Chapter 18
LIAM
The bar’s smoky and packed. The doors are guarded and all the tables are filled with men quietly talking. Saint Stephen’s isn’t the nicest joint in Brooklyn, but tonight, it might be the most powerful.
Seamus holds court in the back corner. The Whelan brother enforcer laughs loudly, drinks plenty, and is generous to everyone who comes through the door.
Declan’s the polar opposite: he’s quiet, serious, and talks with a few other Whelan upper-level members in dour tones.
Regan’s father is at the main table along with her brother Luke.
I stay off to the side wishing Finn weren’t busy with several family lieutenants. There are no wives tonight, no girlfriends. The only woman is Cathy manning the bar. She brings over a second bourbon and slides it into my waiting hand.
“Isn’t this supposed to be a celebration?
” She leans toward me, lined face giving me a curious smile.
I’ve always liked her. No bullshit in that woman.
I watched her brain a patron one time for reaching over and trying to steal a single beer from the ice chest. She smashed a glass over his head like it was no big deal and went back to filling drinks like nothing happened. She’s good people.
“Not for me.”
“Seems strange, since you’re the one who got married.”
“My marriage isn’t for me.” I spin the drink in a slow circle before sipping it. My eyebrows raise. “You got me the good stuff?”
“Like I said, it’s a celebration, hun.” She winks and goes off to cover another order.
The Whelan organization rarely gets together like this.
I can think of a very small handful of times when the entire upper-rank of the family was in a single room all at the same time.
Tonight though, they’re all here: Declan, the boss, Seamus and Finn, even the creepy murder-bot Cormac.
The brothers drift around each other, amiably talking before breaking apart, running the world like they were born to it.
Guess they were. I can’t pretend like I hold it against them. I’ve been through some shit, but they’ve suffered as much if not more. I couldn’t follow them if they hadn’t. What’s the point of a man if he doesn’t know pain? Can’t be a real adult without loss and suffering, not in my mind at least.
A young man slumps down into the stool beside me. He grunts and looks over, scratching the back of his head. “Well, look at you, about as depressed as I’ve ever seen.”
“Connor. You good?”
“I’m alright.” He asks for a Guinness when Cathy pops over. “You ever take control of a crime family before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s a fucking pain in the ass.” He grunts a thanks when his beer appears and drinks down half in one chug. “Always more shit to do.”
“Must be nice. You know, you’re your own boss.”
“Yeah, brother, and I work from fucking home. Spend all day on Zoom calls.”
“I think they use Teams now.”
“I don’t even know what that shit is, and I hope to the good lord Jesus Christ I never do.”
“Here’s to that.” I tap my glass against his.
“Seriously, what’s with you?”
“Cathy was giving me shit for it too. Am I being that bad?”
“You look like you want to fucking kill someone.” He flinches and holds up a hand. “Moreso than usual, my friend.”
“Thinking about the way things are trending right now, is all.”
Connor nods grimly. He’s the head of a relatively minor but growing group within the Whelan umbrella. The young man only took control after his uncle and his cousin were both unceremoniously killed in action, and now he’s doing his best to find his footing. I like him and I don’t envy him.
“It’s all they’re talking about. The fucking Russians.”
“This is in theory meant to be a celebration of the new alliance, but we both know what it really is.”
“A god damn war meeting.” He takes another long drink. “Seamus already got me.”
“What’d he say?”
“We’re on notice. Wants me to guarantee my boys will be ready if they’re called on. You know how many times we’ve gone on hits for the family?”
“I’m guessing not many.”
“Fuck no. People like you and Cormac do that shit. No offense.”
“None taken. The family’s been spoiled.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He finishes off the beer and slides it forward. “We’ll do what’s asked of us, you can bank on that, but I’ve got a feeling there won’t be enough blood in this city to stop whatever’s coming. You take care, alright? I got a whole bunch of new shitty jobs to deal with.”
“Good luck, Connor.”
He salutes and walks off, hands shoved in his pockets, looking ten years older.
I nurse my drink and let the noise of the bar wrap around me.
I wonder how Regan’s doing at home, if she’s being smart and staying indoors, or if she’s being a pain in the ass and going against my express wishes.
Probably the latter if I know her. I smile to myself, and I should be pissed off, but I’m so damn soft when it comes to her.
I wish she were here. That’s the fucked part, if I’m being honest. I’ve never wanted a woman by my side before, always felt more comfortable in dim rooms like this one, populated by killers, thieves, and generally bad mother fuckers.
Except I’m itching to go back to my apartment, to find my pretty wife, and to hold her against me.
There’s a reason I haven’t been home much.
It’s too god damn tempting, and we’re headed toward war.
I can’t let myself go soft.
But I’m melting all the same.
“You good?” I look up as Luke takes the seat Connor vacated a few minutes earlier. “I had to escape that fucking table. I swear, I was going to cut my own throat listening to all that.”
“You don’t like being a part of the planning committee?”
Luke grunts and rubs his face with both hands. He’s got a vodka on ice at his elbow. “They go in circles, again and again, when it’s so obvious, right? There’s really only one path forward.”
“Everyone’s saying it. But what’s your take?”
“The Baranovs crossed the line.” He rolls the glass between his palms. “They attacked my sister’s wedding.”
“My wedding too.”
“Exactly! But they’re over there discussing other strategies.”
“You want guns blazing.”
“I want to finish this once and for all. I don’t want it to drag out.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. But maybe you should think Declan and his brothers know what they’re doing?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Luke doesn’t sound convinced. He’s a decent sort, but not my type. Too wrapped up in politics. Too sheltered by his father. Not enough scar tissue on him.
