CHAPTER 2
CALLUM
Hours later, I watched from behind the bar as the strains of a harmonica and the twang of a banjo filled the bar.
Tyrone closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and began to sing the opening lines to “Dirty Old Town.”
My hand automatically wiped the inside of a glass with a towel while I watched the patrons swaying in time to the tune. I forgot how Tyrone Doyle fancied himself as a modern-day Daniel O’Donnell at every fucking wake he landed in. Clearly, he could carry a tune, but he was no Bono.
My eyes caught T’s, and I rolled them left to right as if to say, Jesus Christ.
Tadhg grinned at me, then turned back to the tables to grab some dirty glasses.
My stare slid to Donovan, who’d caged Lucy Bloom against the wall and was in the process of sweet-talking her while trailing his index finger down the side of her neck.
Lucy was the town bike; most of us had ridden her at some point. Usually, I didn’t regard girls that way—I mean, I wasn’t exactly the Virgin Mary myself—but Lucy was a special kind of easy, and Donny was a special kind of cunt even trying to get into her knickers at our athair’s wake.
I was surrounded by idiots—the exception being my mam—and I had to leave them in charge when Kennedy read my aul fella’s will while I dealt with whatever Paddy was about to throw at me.
Jesus, help me.
I caught a flash of blonde and turned to see Kennedy beckoning me from the corridor leading to my office. My stare went straight to Patrick, who was already looking over at me from his place beside Tyrone, and I jerked my chin to indicate it was time.
Paddy shot Liam a knowing look and got to his feet, fastening the buttons of his black suit. I walked out from behind the bar, and together, we headed up the corridor toward Kennedy, who was waiting at my office door.
“Sorry about Lorcan,” Paddy murmured in his half-American, half-Irish lilt, which was ridiculous since he’d never stepped foot on Irish soil.
My brothers and I all had U.S accents, seeing as we were born and raised here, except for the odd Irish word or phrase that we’d picked up from my da or Mam over the years. Unlike Patrick, we didn’t pretend to be something we weren’t.
My mam’s accent was strong, but then she hailed from a pretty town in the center of Ireland called Roscommon. She was a good Catholic girl of nineteen when my aul fella fell in love with her at first sight when he was thirty years old.
Da had moved to the States when he was twenty-two.
He hailed from Belfast originally and often went back to see his folks.
He met Mam in her local pub when he visited a friend, and six weeks later, he wifed her up and brought her back to New York with him.He managed bars and restaurants and loved it so much that he decided to start his own business.
After the family tried to involve him in a shady protection racket, he moved Mam to Hambleton and opened the Lucky Shamrock.
Their marriage was mostly a happy one, lasting forty-two years, but then a few years ago, Da was diagnosed with an aggressive type of lymphoma.
And here we were.
I gave Paddy a tight-lipped smile of acknowledgment.
Everybody was sorry for our loss, but what could I say?
Da was gone.
Death was a part of life, and my responsibility now was to honor Da and look after my ma and younger siblings the way he would’ve wanted. I had a bar to run, and my family needed help to navigate the grieving process. People’s condolences, although comforting, didn’t put food on the table.
Only working hard did that, which was why I didn’t protest about Paddy being there. I needed Kennedy to hurry this along so I could go pull more pints.
She led us into my office and nodded toward the chairs situated around my desk. Kennedy sat next to where a thick file lay on the table. “If you could sit, gentlemen, we can start.”
Grabbing the chair furthest from the door, I parked my ass and watched Paddy unbutton his suit jacket before he did the same. Our eyes caught, and he gave me a small nod before turning his head to study Kennedy.
She opened the file, took out a single sheet of paper, and donned a pair of large, black-rimmed glasses.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” she began.
“I have a letter here from Lorcan, who left instructions to read it when you were together. He also asked that you let me finish before speaking. Lorcan came to my partner six months ago and asked Scotty to outline his intentions in regard to his business and financial affairs. He would like this letter read to explain his decision and why he made it, and that’s what I’ll do today in accordance with his wishes. ”
I took a deep, calming breath, preparing myself to hear Da’s last words.
“I, Lorcan O’Shea, being of sound mind, do bequeath the contents of my savings and checking account to my wife, Maureen.
