts the trunk, gives me a nod, and climbs back into his SUV. The engine revs and he's gone before I even turn around.
I stand there for a moment, breathing in the cold air, watching the taillights disappear down the drive.
Then I pull out my phone and send a text to Declan.
Text me when you're up. Think I've got something.
I don't expect a response now. He'll see it when he wakes. For now, I need to focus.
I head back inside and make my way upstairs. My bedroom is still dark, the bed unmade, sheets twisted from restless sleep that never really came. I strip off the clothes I threw on and grab the clothes I keep for this kind of work.
Black jeans. Dark shirt. Things I don't mind getting blood on.
As I pull them on, my mind is already cycling through what comes next. Interrogation tactics. Pressure points. How much pain before someone breaks. How long I'm willing to wait for answers.
Whoever is down there, whoever Matei sent, is connected to my father's murder. Has to be. Otherwise, why send them at all?
I think about the black feather I have hidden in the closet. The Morrígan Order. The cold, sterile room in Berlin where I identified my father's body.
My jaw tightens.
I'll get whatever I need out of them, no matter what it takes.
I finish dressing and head downstairs, down the hall, and toward the locked stairwell that leads to the lowest level. The air grows colder as I descend, stone walls absorbing the heat and sound of the house above.
At the bottom, one of my men, Tommy, a solid kid who's been with us for five years, is standing at the bottom of the stairs. He looks up as I approach and there's something off about his expression.
Not fear. Not exactly.
More like discomfort.
"What's up?" I ask as I approach him.
Tommy shakes his head, glancing toward the door I'm about to walk through. "Nothing. I just, well, you'll see."
Anger rises in me.
That motherfucker inside better be connected to this and alive. Because if Matei wasted my time, I’ll end him before sunrise in Bucharest.
I push past Tommy without another word and shove the heavy door open, and step into the same room I held Octavian in recently.
I step inside, expecting a monster.
Expecting someone dangerous. Someone who deserves what's coming.
What I see instead stops me cold.
A woman.
She looks small and wears a torn robe smeared with dirt and blood. Her hands are bound behind her back. Her hair is a dark, tangled mess around her shoulders. Her face, what I can see of it, is pale, streaked with dried tears and blood. A bruise sits along her cheekbone.
Her feet are bare and bleeding and her knees are scraped raw.
She looks like she was crawling through hell right up until someone knocked her out.
She's not moving and if it wasn't for her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, you'd think she might be dead.
I stand there, staring, my brain trying to reconcile what I'm seeing with what I expected.
I take a step closer, my boots scraping against the concrete, and her head lifts slightly. Slowly. Like it takes everything she has just to move.
Her face comes into view and I see her eyes. They are glazed over and ringed with exhaustion and pain. They're green. Bright green, even in the harsh fluorescent light.
She looks at me and something shifts in her expression.
She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her lips are cracked and bleeding.
I don't move. Don't speak. Just stand there, taking her in, trying to make sense of this.
This is who the Romanians pulled out of Germany?
This is who they thought I'd be happy to see?
I turn slightly, looking back at Tommy standing in the doorway. He shifts his weight, uncomfortable, and I understand now why he looked at me the way he did.
This isn't what any of us expected.