Killian #2
I heave a ragged breath and drain the last bits of the protein shake. What I’m really doing is stalling, trying to figure out my next move.
This was a mistake. Taking her home, getting involved, increasing the tensions between the clan and the Bratva will rise.
I should’ve left her at the Banshee and let her figure out her own shit.
But no… I had to play the fucking hero, and now I’m stuck with a girl who refuses to help herself.
“Fine,” I grit out. “You’re not going to the cops. But you’re not staying here either. Not during the day.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “Then where—”
“I’m dropping you off at the Banshee. You can help Tom clean up the mess from last night. I’ve got business to handle and can’t babysit you all day. You stay there ’til I come back. You behave ’til we come up with a plan for what to do with you.”
“Who’s we?” she asks.
I ignore her, stalking over to the closet to pull out my uniform for the day. The same one I wear almost every day when I’m stepping out as the Callahan’s boneman: a plain T-shirt, some jeans, heavy boots, and my weapons of choice.
Today I go with a couple blades and my Colt 1911.
“What’s it like?” she goes on. She’s openly watching me now, eyes larger and more innocent than usual.
I shoot her another disgruntled glare. “What’s what like?”
“You know, what you do.” She gestures vaguely at me. “Everybody knows what you are.”
“I’m a boxer.”
“I meant your other profession. Breaking bones for a living.”
“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart. But as a boxer, I do break bones for a living.”
She rolls her eyes, irritated I’ve refused any real information. Serves her right for being such a little pain in the ass.
I change and snatch my keys off the table, beckoning for her to come. For once she listens without any push back as she follows me out the door.
Small victories.
After dropping the girl off at the Banshee where Tom’ll have to babysit her for the day, I head a couple blocks down to a diner.
It’s another establishment the clan frequents when we need to act like somewhat normal men and meet at a location in the neighborhood.
The owners are an elderly couple who don’t give a fuck if the Irish mob meet at their restaurant so long as we’re well-mannered and don’t get blood on the floor.
The menu hasn’t been updated since 1985, and the TV hanging off the wall is analog.
I find the person I’m meeting already waiting for me in one of the booths. He’s enjoying a plate of eggs and hash while the older waitress, Doris, chats away. She has a pot of coffee in her hand, oblivious to the fact that she’s overstayed her welcome as she blabs about her grandkids.
Funny that Lochlan Callahan, of all people, would be too polite to tell her to leave him to eat his damn meal in peace.
The eldest Callahan brother isn’t somebody I’ve been close with. Though I grew up as his younger brother’s best pal, we’ve never formed our own bond.
But we have held a mutual respect for each other—at least ’til a few months ago when Lochlan was after the clan for revenge.
Things still aren’t rosy between him and the rest of the family, but it’s what you’d call a work in progress.
He’s not officially back in the mix, but you don’t ever really leave mob life once you’re in it. He was born part of New York’s Underworld—he’ll die by it too.
Doris finally gets the hint when I drop down in the booth opposite him, and she asks me for my order. I wave her off and say I’m still deciding.
“You look like shit,” Lochlan says the moment we’re alone. He shoves another forkful of egg and hash into his mouth and reaches for his black coffee. “Stress from being Clan Chief getting to you?”
“Depends how you look at it. More like I’ve got a female thorn in my side.”
He cocks a brow. “Woman troubles?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking.”
Lochlan’s scrutinizing expression only deepens.
Doris circles back before he can ask what I mean. I tell her I’ll just have some of the burned black coffee and let her wander off again once she’s poured a cup.
“There’s a girl,” I start cryptically. “New server at the Banshee.”
“Heard about that,” he says. “Teagan told me she sucks at remembering orders.”
“That’s the least of her problems. Forgot my keys at the pub last night, and when I returned, I found three Bratva fucks attacking her.”
“The Bratva? At the Banshee after hours?”
“Right, sounds batshit. But then I realized who she was. You’ve probably heard the story on the news—the women who escaped the Vodka Room—turns out, she’s one of them.”
Lochlan nods, piecing together the rest on his own. “Jhene Prince?”
“That’s the one.”
“Chantal knows her. Or at least knows of her. When the deal was going down between my crew and the Bratva, she saw her in the cages. I tossed the key over that she probably used to free herself… and the others.”
I file that information away for later. “Looks like the Bratva’s hunting her. But the girl refuses to go to the cops ’cuz she thinks half of them are on Fedorov’s payroll.”
“She’s probably right.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t help me figure out what to do with her.
