Chapter 11 #2
Sal looks vaguely amused as more smoke blows past his lips. Still doesn’t offer a smile, but it’s in how his brows rise and he eyes both of us.
“If you’re serious,” he says slowly, “if you’re offering that kinda intel for free, then who am I not to take it? We’ll make good use of anything that’ll get us ahead. That’ll put us on top.”
I nod. “Figured you’d say that.”
“But, Callahan…speaking of monetary compensation, you should know your friend LaMalfa’s been running his mouth.
” He taps his lit cigarette against the ashtray on the table.
“Says you made a deal with him for some girl but the money hasn’t cleared his account.
That his ass is on the line with the authorities since they’ve got no other leads. Sounds like he’s getting real nervous.”
“Appreciate the information,” I say, irritation prickling to life on the inside. “I’ll handle LaMalfa.”
Sal grunts. “I’m sure you will.”
We exchange nods, and then I get up and walk out with Marco and Robby following half a pace behind.
“Don’t you ever fucking interrupt a negotiation like that again,” I growl at Robby once we’re at the door. “You do it again, and I’ll give you the Dermott treatment.”
Robby pales while Marco grins.
I ignore both of them. We accomplished what we needed to at this talk with the Ferreras. Now it’s all about putting the rest of phase two into motion.
“—a fucking setup!” Ronan roars, slamming his palm against the desk and rattling the whiskey decanter a few inches off.
“Somebody’s fucking with us! The shipment, the money, the calls from unknown numbers, now this bullshit in Jersey?
This isn’t coincidence. This is somebody somewhere coming for us. ”
Killian’s expression is as severe, his large features twisted by fury. He nods, tattooed arms folded over his chest. “Probably the same fucker Eddie was working for. His boss, remember?”
“We ever get any leads on that? Just who the fuck was Eddie working for if not Dren and the Albanians? Simone mentioned he kept bringing up some boss of his. That’s whoever the hell’s behind all this,” Ronan says.
He’s pacing back and forth behind his desk.
“We track down their identity, we solve these sudden issues.”
“You think the same guy’s got Chantal?” Sean cuts in from the other corner of the office.
“I think all this happening around the same time is fucking suspicious. Figure it out.”
I mute the feed and sit up in Grandpa Finn’s office chair. So it seems my baby brother is gradually putting the puzzle pieces together.
But I’m still not worried. The moment he gets close enough to figure out what’s going on, I’ll throw them another bone. Another confusing twist that’ll send them chasing after their own tails again.
I switch over to the other feed I’m constantly checking: Chantal’s room where she’s often found staring forlornly out the window or lamenting the situation she’s in.
I’m expecting to see more tears and breakdowns.
Instead, the room’s empty. She’s nowhere to be found.
I flip through the other cameras situated throughout the estate—several hallways, the parlor with the artwork, the kitchen—before I finally find her.
She’s in the garden with Sorcha.
Apparently, the two of them are working out there today.
They’re crouched in the overgrown flower beds, pulling weeds and chatting like they’re at some kind of ladies’ brunch instead of on the grounds of a gangster’s estate.
Chantal’s wearing the beige jumpsuit she hates so much, yet she’s managed to make it fashionable, adding an old scarf she must’ve found in the attic to her waist like some statement piece and creating a new (lower) neckline.
When the fuck did she do that?
…how the fuck did she do that?
She must’ve gotten creative and used scissors somehow. Sorcha must’ve felt sorry for her and helped her.
However she did it, she’s created a sharp v-neckline that dips toward her large tits and shows off some cleavage that would otherwise be tasteful but feels disrespectful given the circumstance.
She’s supposed to be completely covered! She’s supposed to be miserable, stripped of her precious designers and fancy clothes!
The last thing she was supposed to do was repurpose her prison jumpsuit into a fashion flex.
It’s even worse that she looks so damn disgustingly happy on the feed. Her long braids are pulled back from her face, dirt smudged on her round cheeks.
But she’s laughing.
She’s fucking laughing as she pulls weeds alongside Sorcha and the two girls chitchat like they’re having the time of their lives.
An immediate hot and burning rage sears through my chest.
This girl’s supposed to be defeated and broken. She’s supposed to feel isolated and terrified. She sure as hell ain’t supposed to be enjoying the goddamn spring sunshine.
