5. Callahan
FIVE
callahan
The following week, I walk into the Upper East Side gentleman’s club and immediately spot Vincent de Rosa sitting in a big leather chair the color of walnut.
He’s one of five owners of the place; the others are businessmen and billionaires who want a place to play that reeks of exclusivity and overpriced drinks.
Still… I shouldn’t judge, I get the appeal.
I can’t help but think that while I get the appeal, I’d rather throw my money into ventures that don’t involve whips, chains, and, to be honest, blow jobs—even though, as sure as the Blarney Stone has been kissed too many times, this place offers those, too.
The tastefully and scantily clad server leads us over to his table.
Us being me and Seamus.
“You didn’t need backup.” De Rosa flashes me a mean, condescending smile—a smile that screams prick.
I grit my teeth. I want the deal.
I don’t have to like him.
“Seamus isn’t backup.”
“Lunch is on me.” Vincent motions for me to sit.
He wanted to meet on his turf.
I insisted on something neutral.
Yet here we are, on his home ground even though I’m still not giving him any advantage.
He doesn’t have the slightest idea what I’ve been through—of where I’ve landed myself or how I’ve clawed and killed my way out of messes.
I could call off this deal or demand extra, and I know it.
He probably knows it, too.
Maybe his asshole attitude is just nerves.
Or maybe he’s hiding something.
“Not here for a meal or to socialize,” I say.
Seamus makes the smallest sound and I ignore him.
Fucking brothers.
“A drink then, for you both.” Again, the jerkoff gestures for me to sit.
“Not thirsty, but you go ahead.”
The man gestures to the girl and orders, feeling her up as he does so.
“Does your backup want something?”
“Thomson Manuka Smoke single malt.” Seamus grins.
The pretentious prick.
He could have stayed loyal to me and not drank instead of heading to the ass end of the fucking planet with a top-shelf shot.
She frowns, confused.
“Or a Redbreast, if that’s what you have.” Seamus sounds pleased with himself.
I swallow a frustrated sigh and level him with a glare as the girl walks away with a blank look on her face.
For fuck’s sake. I’m going to kick his ass for that later.
Although it could be worse.
I could have Declan with me.
Christ only knows what he’d have done.
“He’s not,” I repeat to de Rosa, “my backup. Can we get on with this.” I use the words of a question, but it’s a command.
I don’t look at Seamus.
He’s thinking the same thing about the backup comment, and we can both count three of de Rosa’s goons in here.
One at the bar, one loitering near the lounge area, and one against the wall when we came in.
Seamus could comment, but he doesn’t.
He knows better, and that’s what I don’t pay him for.
He’s my brother, not my staff.
Before we came here today, I finally opened the package de Rosa sent me when we first talked about a deal.
It had his daughter’s photo, her stats.
Fuck, it’s a wonder it didn’t come with her first prize ribbon for best in show, but I didn’t bother looking because nothing I do is based on emotion in that way.
Pretty, ugly, I really don’t care.
I wanted the deal that I wanted, and I wasn’t about to let anything sway me.
But now? It’s all set.
This is the signing of the prenup.
My prenup. It’s fair, the terms I stated, but it means he can’t get more than the deal, and he sure as shit can’t use his hot daughter to sway me.
Nothing can. Nobody will.
She is beautiful, though.
With green eyes, dark-auburn hair, and lips made for cock—she’s fucking stunning, if I’m being honest. Not that I care.
Now, the hot girl I finger-banged and kissed in the park?—
No, not even for her.
She’d be nothing more than a side project.
“Callahan?” Seamus says in a voice that tells me to pay attention.
“We were talking about the marriage. You have dates in mind?”
“The sooner the better.”
Vincent smiles and he claps ringed hands together as my brother and I stand there.
Their drinks arrive and Seamus looks even more pleased.
He’s a single malt whore, but the best Irish will also do.
“Sit, please,” Vincent commands.
When we don’t, he continues.
“You did a brilliant job on the Mitchum hit… put a stop to some moves from fresh bratva blood—I mean, he was making deals, pressing me for money and loyalty.”
“Death,” I say, “usually puts a stop to things. ”
“Who did you hire? I’d love to have that person on my books. No one could give a description. He had a woman as a distraction… brilliant, fucking brilliant.”
My brothers think I should take credit for hits.
But as long as it’s understood I give the orders, no one needs to know who the man behind the gun is.
It makes it more mythical that way.
Seamus sighs.
I slant a look at Seamus, and he knocks back his drink, then sets his briefcase on the table in front of de Rosa.
The click of the locks is loud in the almost empty room.
There isn’t even background music.
Just an expensive atmosphere, hot, naked girls, and his backup.
Dec’s gonna be jealous.
Of the girls, not the backup.
Declan would use those guys as target practice.
“I’m thinking next week we have the engagement party and the week after the wedding,” he says.
“Fine by me—as long as you sign the prenup,” I reply, my face remaining stoic.
Seamus clears his throat.
Although Vincent dismissed him as my lackey, my brother’s actually smart.
