23. Chapter 23
Callahan
Throughout dinner, I had seen the skinny waiter from earlier eyeing Rory. He was extra attentive, making sure her wine glass was never empty, even though she barely touched it until she was finished eating and we were making small talk, enjoying drinks and desserts. It was not only grating on my nerves, but I could tell Rory was uncomfortable with the attention and Mikhail was having trouble controlling his temper over the blatant disrespect.
Fyodor was telling an entertaining story of the first time Mikhail had put him in charge of a job and how he’d completely botched it but then scrambled around trying to fix everything before Mikhail found out. Rory let out a sleepy chuckle from under my arm and my eyes found her again, worried I’d kept her out too late. Though I had barely kept my eyes off her all evening, she looked different all of a sudden. In the three minutes since I had last looked at her, when she cuddled into my side and laid her head on my arm, she’d grown pale and sweaty, slumped in her chair. When I jumped to my feet and grabbed her face to make her look at me, her skin was cold and clammy. Her glazed eyes met mine as I repeated her name over and over again. Connor and Carson immediately joined me, kneeling by their charge with anger and worry in their eyes. They drew their guns, their bodies tense and on high-alert.
Mikahil and his men stood with us, forming a protective wall around Rory while Mikhail strode quickly to the Maitre d’ and gave him instructions.
“Rory, can you hear me, solas?” She moaned faintly and I peeled strands of hair off her sticky skin and tucked them behind her ears. Her glazed eyes rolled as she tried to focus on me. Panic fluttered in my chest and a white hot rage unlike anything I had ever experienced burned through my veins. But there, underneath the panic and anger, true fear fluttered behind my sternum.
Rory’s eyes finally found my face but remained unfocused. “Cal?” she asked softly.
I gripped her face with both my palms, keeping her eyes on mine when her head tried to roll to the side again. “I’m here, solas. I’m right here. Keep your eyes on mine, baby. Don’t you dare look away from me.” A soft sob passed her lips and I felt a little tension bleed from her weak body. She was coherent enough to be scared of whatever was happening to her. I had a brief memory of her relaxing under my demands while she sucked me off this morning, and an idea planted front and center in my mind. I hoped like hell it worked. “Aurora Byrne,” I said sternly. She blinked slowly but a small smile tilted one side of her lips. I saw Mikhail making his way back over to us. “Don’t you fecking dare close your eyes, baby. I know you’re scared, but don’t you fecking dare. You look at me, do you understand me?”
She shivered like she was cold and Connor and Carson immediately ripped their jackets off. I grabbed Connor’s and wrapped it around her torso and she frowned a little.
“Smells wrong,” she whispered meekly. Despite the tense moment, Connor chuckled.
“Come, Cal. We will take her to the back,” Mikhail said. Her eyes tried to leave mine to look in his direction, but they slid closed.
“Rory!” I barked. Her eyes obediently met mine again, though she had to visibly fight to keep them open. I lifted her from her chair, her weight completely limp in my arms and the fear in my chest grew larger.
As we walked through the restaurant, Connor and Carson stayed right next to me while Mikhail’s men flanked me on all sides. I saw the Maitre d’ ushering people out of the building one table at a time. When we entered a room in the back, an office from the looks of it, I laid Rory on a couch that was pushed up against one wall. It was hard and made of old, dated material that scratched at my arms as I tried to pull them out from under her. Absolutely not.
“I need your jackets,” I said roughly, lifting her back into my arms. The men didn’t ask questions, they just laid their jackets over the rough material of the couch so that I could lay her on something that wouldn’t irritate her delicate skin.
“Is she still conscious, my friend?” Mikhail asked as he tried to approach the couch. Carson growled and braced his feet wide, making it clear he didn’t want anyone coming close to us. Mikhail’s eyes widened at me but I didn’t correct Carson. My brain was at war, not wanting to believe Mikhail would have had my wife poisoned in his restaurant, but unable to think clearly enough through the fear for Rory to come up with another explanation.
Finn, who I hadn’t even noticed entering the room, came quickly to my side and whispered in my ear, “I have secured the wait and kitchen staff. They are waiting for you in a back room.”
I growled. “I will not leave her.”
“Of course, Boss. The doc is on his way for her.” Relief swirled in my chest and I looked up at my oldest friend in thanks. He nodded, not needing me to say anything and turned his back to me, bracing his feet apart and forming a wall between Rory and the men that may, or may not, be a threat to her.
