21. Callahan
TWENTY-ONE
callahan
The ball hits the rim, bouncing off the side, and my so-called fucking team gives me shit.
Half my brain’s still on what happened in Jamaica.
The bomb might have been a warning or a piss-poor job at taking us out.
I don’t know. I don’t care.
Someone planted it there, and we were sent there by one Vincent de Rosa.
If we hadn’t gotten the girl out, she’d have died.
My thoughts drift to O’Sullivan and the Osinovs.
O’Sullivan’s family doesn’t play small-time games, and they sure as hell don’t do homemade bombs.
But Paddy spent his formative years in Ireland.
He’s been known to pull shit like that when the need arises.
But where the fuck does Lucie’s father fit in?
Is he a pawn? Greedy bastard?
Or somewhere in between?
Our contract’s worth shit if my brothers and I are dead.
But to pull a stunt like that would mean blowing up big opportunities with me.
All the puns intended.
My mind trips back to fucking Paddy .
Or maybe the crew who took the girl was going to kill her and whoever her father sent to rescue her, only they fucked it up with their half-assed device.
Right now, I don’t know a goddamn thing.
I ache, that’s what I know.
My fucking bruises have bruises, and while taking Lucie’s hot ass eased the pent-up anger, it didn’t burn it away.
On top of that, Lucie Joy’s pissed.
“Yo, Murphy, eyes on the game, mind off the shorty,” Tommy C says with a knowing smirk.
He’s just a little taller than me.
He looks gangly, but he’s got power, and if I thought he’d walk on the dark side with me, I’d fucking add him to my payroll.
The game continues and Declan starts giving Hector attitude.
Torin rolls his eyes because Hector’s on the other team and he could pound Dec’s ass into chopped meat.
If I let it happen.
Seamus has the slightest limp that I keep an eye on.
Whoever the fuck did this will meet a bloody and painful fucking end.
The game ends and we narrowly lose.
Tommy C fist-bumps me and says, gaze wandering to Lucie, “Introduce me.”
“Not on your fucking life, man. She’s mine.”
He’s about to say something that might get his teeth rearranged—I know Tommy C—but then his gaze drops to my chest and the chain around my neck with the ring hanging off it.
“Oh, shit. She really is. You’re not fucking around.”
He slaps my back and laughs, shaking his head, then goes to his spot on the bench where he pulls on his shirt and throws a backpack over his shoulder.
“Lucie?” I go to her and slouch on the bench as everyone stands in groups, talking.
“Stop looking like a deer in headlights and smile for Christ’s sake. ”
“Women don’t like being told to smile, you Irish oaf.”
“Man,” Hector says, “she still breathing after that?”
I pull her close, feather a kiss over her lips.
“For now.”
“Why is there a gun in that backpack?”
“Lucie Joy,” I murmur, kissing her ear, the shiver that runs through her feeding me.
“I told you not to look. Relax and put it down with the other bags.”
“But—”
“Do it.”
She narrows her eyes but does it, and Hector makes his goodbyes.
He picks up the pack she just set down.
Once it’s just me and my brothers left, I hand the one Hector left behind to her.
“I’m not your… your mule.”
Fuck, she’s prickly.
“What about my whore?”
She takes a sharp breath and something in me softens.
“Just a joke.” I lift her chin.
“And I did ask you not to look in there, did I not?”
“That’s like telling me to do it.”
“Dec usually takes the bag if we’re doing that kind of exchange. But I thought you’d like to feel part of it.”
“You’re wrong.” She pulls free and I don’t know what the fuck crawled up her ass, but Jesus, she’s mafia.
Or the child of a mafia prick.
She’s sheltered, but she knows the game.
And I still haven’t gotten the real story from her about what went on the night we met.
How she knew that dickhead cop I shot.
I stop. No. She might’ve told me the truth as she knew it.
But there’s still something gnawing at my brain…
Could that have been why the bomb was there today?
It makes no sense. Sure, that guy smelled crooked, even from across the road that fateful night when I met Lucie, but logistically, it doesn’t add up.
“Can we go home, please?” she asks quietly .
I’m about to say yes until Torin nods at me and holds up his phone.
He comes over and shows me.
The message on it says, “Info at Clancy’s.”
I nod at him.
“We’ll go, but first we’re getting a drink.”
Her eyes dull, the usual glimmer fizzled out, and it sends sharp slices of guilt through me.
“Where?” she asks.
“Irish pub. I’ll buy you a Dubious Joy.”
Clancy’s is quiet enough and Torin and Seamus go to meet the bartender/owner.
It’s about O’Sullivan, maybe dirt on some of the people we’ve lined up to do business with, outside of my dealing with de Rosa.
It could be about the Jamaica explosion, but unless someone knows the real deal, who set it up and why, then it’s doubtful we’ll get answers here at Clancy’s.
My brothers will find out what they can.
They always do.
Dec talks as he digs around in the backpack like he’s looking for his wallet, but I know he’s checking that all the money is in there, along with details about a shipment coming in through Mexican tunnels.
This is real homegrown stuff.
Just pen and paper info.
It’s a good deal, a one-off of some high-grade arms I can sell back home, pieces we can’t get ourselves.