I storm out of Grandpa Finn’s office practically spitting venom. I cross Marco in the hall and he knows better than to interject, spotting the furious and dark expression on my face and muttering something about somebody’s about to get their ass handed to them.
He’s right.
But I’m the one to blame. I’m the one who’s allowed the girl to break rules and run rampant.
She stabbed one of my guards with a fork and refused to eat her meals. She was more recently caught wandering the east wing when she’s been expressly forbidden.
I’ve made her Sorcha’s assistant, presuming the manual labor would be torturous for a prissy girl like her, but it turns out she’s adapted. She’s made fucking friends with my housekeeper!
Time to put an end to this nonsense now. Time to show her the dead mouse gag for dessert was nothing compared to what I could really do to her.
The garden is on the west side of the estate, accessible through a set of French doors that’ve seen better decades. I shove through them so hard it rattles the glass and causes both women’s heads to snap up in alarm.
Sorcha goes pale as chalk. She scrambles to her feet, mumbling about checking on dinner then practically sprinting back toward the house.
Smart girl. She knows what’s good for her.
Chantal, on the other hand, doesn’t budge an inch. She stays right where she is, kneeling in the dirt, and has the audacity to scowl as if annoyed at the interruption.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
By the tone she uses, you’d think I was a door-to-door salesman disturbing her pleasant afternoon.
“Can I help you?” I repeat, flashing gritted teeth. “More like what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Weeding,” she answers coolly. She gestures at the flower bed with a trowel. “It’s this thing where you pull the unwanted plants out of the ground. You should try it sometime. Turns out it’s very therapeutic.”
The sarcasm drips from every word, and it takes considerable effort not to entirely lose my shit and throttle the chick.
Wrap my hands around her throat and show her why she’s a fucking fool for ever thinking she could go tit-for-tat with me.
I step closer, standing over her and pinning her with cold, dead eyes.
“You think this is a joke? You think you’re on vacation?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to spend another day crying in my room?” She pushes herself to her feet, brushing dirt from her knees and notching her hands on her thick waist. “Because I’ve done that. Multiple times. It’s getting old.”
“You’re a prisoner. Act like one.”
“I’m nobody’s prisoner! I’m my own person, and if there’s one thing Chantal Renée Banks is going to do, it’s be myself. I’m always going to do me.”
“You rehearse that flowery little speech in the mirror?” I ask. “It’s riveting, but the fact remains, my bratty little captive, that you are now mine to do with as I wish. Nobody gave you permission to be out here in the garden giggling and soaking up the fucking sunshine.”
“What permission? You wanted me to help Sorcha around the estate, right? What do you think I’m doing right now?”
“You’re her assistant, not her gal pal.”
“What can I say? I have a superpower for making people like me. Are you jealous? You clearly don’t have the same ability.”
As I loom closer, she remains unfazed. She doesn’t cower or take in sharp breaths like she’s done the other times. She’s projecting the same confidence she had the night I gave her a bath, only this afternoon it’s a lot more believable.
It’s actually the real thing.
I glare at her and hold up a warning finger in her face. “Listen here, you better fucking know your place, or I’ll show you myself.”
“Didn’t you do that already? All the times you’ve killed those guys in front of me? The mouse? The newspaper clippings? The bath? Don’t act like you haven’t been trying to break me all along—you’re just heated it hasn’t worked!”
She goes to turn away from me and return to the flowerbed, but I’m a lot faster than she is.
Before she’s even turned halfway, my hand’s jetting forward and clenching shut around her throat. Her eyes immediately round, going twice as wide as I drag her back toward me by the throat, squeezing tight with no give.
“Look, you fucking brat, if you want me to play hardball with you, I can,” I growl into her face.
Fury beats through my pulse, pounding faster and faster and urging me to go harder.
Crush this fucking girl. Make her realize how mistaken she really is.
“I will. I’ll make you regret the day you were fucking put on this earth for mouthing off to me the way you have.
“You think I won’t bust a cap in you because you’re a woman?
That I won’t use my blade on you or slice those little manicured fingers of yours off?
Try me, sweetheart. I’ll have you chopped up and served to the stray dogs in the street.
I’ll make it long and slow just to make you suffer.
I’m out to destroy my own fucking blood, and you’re stupid enough to think you of all people are off limits? HA!”
I’ve clenched tighter, cutting off her airway as she scrabbles at my hand to free herself. She produces a couple desperate sputters, eyes still large and startled.