I stayed on my knees next to the couch, my eyes locked on my wife as I watched her breathing, watched her eyes roll until only the whites were visible, watched her pulse flutter under the thin skin of her neck. No matter how much I yelled at her to keep her eyes on mine, she slipped in and out of consciousness several times before the doctor finally arrived. When he pushed me aside to kneel next to Rory, I finally let the fear recede. Without the buffer, my anger burned hotter.
I turned and my eyes met Mikhail’s. If I’d had any true worries that he had done this, they would have disappeared then and there. Anger and worry and regret swirled in his eyes. I recognized that look. Anger that someone had hurt Rory. Worry for her. Regret that this had happened in his restaurant.
I ground my teeth together and took a deep breath through flared nostrils. “Take me to your staff. Finn, with me. Connor, Carson, do not leave her side unless someone is dragging your fecking dead body away.” I didn’t look away from Mikhail as I issued my orders, but he seemed content to let me take the lead here. We’d been friends for so long, he could read me like a book. He probably knew that I needed this control right now.
He cast one last worried glance at Rory before turning from the room. “Vadim, Fyodor, outside the door. Nobody in or out unless Cal says so,” he barked in Russian. They posted up outside the closed door and crossed their arms over their chests.
I followed Mikhail to the kitchen, where his staff waited. Some looked about ready to shite themselves, others looked bored, like this kind of thing happened all the time. The chef seemed to be sweating the most and the moment Mikhail entered the room, the man dropped to his knees, his hands clasped in front of his face as he begged for his life. “Mr. Ivanov, please, you must know I had nothing to do with this,” he pleaded. He spoke so quickly, I had a hard time deciphering the foreign words at first.
He rambled on and on but I tuned him out and scanned the faces in the room. The waiter that had been so attentive to Rory all evening was in the very back, closest to the emergency exit. He shifted nervously, his face pale and sweaty, his eyes darting around the room nervously. I leaned back on my heels and whispered to Finn. He slipped from the room as I continued surveying the faces. The only one that snagged my attention was the skinny waiter.
Mikhail helped the sobbing chef off the floor. “Yakov, you are not at fault, my friend. Do not worry. Go home to your family. Mrs. Byrne will be well.” The chef seemed genuinely distraught that something had happened in his restaurant. He apologized repeatedly as he made his way out of the kitchen, wringing his chef’s hat between his wrinkled hands.
Mikhail made his rounds, dismissing anyone that hadn’t had a hand in serving our table this evening. When there were only the four men that had served our table, the skinny one twitched as his eyes flicked to the door. He was pale and sweaty and I thought if he didn’t bring his heart rate down, the bastaird would probably pass out.
Mikhail approached the remaining four men and though three of them seemed nervous, only one of them was acting guilty. Mikhail’s eyes scanned the men in front of him and he asked casual questions, trying to be nonchalant and put the men at ease.
When he reached the one I was dying to get my hands on, he cocked his head to the left. “Why are you so nervous, Matvey? You are sweating all over my floor.”
The kid flinched and his eyes darted around. I walked up behind Mikhail, my eyes narrowed. Mikhail took a small step to the side, just enough to let me know he was okay with me taking part in this portion of the fun. “Matvey is your name?” The kid swallowed convulsively and nodded once. I ran my eyes over his sweaty face and a muscle under my left eyebrow began to twitch. “How old are you?”
“T-twenty-two, sir.” His eyes darted between Mikhail and I before flashing to the escape behind him.
I licked my bottom lip before speaking again. “Pretty young to die, Matvey. Unfortunately for you, the woman you poisoned is my wife. The only reason you are still alive is because I want to know what you gave her and where-”
My words broke off as the kid turned and ran at Mach speed to the exit at the back. He yanked the door open and stopped dead, nearly falling on his arse as he drew up short. Finn smiled menacingly down at him and Mikhail dismissed the other three while we approached Matvey from behind, Finn blocking the escape in front of him. Just as my hand clamped around the back of the kid’s neck, Fyodor spoke up from behind me.
“Mr. Byrne, the doctor says Mrs. Byrne needs immediate medical attention. She will not survive if we don’t get her to the hospital immediately.”
Ice filled my veins and I was certain that, in that moment, my heart stopped beating. I looked at Mikhail with pain in my eyes. He clamped a hand over Matvey’s shoulder.
“Go be with your wife, brother. I promise, we will not do anything without you,” he said in stilted Irish. Which meant he didn’t want to spook Matvey any more than he already was. Probably so the kid would put up less of a fight.
“I don’t care what you have to do, Mikhail. Find out what he gave her. But his death is mine.” I spoke in Irish as well, but my tone must have conveyed my anger. The kid whimpered and I swore the smell of fear permeated the air.
Whether it was his or mine, I couldn’t say.