Chapter 5
FIVE
Lochlan
“—authorities are asking anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Chantal Banks, twenty-seven, daughter of State Senator Keith Banks, to contact the tip line at the number displayed on your screen,” recites the WCNY field reporter.
The city traffic serves as a background to her spiel. She’s being filmed on location, right in front of the art gallery in SoHo that belongs to Chantal.
“Ms. Banks was last seen on the island of Velaa in the Maldives where she was on vacation with her boyfriend, Wall Street hedge funder Gregory LaMalfa,” she goes on.
“Mr. LaMalfa has since cooperated fully with authorities and maintains he has no knowledge of her current whereabouts. Senator Banks has released a brief statement asking for privacy during this difficult time for his family. We’ll continue to follow this story as it develops—”
I reach for the remote and mute the TV.
Forty-eight hours.
That’s all it took for the disappearance of a senator’s daughter to become the lead story on every news station in the tri-state area, her face plastered across every screen in the city—a glossy, professional headshot of Chantal Banks smiling like she doesn’t got a care in the world.
Up until recently, she didn’t.
In her spoiled little world, the only thing she had to worry about was when her next shopping spree was.
Coming from a wealthy Irish mob family that often ran in the same circles as hers, I get her type. I know all about the Chantal Banks’s of Manhattan.
Spoiled. Pampered. Prissy.
The kind of chick who cries when she breaks a nail or scuffs her thousand-dollar shoes.
I lean back, the shabby leather office chair creaking under my weight. It’s Grandpa Finn’s old chair. His old office in his former estate that I’ve commandeered for my own uses.
The room’s dated and riddled with spiderwebs, and there was no such thing as the internet let alone computers as far as Grandpa Finn was concerned.
He didn’t trust what he called new-fangled gadgets and gizmos.
But thanks to Akio, I’ve been able to make the office functional for my needs. Basics like setting up a TV and Wi-Fi connection.
Stuff I need in the technological age to execute the revenge I’m seeking.
Part of that includes the surveillance I’ve started on the people I’m after.
Senator Banks, for one.
The pompous asshole’s already gone against the instructions we gave him. He was explicitly told not to contact authorities. Yet he’s brought the media and NYPD into it.
Probably the feds too.
But it’s a lost cause.
We snatched that girl from a five-star resort in the middle of the Indian Ocean and got her to upstate New York without so much as a whisper of how or where or who.
Now the entire city’s losing its mind trying to figure out what happened to her while she’s sitting in a locked room two floors above my head.
All without a trace. Not a single lead. Not a goddamned thing.
I’ve covered every base. They won’t find her.
Still, what I didn’t account for—and what’s currently needling at me in a way I don’t particularly appreciate—is Senator Banks going straight to the press.
Instead of waiting for further instruction, what did he do? Blabbed right to the media like the typical, attention-seeking politician he is.
Asking for privacy while simultaneously making sure every news station in New York knows his daughter’s missing.
Classic.
But a crucial mistake when we haven’t even gotten to the negotiating table yet. I make a mental note to factor that into what comes next.
Keith Banks needs to understand early that the rules in this particular game are mine and the consequences for ignoring them will destroy his life.
I pull the laptop toward me and open the surveillance app Akio built—clean interface, more than thirty camera feeds from inside Callahan House alone, all of them running live and crystal clear.
Akio created the app, but Eddie helped set up the actual cameras.
Before Dad and Ronan found out about his betrayal, my boy was able to install the hidden cameras in just about every corner of the property.
Especially the rooms where the most pertinent info’s to be gained.
Ronan had the fucking nerve to act like my son was incompetent and useless, when really he was running circles around their asses, sabotaging them from the inside the entire time.
I select the terrace feed, checking in on my little shithead brother.
He and his wife are sitting down to lunch. These two hated each other’s fucking guts only weeks ago. Yet now they’re crazy in love, screwing like rabbits, and making goo-goo eyes at each other.
It makes me sick. Makes my jaw harden as I glare at the screen and think about how that bitch is responsible for Eddie’s death.
Ronan killed him to protect her. A fucking outsider!
Some weapons dealer’s daughter.
Dad was right about one thing—Ro’s allowed himself to be distracted by a tight cunt and pretty smile. A mistake many powerful men make.
The two of them sit flirting as they talk about a honeymoon and enjoy the lunch Oona prepared them.
I swap to the camera in the foyer, following Oona instead as she diverts from the kitchen to answer the front door.
