3. Callahan
THREE
callahan
Joy throws her drink in my face and runs.
Gritting my teeth, I reach over the bar and grab some napkins, mopping up the spill.
It had to be a fucking Jack and Coke.
Jesus.
Normally, I’d break bones or even kill for an act of disrespect like that, but damn…
the girl’s got a solid pair on her.
And suddenly, a flicker of something ignites inside me—a feeling I haven’t experienced in years.
I follow her, the crowd parting as I move with intent and purpose.
She bumps into others, spinning away in a desperate attempt to escape me.
I can’t lie—watching her run is an aphrodisiac.
Joy lives up to her fake name—a spark of delight in her fierce fire.
Sure, there’s fear, but that’s true of most people.
The fact that she kicked me and threw a drink in my face?
I fucking love it.
Tonight, after killing Mitchum, I’d planned to scout businesses to invest in with my brothers—the kind that demand late-night visits.
Clubs, bars, dives, and yes, to Dec’s endless delight, titty bars.
But circumstances, like Joy and the shootout at the club, delayed my plans.
There’s money and solid laundering opportunities in sex clubs and strip bars.
And even though these types of ventures have their seedy, unpredictable moments, the key is covering our asses with a good forensic accountant, and we’ll be golden.
But money isn’t just money.
I want the kind of cash that comes dusted with power.
I don’t rush after Joy—I move with deliberate calm.
The limo my brothers had is long gone, replaced with the SUV I originally wanted.
My brother and second-in-command, Torin, sits behind the wheel while Seamus and Declan ride in the back, eyes peeled for her and waiting on my word.
Tor already has his team scouring every source, online and off, for any hint of what tonight might bring—a description that could fit me or any of us, and his team is primed to shut anything down before it starts.
You know, the usual bullshit to keep things tidy and clean.
Especially since I’ve made a mess.
Unusual for me.
I’ve always loved chaos and danger—the thrill of a job done off the cuff, back when I ran the streets in Ireland, transforming from a ruthless kid into a cold-blooded crime lord known for leaving a trail of blood if anyone crossed me or mine.
It’s why my brother almost pulled a gun to shoot my masked girl in that short-ass coat.
I stopped him because…
shit, I’m not really sure.
Maybe I saved her life by dancing close to disaster, and it would’ve been a shame to let my own blood shoot her dead.
Then again… maybe I’m just bored.
Maybe that’s why I’m following her now.
Or maybe I simply want to make sure this pretty little thing doesn’t go to the cops.
So far, Joy hasn’t, and I trailed her here the moment I switched out of my surveillance-and-murder clothes.
Declan said she’d met some smokin’ hot bombshell and gone inside.
I scored the black mask from some poor schmuck we knocked down.
I take the stairs two at a time and head for the exit, catching sight of her rushing out ahead of me.
She recognized what I am—plain as day—and I’m curious as to why.
Fuck, maybe she’s law enforcement—but I dismiss that idea almost as soon as it hits.
I don’t think she’s a cop.
For one, she’s still wearing the blood of the dead.
And second, she didn’t run home, didn’t pull a gun, didn’t try engaging me like that.
Joy had no clue I was set to take out fucking Mitchum for the de Rosa Don.
Besides, she doesn’t even smell like a cop.
Or law. No, she smells…
intriguing. And my sixth sense tells me she’s either trouble or on the run from it.
I hit the pavement outside the thumping club and pull out a soft pack of Camel cigarettes.
I light one and call Seamus.
“Which way?”
“If you’d let us tap that with deadly intent, you wouldn’t be doing this right now,” Seamus says.
“I’m banning television for you guys. I have no fucking idea what you just said.”
“Sure you do.”
“It was embarrassing,” I say.
“You sound like Dec.”
He gasps.
“Take that back. And I meant tap—code for murder, snuffing out, icing… like a metaphorical pair of concrete shoes for her one-way ticket to the bottom of the Hudson.”
“Jesus Christ, I’ll fucking take tap.” I catch a sidelong glance and dead-eye stare from a woman passing by until she hurries off.
I guess the mask makes me look even more like a walking nightmare.
“Which way?”
The flicker in me intensifies, along with this eerie feeling that I could track my girl by instinct alone, as if she’s in my blood—though obviously, she isn’t.
“She turned right up ahead, and Clive’s already trailing her… hold up…” Seamus makes another call on the burner, and I listen, smoking as I walk up the street.
The crowd thins as I turn right.
“He thinks she’s heading to Gantry Plaza State Park.”
“Got it.”
“Y’know,” Seamus adds, “if you’d let us take care of her, you wouldn’t have to. As Mam always says, measure?—”
“That doesn’t apply, eejit . And I just saved the girl. Why the fuck would I let you kill her?”
“We have things to do tonight.”
And I have something planned, too—a burning idea that’s been pulsing in my veins since I caught sight of those long legs and that body.
It lit something in me that I can’t—and don’t want to—extinguish.
My blood burns and I pick up the pace.
Long fucking slender legs.
Fuck, I saved those legs, that sweet pussy between them.
I risked everything to rescue her ungrateful ass from being shot.
I came to this fucking club to touch her, see her, decide what to do with her.
And now… she’s more than just a passing thought in my head.
She’s a pulse of fire, an electric charge that races from her cocky defiance straight to my obsessive brain.
And when I finally get her, I’m going to have my fun.
And this chase? It’s all part of that dark and twisted fun.
“You have your job of keeping an ear on all feeds, and I moved us into a prime bargaining place with de Rosa. I’m taking a little break,” I announce .
“Oh, Jesus. Are you stalking her just to get your fucking rocks off?” comes the reply.
“Probably. I’m just keeping an eye on her,” I say.
Seamus starts to speak and then switches to a muffled conversation with Clive before turning back in to me.
I finish my cigarette and cross the road.
“She entered the park,” he informs me, “and seems to be heading to the side with that Pepsi sign.”
“After dark? When it’s shut? She’s just asking for trouble.” I smile.
I can see the park from here, so I hang up, cross the street, and enter from a darkened corner.
Joy’s probably using it as a shortcut.
She’s not poor—nothing about her indicates that—so I’m betting she doesn’t want her ride to know where she’s been.
Or that she knows me.
I stand in the shade, breathing in the scent of grass and damp earth beneath my feet.
Now where would she be?
The thrill of the chase thrums in my veins.
I’m a hunter by nature—occasionally unhinged when I want to be—and with the pulse of New York City and the beat of Queens in my ears, I search for those long legs, reddish hair, a hat, and a mask.
There.
Taking her time as she picks her way over uneven ground stained red by neon reflections, she moves in and out of light and shadow among the trees.
Perfect.
I walk over, sliding silently behind her until I’m ahead.
Then I wait. The moment comes when she steps within my reach.
I grab her.
“What the—” she exclaims.
“I warned you once about speaking,” I say, careful to keep the Irish brogue out of my voice as I back her up against a tree.
Our eyes lock, and as she parts her lips, I slide my thigh between her legs.
The heat of her pussy presses against my leg, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to feel her up.
“I’ll scream.”
“Go on,” I say, moving closer.
“I dare you.”
Her eyes narrow and glitter with defiance—the bloodied, masked girl clearly loves a challenge.
It only makes her that much more fucking sexy, heightening our electrifying standoff.
She takes a breath, parts her lips a bit more, and fuck it.
My lips lift into a smirk before I kiss her—hard.