” I scrub a hand over my face, frustration thickening in my chest. “I’m an asshole, but even I can’t let the girl get snatched by the Russians.
But I’m no babysitter either. I sure as shit can’t bother Ronan with this while he’s off honeymooning with Simone. ”
Lochlan takes a slow sip of his coffee, considering what I’ve said. “Probably shouldn’t keep her against her will.”
“I’m not keeping her against her will. I’m... strongly encouraging her to stay put ’til I figure out a solution.”
A vague crooked grin appears on the elder Callahan son’s face. “Strongly encouraging her to stay put. Sounds a lot like a polite way to say you’re keeping her against her will.”
“You’d know better than anyone about that, wouldn’t you?”
“Which is why you should take my word for it. It never goes the way you think it will.”
“Fall for the captive?” I scoff. “That’s never gonna happen, Loch.”
His vague grin deepens. “I didn’t think so either. She try to stab you yet?”
“The fuck were you and Chantal getting up to?”
“Listen, you fucking asshat,” he says, amusement in his tone. “The point is you’ll have to get creative with your solution.”
“How creative? The girl won’t cooperate.”
“Bring her upstate.”
“What?”
“To the estate. Me and Chantal are still renovating, but there’s plenty of room. Chantal would probably love to have her. She’d probably treat it as a pet project. You know how she is—always wanting to fix broken things.”
I consider it for a moment. It’s not a terrible idea. The estate is remote, well-protected, and far from Bratva territory.
If anybody could keep Jhene safe, it would be Lochlan and his arsenal of paranoid security measures.
“I’ll bring it up to the girl,” I say finally.
He returns to his eggs and hash. “The girl. You don’t use her name?”
“I prefer the pet names I’ve come up with. Pain in the ass being one.”
He releases a low chuckle as I leave him to his meal. I toss a twenty down for the coffee I’ve had—more than enough to cover it and a tip that’ll leave Doris happy—and head out.
There’s only so many hours in the day, and I’ve already got my hands full without spending it on the girl.
I had a meeting set up with Rurik long before Jhene Prince ever showed up at my pub. Given the confrontation that happened between me and his men last night, you’d think I’d cancel.
But I’m a man of my word, and I figure now’s as good a time as any to hash it out.
Why not meet Rurik face-to-face to see if these tensions between the clan and the Bratva are real?
Gossier’s is as upscale as bars get in Manhattan, which is exactly why I fucking hate it. Even if it’s for criminals and dirty businessmen and crooked politicians, it’s still too glitzy for my tastes.
There’s a reason I prefer the Banshee. A reason I never let Dez talk me into attending parties at the fancy clubs and lounges Manhattan has to offer.
At least Gossier’s is discreet—the inside is dimly lit, with cigar smoke hazing the air and lush dark leather everywhere you look.
Private meetings are always going down no matter the night.
As I stalk into the establishment, tonight’s no different.
I find Rurik Raguzin in his usual corner, a tumbler of vodka in hand. He’s a massive bastard, even bigger than I am, though without the cut-up boxer’s physique I’ve got.
He’s joined by two Russian lapdogs, both obediently flanking him. One is an icy blond I’ve seen many times before. The other is dark-haired, with a face that reminds me of a shark.
Meanwhile, I’ve come alone.
I’m usually the backup. The enforcer Ronan—or sometimes even Seamus or Lochlan—would bring with them for situations like this.
Call it foolish, but the Russians don’t mean shit to me. I don’t need backup to face them.
Rurik’s small dark eyes are usually emotionless, so empty you never know what he’s thinking. But as I arrive, he peers at me with mild interest.
“Rourke,” he says simply. “This is different. It is usually one of the brothers meeting me.”
“Consider them unavailable.”
I drop into the armchair opposite his and wave off the server girl who slinks over to pour me a drink.
“You wanted to meet,” he says. “So talk.”
“You already know what’s up,” I answer bluntly. “Your boys’ve been crossing into our territory. They’ve been causing problems. Some of our smaller associates are scared. It needs to stop.”
“My boys,” he hisses, “go where they need to go.”
“Not on Irish turf, they don’t.”
He takes a slow sip of his vodka, his expression as unreadable as ever. He sits in the armchair like it’s his own personal throne and not Gossier’s property.
“You want to talk territory?” he asks. “Then let us talk about the girl.”
“What girl would that be?”
“No need to play stupid, Rourke. You may be a boxer, but it does not suit you.”
A grin twists onto my lips. “Neither does shit-talking somebody who could knock you and your boys out cold. I’d suggest not getting smart with the mouth.”