“Your sister say anything to you? About me and her?”
He seems surprised by the question. “Not really, and I did ask.”
“Told her to come to you if I did anything fucked up?”
“Pretty much.”
I like that he doesn’t deny it. That wins some points. “Good. You should kill me if I do.”
“I’ll try.”
“I respect that.” I hold up my glass. “Here’s to righteous murders.”
“Here’s to surgical strikes.” He drinks but doesn’t seem satisfied. “She likes you, I think.”
I go very still. For some fucked reason my heart quickens straight up into my throat. Why the hell do I feel like this? What’s it matter if my wife likes me or not?
“Tell her that sometime.”
“Regan’s got her issues. You need to ease her in. Let her get used to things on her own time. Give her space.”
“I’m not sure why her brother’s giving me relationship advice.”
“Maybe I want to see my sister happy. She’s stuck with you now. Might as well make the best of it.”
“Pragmatic. Makes sense.”
“Plus, she can be such a pain in the ass when she’s miserable.” He flashes a quick grin, raising his glass. “You’ll see. Has she given you the look yet?”
I smile despite myself. I know exactly what he means. It’s the pinched glare she gets when she’s livid. She had it the whole time we were at the store last night.
I’m about to tell him I’m familiar when there’s a commotion in the back of the room.
Shouting, angry, scared, along with a familiar ping of anxiety running through the people nearby.
Everybody’s craning to see what’s going on which means more bodies start cramming the tight space.
I push my drink aside and stand, reaching for my weapon.
There are guards outside. A dozen of them, watching front and back. But even with the muscle, we’re still vulnerable. Finn said they only decided to do this because it was a way to start the war planning under the guise of a celebration. He figured it’d be about as safe as it ever could be.
Not even the Baranovs would stoop so low, he insisted. Even they had enough honor to respect a happy occasion.
Now I’m thinking he was wrong.
“Stay here,” I tell Luke. “Something’s happening.”
I stride through the crowd, pushing people aside as they filter toward the front exit. Luke stays by my side, which pisses me off. He should be leaving too, but I don’t have time to fight him back.
The shooting starts.
Instantly the press of bodies heaves away as everyone scrambles for cover.
It’s pure fucking chaos. I can’t tell where the fighting’s coming from, who’s shooting where, what’s going on.
More than a few men around me are down on their stomachs, guns waving wildly around, and I curse when I realize I’m more likely to get killed by friendly fire right now.
I shove Luke hard, ramming him with my shoulder. He sprawls with a yelp, hits a table, and rolls over, landing sloppily in a booth. I have half a second to leap after him when two men stride into the room, both strapped with submachine guns.
The carnage is awful. Bullets fly and bodies are torn to pieces.
I come up shooting and manage to catch one man in the side, surprising him.
He spins away, gun firing up into the ceiling, spraying bullets into plaster and wood.
Chips and dust rain down as he collapses.
I flip the table with a curse seconds before the remaining shooter turns on us and opens fire.
I slam my foot into Luke’s guts to keep him down. I want to return fire, but I’m busy keeping Regan's damn brother alive. It’s not an ideal situation. I should be free to fight, but instead I keep thinking about how much it’ll break her god damn heart if she lost this suicidal moron.
There’s more shouting, more gunfire, until a familiar voice rings through the nightmarish din. “He’s down. Hold your fucking fire.”
I peer over the flipped table to find Cormac Whelan looming over the dead. He’s gore-splattered, bloodied, like a demon from a horror film. A smoking gun hangs limply from one hand as he crouches down and rips the mask off one of the corpses.
I don’t recognize the face.
“What… the fuck…” Luke scrambles to his feet. His face is pale with horror. “Oh my god.”
The room’s a slaughterhouse. Anyone who didn’t make it out in the initial rush is splattered with blood.
More than a few corpses are slumped sideways, the floor and ceiling slick with dripping, sticky blood, the room reeking with death.
Cormac’s busily cutting at the face of one of the shooters, probably questioning him while he’s still alive.
I start surveying the damage. I can’t let myself panic. Not right now. There are wounded to deal with, and the extent of this attack won’t be obvious until we know who was killed. If anyone in the main Whelan family is down—if Finn got hit during the shooting—
I don’t let my mind go there.
Instead, I hurry over to a lieutenant I barely know, a young man with a baby face. Fucker can barely even grow a beard, but his guts are hanging out. He’s weakly trying to keep them in. “Liam… is it bad?” His eyes lock on mine, face sweaty. “Is it really bad?”
“You’re alright.” I try to remember his name until it comes to me. “You’ll be okay, Eamon, I promise.”
He mutters something, but it’s too quiet to hear over the groans of the dead and the dying.
I patch him up the best I can, but he’s too far gone. I move on to the next body, a man with a shard of wood on his thigh. He’ll be okay. On and on, more gunshot wounds, more shrapnel-filled flesh, until Luke grabs me by the shoulder.
“Regan,” he says, clearly on the edge of collapse and panic. “Where’s Regan?”
“She’s back home. She’s—“
I’m about to say safe but how the fuck do I know?
They targeted this meeting.
Which means they might target her too…
And there’s nobody to protect her.
Oh fuck. Oh fucking fuck.
I push Luke away and get to my feet. I grab his shoulder and yank him forward. “Help whoever you can. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I mean, I will, but—“
“Keep them alive, damn it. Don’t fall apart now. Can you do this?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” I shove him toward the nearest body. I don’t want to leave before I know Finn’s okay, but I don’t see him in the mass of flesh and ruined lives, and Regan’s all alone back home.
Responsibility toward the family wars with my need to protect my wife.
I rush out of the room, sprinting into the night, out toward my car.