I’m not really listening to Dec, but it slowly dawns on me long after his nod that lets me know it’s a yes, that he’s not talking to me after all.
He’s talking to my fucking bride.
Flirting, actually .
Even generic flirting earns him a murderous look, one he ignores.
Usually the charming little gobshite has all women eating from his hand, licking his damn fingers, and begging for more.
Not my Lucie.
But still, she likes him, finds him sweet—fucking sweet—and endearing.
I mean, it’s obvious from their banter.
So I start paying attention.
And that’s when she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.
“Asshole,” I mutter to Dec.
“Dick,” he says back.
The other two return with the drinks.
“Well now, it seems our friend’s been asking about us,” Seamus says.
“Nice to know we’re famous on both sides of the pond.” He picks up his whiskey.
I tap the table. “Any leads on where he is?”
“Clancy said he likes that trend of masked events, dance clubs, sex club parties?—”
“And engagement parties slash pop-up weddings,” Dec says over the top of Torin.
“Is he looking for us?” I look from Tor to Seamus.
Seamus shrugs. “He seems interested in parties and avenues of income. Interestingly not with the bratva. He’s into the Italians.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Any meetings in Bayside?”
“Not that Clancy’s heard. He knows of de Rosa.”
“Means nothing, anyone who’s anyone has heard of that guy.” I know it all means something, but apart from Paddy wanting to cause trouble, which would be pretty fucking stupid, I don’t get it.
This is not neutral territory.
I don’t play in the Russians’ backyard unless there’s a deal.
They don’t play in mine unless there’s a deal.
And that goes for the Italians, some of the Polish, and the cartels .
No one wants an out-and-out war.
New York’s a big enough, deep enough field for factions to work together, for territories to work symbiotically and alone.
There are scuffles, and me coming in to build a bigger name, a bigger empire is fine.
Because I’m doing it right.
But what about de Rosa’s real deal?
I don’t trust a man who keeps testing to see how far he can push.
And I want to see his real agenda.
Lucie.
Does it rest on her?
The replacement sister?
I don’t know.
And how the fuck long does it take a girl to go to the bathroom?
With a sigh, I stand up and head back to the bathrooms. I wait outside the door, giving the woman who comes up a dark look.
She backs away and scoots inside the men’s room.
They’re single-stall rooms, nice enough, I guess, if public restrooms float your boat.
The door clicks and starts to open.
I straighten and push my way in, locking it behind me.
I take one look. “What the fuck, Lucie Joy?”
The savage tone belies the part of me that wants to wrap her tight and hold her in soft blankets, to keep her safe and secure.
She doesn’t look at me.
“Can we go? I’m worried?—”
“About the dog?” My heart lifts that he’s still at our house.
“He’s fine. Why have you been crying?”
“I haven’t. I’m angry.” She shoves me into the door and hits me.
“You could have died and you’re playing around with guns. Both you and Seamus look like you were in an explosion, you’re bruised and there are scrapes on your hands and knees.”
Ah shit, I’m wearing basketball shorts so she can see my knees.
“I’m fine.”
She shoves me again.
“Seamus is limping. I’m scared. I… this doesn’t happen to Dad. Just around you.”
“You know how this world works,” I say.
“It’s a dangerous one.”
“You like the danger.”
I don’t deny that.
But I pick my next words carefully.
“It’s part of the job when you do it right.”
“Dad…” She looks up at me.
“Did my father do that, or was it one of the guys in his crew?”
“Would he?”
She lets out a frustrated sigh and throws her hands in the air.
“I don’t know. The only things I know are what I’ve heard and seen. The people who’ve come and gone from our house over the years haven’t exactly been stand-up citizens.” Then her face darkens and she pushes me again.
“Now stop. You’re deflecting.”
“That’s one hit and three pushes more than anyone ever gets. I think that calls for payment,” I say.
“Don’t you?”
She stands her ground and it occurs to me that she’s not scared.
Not of me. She knows what I am and that scares her, but…
she isn’t afraid of me.
Good.
I like that leeway.
That room to play.
“What happened? Why did you ask me about Dad?”
She’s not his spy or anything like that.
I’m not even sure why he’d want a spy.
On paper, the man’s got the deal he wants, and me?
I’ve got what I want, too.
And even if for some reason de Rosa sent us into a death trap, she wouldn’t know anything about it.
Besides, as I discussed with Seamus on the way to one of our safe houses with the girl, my trust, or lack thereof, in de Rosa aside, for the man to take hold of everything of mine, he’d need to take us all out.
Paddy O’Sullivan might have the right connections to have snuck in with a bomb while we got the girl.
I don’t think Pella was the kind to martyr himself.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“You can talk to me. I just… don’t scare me.”
“Were you worried about me?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Nice dress. Is it new?” I straighten and she finally backs away, but the flare in her hazel eyes is excitement, not fear.
I grab her by the waist, pick her up, and dump her on the edge of the sink.
Then I flip up the skirt.
“New panties.”
“Are you obsessed with my clothes?”
I slide my hand up her thigh to the panties and bring my mouth to hers.
“No. I’m obsessed with you in them—and out of them.”