A slow grin comes to my face realizing who it is.
Just in time.
Senator Banks rushes inside, noticeably less polished than usual. His shirt’s wrinkled, and he’s clutching the ransom note as he tells Oona he needs to speak with Ronan and Simone.
Oona brings him to the terrace, and I switch back to that feed, turning up the audio.
Talk about entertainment.
This is the best kind there is—a live feed of the people I’m exacting revenge on.
“Senator Banks? What’s wrong? It’s Chantal, isn’t it? What’s happened?”
He crosses the terrace toward them, holding out the letter for them to take.
“I… I received this in the mail this morning,” he stammers. Ronan appears at Simone’s shoulder to read over it. “It’s a ransom letter. Chantal’s been taken. Someone’s kidnapped my daughter.”
“Who sent this to you?” Ronan asks, immediately on guard. He’s glaring, my baby brother ever the brooding hothead.
“It arrived anonymously,” Senator Banks answers. “He said they’ll be in touch with further instructions. Is this traceable? Is there some way to figure out who sent this? Any under-the-table means that’ll minimize the authorities’ involvement?”
“You asking to follow instructions or you asking for yourself?” Ronan asks bluntly.
“Ronan,” Simone mumbles.
“He needs to be straight with us. If they’ve got Chantal, there’s a reason they’ve targeted her. It could be because he’s a high-profile state senator—or it could be because he’s got some skeletons in his closet.”
Simone’s brows knit as she glances back at Senator Banks as if wondering whether Ronan’s got a point.
The senator shakes his head and throws his hands up defensively. “I’m no dirty politician, Callahan! I don’t run in criminal circles.”
“Yet here you are at my house, Senator.”
My lips twitch, grin spreading wider. Ro has always had a mouth on him.
It’s part of what always pissed Dad off about him; he was the type to mouth off while I was the one obediently following in Dad’s footsteps.
I behaved my fucking self and devoted my life to making him proud.
To pleasing him.
Look where that got us—Ronan’s been handed the keys to the kingdom while I was left to rot in a jail cell.
“I’m here because you’re married to Simone,” Senator Banks grits out, teeth clenched. “Don’t flatter yourself, Callahan. I simply figured maybe your resources would help given the situation.”
“Can we not get into some tit-for-tat pissing contest?” Simone interjects. “Chantal is missing, and every minute she’s gone is a minute she could be…”
She trails off, pressing a hand to her stomach like finishing the sentence makes her nauseous.
“Alright, alright,” Ronan says. He gestures at the senator and pierces him with a no-nonsense stare.
“But let’s get one thing straight. You follow my orders from here on out.
Going to the press was a mistake when you were explicitly told not to involve authorities.
I’ll send a crew of men to go chase leads.
See what they can come up with. We’ll start with that boyfriend of hers, LaMalfa. ”
“I saw him this morning at her gallery. He was rummaging through her desk drawers.”
“I knew he was filthy!” Senator Banks exclaims.
“Cool it, Senator. We don’t know shit about shit just yet. For now, your job is to keep your mouth shut and await further instruction. Got it?”
“I’ll reach out to our mutual friends,” Simone volunteers. “Maybe there’s someone who’s spoken to Chantal after I last did.”
The three of them seem on the same page for their game plan as Senator Banks leaves, still shaken up about his missing daughter.
I’ll throw them some crumbs here and there. Send Ronan and the clan on a wild goose chase for shits and giggles.
Meanwhile, I’ll also be fucking with Senator Banks, making his life a living hell.
They might disagree, but it’s about to be so much fucking fun.
A knock at the office door pulls me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah?” I say.
Marco Santamaria lets himself in, his stride fast and heavy footed. He’s dressed like he always is, dark slacks and a button down with the top two open, hair slicked back with enough product to be combustible.
He spends a lot of time on his appearance, grooming shit like his eyebrows and getting manicures for his nails, yet he still has the audacity to act like an old-school Italian wiseguy.
He stops a couple feet in front of my desk and says, “Heard something interesting from Robby.”
“Robby talks too much.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. That’s when he’s not bitching about how undervalued he is. But he says we might be going back on the LaMalfa deal. That true?”
“LaMalfa’s the least of my concerns right now.”
“He’s been calling me, you know. Five times so far over the last two days. Wants to know if the payment’s hit.”
“Tell him to be patient.”
