Chapter 22 Callum
CALLUM
They start up again two days after I took Zaria down to the pool, like it was my punishment.
It was a little after midnight. I was up staring at spreadsheets, doing all the boring shit that comes with being don, when my phone started vibrating on my desk, Declan's name lighting up the screen.
"Yeah."
"Route Seven's gone." His voice is tight. "Bodies everywhere, covered with those damn feathers."
"Damn. How many men?"
"Four. Merchandise destroyed. They didn't take a fucking thing, Cal. Just left it burning."
I ended up sending Octavian and more of my men to another location, only to be told more or less the same news.
In this world, hits happen. Losses happen. Product disappears. Hell, even territory shifts, and you have to fight to reclaim it. That's business. That's expected.
But when they do happen, you take the product and claim the victory. You don't just burn it and walk away.
That's the part that I really don't fucking like. It's just the message paired with total destruction and loss.
I shake my head, bringing my focus back to the present as I pour another whiskey and sit at my desk.
The house is silent except for the occasional talking from the guards making their rounds, or from the ones stationed outside by the guardhouse.
Our mother's been living at Keira's since the funeral. She can't stand being here. Can't stand the memories. Keira told me yesterday that Mom barely speaks anymore, just sits by the window staring at nothing.
A shell.
That's what Cormac did to her. What he's doing to all of us.
My father told me once, never make a move when emotions are high. Wait. Think. Let the dust settle before you strike.
I've been waiting.
And waiting.
And every day, our grip on this city slips a little more.
Declan's been pressuring me nonstop. Last night, we almost came to blows in this very office. He got in my face, demanding we strike, that Dad would've burned Shadowharbor to the ground by now.
I shoved him back. Hard. Told him to get the fuck out before I forgot he was my brother.
He left, but the words stayed.
Dad would've acted.
Maybe he's the one who's right.
For a long time, I was certain I was right to wait.
Cormac's death isn't in question. It's a certainty. So what's a few extra weeks or months if it means I strike clean?
My father always said never to make a move when emotions are high. That patience was power. That a calm mind wins wars faster than a loaded gun.
Maybe I've been waiting for clarity that's never going to come. Maybe emotions aren't going to settle because the stakes are too high. My father's dead. My mother's broken. My siblings are watching me like I'm about to crack.
And then there's Zaria.
I take a sip of whiskey, feeling the burn.
Zaria.
She didn't ask to come into my world, but she did, and she's distorted everything. It's been a week since the pool, and I find myself heading up to her room almost every night. Sometimes I talk. Sometimes I just stand there and listen to her ramble about documentaries or history or food she misses.
I tell myself it's just intel gathering, but that's bullshit.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore.
I've never been this conflicted in my life, feeling like I should save someone, touch someone, and destroy someone all at the same time.
And I hate myself for even thinking it.
But the worst part is I don't know which instinct is stronger.
I push back from the desk and stand. My knuckles ache from the fight I had earlier. Some low-level enforcer tried to skim from a drop. I didn't kill him, but I wanted to, badly.
Everyone tells me I don't need to be out in the field anymore, that bosses don't do the dirty work, but being out there is a hell of a lot better than being here sometimes.
I pace the office as my father's advice rages war in my mind, trying hard not to start sounding hollow.
But how the fuck am I supposed to wait when the hits keep coming? When my family's bleeding out and I'm the one holding the reins?
I've decided that waiting isn't leadership anymore. It's surrender.
It's time I stop trying to be my father.
I'm not him. I can't be. And trying to follow his exact playbook isn't going to save us.
I need to be me, and maybe a little part of Declan, the two sides of our father's coin merged together.
Thoughtful and reckless.
Calculated and brutal.
So I'm done waiting. That's why tonight's conversation is happening.
I finish the whiskey in one swallow and walk out of my office, heading upstairs.
The guards see me coming and unlock the door without a word. One of them opens it for me, stepping aside as I walk in.
Zaria's sitting on the floor, legs crossed, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, reading a magazine.
Her hair's wet and clinging to her neck, and she stands when I enter.
"Hi," she says. "I was just thinking about what you told me last night. About your favorite comfort food, colcannon with bacon."
I nod, moving to the chair I've been sitting in every time I come here. It's become routine now. Her on the bed and me in the chair, the door locked behind us.
"Well, like I told you, I've been thinking of ways I can repay your kindness, so I want to make it for you.
" She smiles, and it's still strange seeing that expression on her face.
She's been doing it more over the last few days.
"I worked in the kitchen some nights. I'm not a chef or anything, but I thought maybe I could try making it for you.
As a thank you for all the food you've given me. "
It's strange how normal she sounds. How domestic, like I'm not her kidnapper and her my captive.
"Actually," I say, "I have something you can do."
Her smile falters as she sits on the edge of the bed, hands folding in her lap.
"Oh," she says. "What is it?"
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, meeting her gaze. "Take me to one of the ceremonies."
Her face goes still. "Oh."
"You said you could do it," I continue. "Well, I've changed my mind, so how do we make it happen?"
She looks down at the floor, her shoulders curling inward. For the first time since I walked in, she looks unhappy.
"What's wrong?" I ask. "Can you not make it happen?"
"No, no, I can." Her voice is quiet. "It's just, I liked being away from it. From him." She lifts her eyes to mine, and there's something raw there. Something broken. "But if this is what you really want, then I'll do it for you."
I stare at her, at the faint scar on her cheekbone, the one she got from God knows what. "Take me in. Show me the man who killed my father, and I'll make sure Cormac never touches you again."
She blinks, her breath catching. "That's a big promise."
"Don't worry about that." My voice is firm. Steady. "I'll protect you."
She stares at me, and I stare back. Neither of us moves. The air between us feels thick, charged. Her neck flushes red, the color creeping up to her jaw.
"Okay," she says, standing, her hands twisting together. "But you'll have to follow what I say or do. Because if we get caught, death will be the kindest thing they do to us."
I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms. "Then we don't get caught."
"Yeah." She exhales sharply. "And you can forget about going after my father. He'll be heavily guarded. Brother George, yes. But him, no."
"I want Brother George first," I say. "Then I'll figure out Cormac."
She nods and looks at me. "Why the change? Have they started striking your routes again?"
I stiffen and give her a sharp look, surprised.
"I'll take that as a yes," she says and sits back down, crossing her arms to mirror my posture. "Then that means the third Monday of the month will be a Blood Moon ritual."
"That's this Monday," I say.
"Okay." She nods slowly, her mind clearly working through something. "This will be perfect, actually. It's a simple ceremony. One where guests and recruits would be present. So this actually works in your favor, even though it's to help go against you." She trails off, her voice fading.
I stand, closing the distance between us. She tilts her head back to look at me.
"Just tell me what we need to do," I say.
She takes a slow breath, her chest rising beneath the robe. "Okay. It's going to be an interesting night."
And for the first time since my father died, something settles inside me.
Not grief or rage, but clarity.
My grandfather may have started this war, but Cormac brought it to my home.
So I'm going into his.