With his law degree, he helped their lawyer draft the contract.
“It’s legally binding the moment you sign. Just to cover any last-minute change of mind. If that happens, the one who pulls out has to pay an amount that is… substantial. And not all of that is in cash.”
“No one’s doing that on my end.” De Rosa laughs.
“Humor Callahan by signing, and as soon as rings are exchanged, you’ll get the introduction you want.” Seamus taps the prenup.
“I’m sure after that hit I won’t need it. Not now. You’ve more than proved yourself. ”
I nod, watching, reading him.
But he’s mafia, and he can hide his tells with the best of us.
I take the prenup, pull out my pen, and sign in all the requisite places.
His copy and mine. Then I slide them both over to him.
“Your turn.”
“As I said, it isn’t necessary.”
“This is for me, not you. I protect what’s mine. It’s fair. What you asked for, no more, no less. I marry your daughter, and our assets all remain our own. My name helps you, yours helps me. It’s all there.”
He runs a hand down the front of his face and my stomach tightens.
He’s either nervous or hiding something.
But I do have a built-in get-out clause.
Unfortunately for him, it’s a bullet to the brain.
It’s the same result if he tries to double-cross me.
But I don’t think it’ll come to that.
He cares for his daughter, and I’ll kill her first. Make him watch.
However, we both need what the other has.
The mutual benefits keep things safe and balanced.
“Sign.”
“You’re a nice guy. I think we should ease it up, play it a little looser. You’d benefit more, too. Consider it a wedding gift for you and my daughter.”
“Your Viviana is no longer your concern.”
“I know you’ll look after her.” Vincent is sweating a little.
“A good Irish-Italian like you?—"
“Just so you know, I might seem nice, but I’m not. Cross me and I’ll kill you and your family in seconds flat. Are we clear?”
Vincent swallows. “ Like glass.”
I hand him my pen.
“What the fuck,” Seamus says after we get in the car, “was that?”
“I don’t know, but I got what I wanted so I don’t care.”
He shifts, facing me as Clive, our driver, pulls out into traffic. “West Village?”
“Take us home, Clive.”
The man doesn’t even blink at the nickname I gave him. I think his actual name’s Martin, but Clive’s good. It works. It’s the name of a driver, harmless. And if something happens to him… the next one will be named Clive, too.
I don’t expect something to happen, unless it’s by my hand. Clive’s a good killer, but too much of a survivor. And he’s no match for me. If he hurts me or mine, crosses us? Lights fucking out.
“You don’t…” Seamus snatches my cigarettes as I pull them out. I take them back and light up, leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes. “You don’t care?”
I shrug. “Not particularly. We get what we want.”
“He was nervous and fucking sweaty. He had three armed men with him.”
This time I sigh, sitting up and looking at my brother. His hair’s short, and he’s clean-shaven like I probably should be. I will, for the wedding. But the fact de Rosa missed we were brothers says a lot about his status.
He’s used to others taking care of things.
So why was he so nervous?
And do I actually care?
“I don’t think it’s a big deal. And besides, we have him in our crosshairs. If he’s having second thoughts or has ideas about screwing us over, I really don’t give a fuck. He can’t touch us and we can, if he tries, take him and his family the fuck out. Either way we win. We’ll be shooting up to the top of the New York food chain.” I take a drag. “Dead or alive, he’ll serve us the same.”
“Christ, you really are heartless, Callahan.”
“Don’t forget soulless.” I tousle his hair.
“Get off!”
“How about we check out some businesses to maybe buy and get drunk while we’re at it?”
He laughs. “Dec’s going to be pissed.”
“Little prick.” I roll my eyes at Seamus. “There are a few bars on the Lower East Side I want to check out. Then maybe we can hit a strip joint or a sex club. You think you can control yourselves if we have Dec and Torin meet us?”
“Sure we can, we’re mature.”
I take another drag. I’ll believe that when I see it.
My brothers are definitely not the mature type. Well, Dec isn’t. I sometimes doubt Seamus, and Tor… he keeps it tight. But one thing they never do is mess up—they never choose pussy over family. If one of them falls in love, I’d bet my money on Dec, who’s in his early twenties and thinks life’s been a ball ever since he can remember. He was too young for the tough times, too young to remember when Da got shot, then when Da was double-crossed and went to prison.
Not by a fellow criminal or gang member, but by one of the faithful who decided Da could serve time when he could do better out here.
As Da always said, you can trust a criminal, but when hearts and souls are on the line… fuck no.
I took that fucking bastard out one cold night in Dublin. Da’s still serving time, but the man responsible is dead at least.
The girls are hot and fine in the strip club we’re at, but it’s not the thing I want to sink money into. The whole system’s too tight, too legit, according to Seamus. It’s good if we want some aboveboard properties and businesses, but…
I’m looking for something else.
Dec finds what he’s looking for at the sex club, and I’m not sure how much bleach exists to wash out our eyes and brains while watching him get serviced in front of us. Seamus flirts, and Tor drinks with me. But the place has depth—it’s on my radar and it’s for sale for the right price. I watch a sex show happening behind a glass, cage-like room across from us. A girl in a coat catches my eye—long gold curls, a black coat, those fucking heels. She doesn’t look like my masked vixen, but there’s a similarity—the hair, the coat.