The right side of Marco’s mouth lifts into half a grin. “So that’s a no on the payment.”
“That’s a he’s gonna have to fucking wait and see,” I snap. “If he’s got a problem with it, I can always meet with him in person to make him understand. Pretty sure he’d sing a different tune then.”
“You bet he would. Guys like LaMalfa—they’re Italian but they’re cut from a different cloth.
He’s no tough guy. He’s a wuss like all those other Wall Streeters,” Marco says, adding a chortling laugh.
“What about the girl? You planning on giving her back or keeping her? We could turn even more of a profit on her, you know. Heard the Raguzins are buying. Once we’re done with her, we could sell her off—”
“Already thinking about it,” I answer.
His half-grin turns into a full one, satisfied by the idea of another revenue stream. If there’s one thing about the former capo, he’s all about the money. All about his payday, not too unlike LaMalfa.
“So you’re really gonna double-cross Banks too? Even if he complies?” he presses.
“I don’t give a damn about double-crossing anybody.
” I lean back in the rickety chair, causing it to creak some more.
“Banks is my enemy. Ronan is my enemy. My dear ol’ dad is my enemy.
Every last person involved with them is my enemy.
Which means they’re all gonna burn with the fires I set.
That’s not double-crossing—that’s vengeance. ”
He nods along, the grin wiped from his face. “Nah, of course, Loch. I didn’t mean no disrespect. But if we do sell the girl to the Bratva, you know I probably wouldn’t be the best one to negotiate that deal. Aleksei’s Russian. Maybe he should—”
“Aleksei was excommunicated,” I interrupt, tone sharp. “Did you forget that? The pakhan took his eye. You think they’re gonna do business on his referral?”
Marco raises both hands. “Fair point.”
“You’re our negotiator. Find a way in.”
“Already on it.” He starts for the door, only to find himself facing Robby, who’s stopped by to loiter in the doorway.
“Did someone say deal?” he asks.
Marco’s waxed brows connect as he eyes the dirty cop in disbelief. “Were you listening at the door?”
“I happened to be passing by—”
“You happened to be passing by for how long, exactly?”
“Ever heard of coincidences, Marco?”
“I’ve heard of weasels,” he replies. “Which you are one. You know that? In the Cosa Nostra we had a very specific place for guys like you.”
Robby raises his chin. “Oh yeah? In the NYPD we’ve got a place for guys like you too. Six by six. Iron bars. You’d know all about iron bars, right?”
“What jail cell?” Marco says. “You’re a criminal too, you fucking sfigato. You’d be in the cell right next to mine.”
“You think we’re the same? I’m an officer of the law, you piece of—”
“Hey!” I bark at them from my desk. Both their heads whip in my direction, looking like guilty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
“Shut the fuck up. What do you think this is? Some kind of summer camp? You think we got time for your catty little bitchfests like a couple of teenage girls? If you’ve got nothing useful to add, get the hell out of my office. Both of you!”
They exchange one last glare as if still tempted to bite each other’s head off, then they file out and pull the door shut behind them.
Alone again, I scowl to myself and mutter under my breath about their stupidity.
This is what happens when you’re forced to work with everybody’s leftovers. The Cosa Nostra. The Bratva and Yakuza and NYPD. I’ve had to hire a team of misfits to get my underground operation running, but by no means has it been smooth sailing.
Not when they’ve all got a fucking chip on their shoulder for one reason or another.
I return to browsing the different surveillance cameras set up on Akio’s app. But this time I’ve returned to this property, opening up the window that shows me Chantal’s room.
Reaching into the desk drawer, I pull out a cigar and light it up.
How is my bratty little captive doing anyway?
Last I heard, she’d been refusing all food and drink.
Right now she’s at the window, peering out of it like a sad puppy, both hands wrapped around the iron bars. She pulls and pulls at them as if she’ll magically become strong enough to rip them out and win her freedom.
She’s still in the slinky little green cocktail dress even after my maid, Sorcha, has provided her a change of clothes. Her long braids dangle over her shoulders as she tugs some more at the bars and then breaks into deep, body-racking sobs.
A regular occurrence for her since she’s come to stay. She must’ve already cried enough to fill the Hudson River.
As if I give a fuck.
I take a long pull on the cigar and watch the smoke curl in the air, listening to the sounds of her cries and grinning to myself.
This is only the beginning.
She’s going to be so useful, this girl. In ways she can’t even begin to imagine yet.