Along with those, I would like to bequeath my two life insurance policies in the hope that, combined, the proceeds will allow her to live a good life until the day we meet again.
If the dividends fall short, I’d ask that my eldest son, Callum, help his mother financially to ensure she’s looked after. ”
I bowed my head.
“The family business, The Lucky Shamrock bar, is to be given to Patrick Doyle, to whom I owe three hundred thousand dollars.”
My body locked.
What?
Kennedy paused briefly, her face paling, then she cleared her throat and continued, “Son. I’m sorry.
We had a rough couple of years back when our patrons were getting drugged.
Profits went down, overheads went up, and I had medical bills to pay—bills I didn’t want to leave your mother worrying about.
I was happy to refuse treatment and leave everything in God’s hands, but your mother begged me to fight, and my insurance didn’t cover everything I needed. ”
Slowly, my stomach sank.
No. No. No.
Kennedy’s incredulous stare met mine, and she went on, “You have choices available, Callum. You could sell the bar and open a new one with the proceeds, or you could listen to the proposal Patrick and I discussed. Personally, I want the Shamrock to continue in the family. I want you to settle, be happy, give my Maureen grandbabies, and make a success of the bar. I know I’ve left you in an awkward spot, but I didn’t have a choice.
There’s no question about how much we both love the place and the memories we made there together, but I’ve been telling you for years, what good is it if there’s nobody to pass it on to?
Please think about what Patrick’s about to offer; don’t write it off, Son, you could do a lot worse.
I love you, your mam, and your brothers and sister.
Never forget that, and do everything in your power to keep the Shamrock. ”
My ribs squeezed so hard I thought my chest would cave in. My skin itched, and blood rushed through my ears as I tried to make sense of what was happening.
I knew the bar had gone through a rough patch a few years before, but Da never mentioned that it was bad enough that he had to take out a goddamned loan.
And from Patrick Doyle, of all people.
Jesus Christ.
I wasn’t even sure the bar was worth that much.
Hambleton was a sought-after town to live in, but after it came to light that the mayor was trafficking local women, house prices plummeted.
The townsfolk didn’t care; they were here for life, but it didn’t bode well for me if I sold the bar, and there was no guarantee there’d even be enough to pay off Da’s loan.
Plus, we’d be fucked.
No bar.
No livelihood.
No income.
I turned straight to Patrick. “I don’t have the money to give you. I’ve some savings, and I’m sure my brothers do, too, but not enough to make a dent in what we owe.”
Paddy’s blue eyes bored into mine. “We’ll work something out.”
Relief washed away the rising panic in my chest. “Really?”
“We’re family,” he told me softly. “Like your da said, I have a proposition for you.”
A wave of dread crashed into me.
Patrick’s proposition could range from asking me to mule enough cocaine to sink a small country to whacking a politician.
I wouldn’t put anything past him, and it wasn’t because he was untrustworthy or a liar.
It was because he was the head of the Irish Mob and ruthless.
Every deal he made was to benefit himself, and I didn’t believe for one second he felt any loyalty toward me or my business.
I wasn’t the most upstanding citizen in the world. When assholes got rowdy in my bar, I wouldn’t think twice about taking them outside and showing them the error of their ways. I got scrappy when I needed to, but I wasn’t a killer or a drug mule.
Nonetheless, it seemed I owed Paddy Doyle a small fortune.
If he was going to be amiable in helping me out, I had to at least show him the respect of listening.
I didn’t have upward of a quarter of a fucking million dollars, so if he was in a generous mood and wanted to throw me a lifeline, I didn’t have any choice but to take it.
My eyes drifted to Kennedy. “Could you give us a minute, please?”
Her face remained impassive, but I caught her eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s not advisable, Callum. You may need legal counsel.”
“If I do, I’ll discuss it with you after,” I assured her.
Her mouth tightened slightly, but she jerked her chin in assent, even though I knew that underneath her calm exterior she was probably worried sick. Slowly, she rose, gave Paddy a courteous nod, and left the room.
Patrick loosened his tie and slumped back in his seat. “Your aul fella would’ve loved this turnout. Lorcan enjoyed a good wake. He was the first one to pour the Guinness and celebrate life. I got closer to him in his last months, Cal. Gonna miss him.”