But as this girl sensuously shimmies out of it, my girl would have thrown it in my face. A man in black with a whip in his hand, motions her to a pommel horse-type contraption. He ties her, spread-eagle, and runs the whip over her.
Would my masked girl like that?
Is she that kinky?
I’m not sure, but there was something so fucking erotically hot, and at the same time innocent about her, like she didn’t know she was rubbing herself on me, trying to get off, almost like a?—
Fuck. No.
She let me finger her to two orgasms. I close my eyes, disinterested in the show going on in front of me. My masked girl’s golden eyes glow in my head, that mouth which refused to quit calls to me. And her cunt… fuck…
How the hell am I gonna find her?
I also know she’s probably trying to sort out what happened—fighting the need that pulsed between us, that made her silently beg for me. She knows enough about my world to realize what the fuck I am—and she ran when I shot the dickhead who was going to kill her.
Yeah, I’m going to find her again. Somehow.
As soon as I sort out this fucking sham marriage and take what I want from my new bride.
Vincent de Rosa paces in his office at his overgrown and tacky palace in Bayside a week later. I light a cigarette and wait for him to stop.
He casts me a barely confined irritated look, which is rich, considering he clearly stinks up the room with cigar smoke on the regular from the smell of it, but I don’t say a thing.
I keep smoking, and I’m thinking of lighting up again as soon as I finish, chain-smoking my way through the meeting to really piss him off.
After all, he’s making me miss the basketball pickup game in the Cage at West Fourth. We have money on it, and without me… eh, we’ll probably get beaten, depending on who else shows up. It’s my way to regularly blow off steam, and he’s fucking up my process.
I wait for him to stop pacing.
If he was nervous at the prenup signing, he’s fucking beyond panicked right now. I could probably get a full glass from the sweat he keeps mopping up.
Even if I hadn’t been planning on the pickup game, I still wouldn’t be here the day before the engagement party. But he’s been calling me like a jilted teenage girl. I know it’s not to cancel our plans. He knows he can’t afford to lose my connections or my UK/European power.
I blow out a smoke ring and pick up some ridiculous piece of art that I use as an ashtray. “Out with it. Whatever’s got your panties all twisted, Vincent, spit it out. This is why I have the prenup and clauses. If there’s an enemy threatening you, you’ll have to pay for it to be taken care of this time.”
“I don’t?—”
“Don’t have one you want me to kill, or you don’t have enemies? I’ll believe the first and not the last. Besides, I don’t trust a bastard who doesn’t have enemies. If you don’t, you’re either doing it wrong or fucking slime.” I laser a cold, emotionless look at him.
He swallows, stops, goes to his bar, then pours a drink and downs it.
Doesn’t even offer me one.
I think it’s the first nakedly honest moment from him I’ve seen. He’s selfish, small, self-centered, and knows his power. And his weaknesses. It’s all there in that pour for one.
“No one you need to take out. I… we… I have a problem.”
“Which is?” I tap more ash.
He pours another drink. “My daughter.”
“If she’s pregnant, then you deal with it.”
“She’s not pregnant. Viviana… Viviana isn’t available.”
I straighten, taking a deep drag. “And?”
“But I have another daughter. Lucia. She just turned twenty-one. Young, untouched, not as pretty, but she’ll make a good wife. To sweeten the deal, I’ll give you my sex club in Chelsea, Grind. I launder through it and it’s good. Profitable. High-class clientele.”
I pretend to think about it. “Do you know Silk? Lower East Side? Hardcore as well as softer sex club?”
He nods.
“I want it. Half price.” Then I smile. “Before you say a word, I don’t care how, but I do know what they’ll sell it for. I want it half price.”
“Consider it done.” Vincent starts to relax, and he picks up the bottle, offering it out like a token. I just stare until he puts it back. “Do you want to meet Lucia?”
“I don’t give a shit, honestly. As long as she’s obedient.”
De Rosa starts going on about how she is. I just said it to see how far I could go. What can I say, I’m bored.
“Tomorrow. You can meet her at the engagement party tomorrow.”
“Make sure it’s a big party,” I say. “And a masked one. Then we can follow it up with a surprise wedding.”
I like the idea of a masked gathering. Reminds me of the girl whom I let get away, and what I got from her before that happened.
He gapes at me, then nods. “We can do that, but…”
“No invitations have been sent for the wedding. I was going to keep it small, family only, but…” I shrug. “With the change of bride, we’ll make it bigger. You can do that by tomorrow.” I stub out my cigarette.
“Yes, yes, of cou?—”
“Seamus will have the lawyer draw up the amended paperwork regarding the clubs. I want it signed by five this evening. With the keys to the Chelsea club noting the change of ownership and the Silk buyout in motion. Or…”
“What?”
I smile and blow one final smoke ring. “Or you’ll face the consequences of breaking our deal.”