Chapter 15 #3
“I’m sure it was her loss anyway.”
“Yeah, real tragic. She got plenty of money outta me in the settlement and my life insurance when I died. She’s a free woman and acting like one.”
As I slide back into my pants, I’m still irritated by my chattiness. I’m not supposed to be saying these things, yet they roll off my tongue so easily.
It vaguely occurs to me Chantal’s the first person I’ve really said them to. Since I died—since I was sent away to prison—I haven’t had anybody to talk to.
Scheme with? Negotiate with? Command and order around?
That’s what my men are for.
But I haven’t had a confidant who I could speak to on a personal level in a very long time.
Eddie was the only one, and even then, as his father, I never wanted to burden him too much. Especially not with details about what was going on between me and his mother. Her moving on with Sean was bad enough. Humiliating enough as I rotted away behind bars.
Maybe that’s why I’m spilling so much to Chantal—because subconsciously the girl is easy to talk to and sounds genuinely interested.
“Divorces are never easy,” she sighs. “They’re usually pretty messy and complicated. Both parties tend to feel wronged in some way. I hated watching my parents go through it.”
I avoid glancing over at her as I turn my back and withhold the fact that I know the story. I’ve dug enough into her family’s past to know exactly how her parents’ divorce went down.
Even things she herself isn’t aware of.
“None of it matters in the end,” I say. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that. We’re all gonna die someday—some of us have already died—and the world’ll move on within a few hours.”
“That’s not true. My mom’s been gone for over five years, and I still think about her every day.”
“Hate to break it to you, brat, but you’re not most people. Most people… most people are rotten at their core. They’re selfish and don’t give a fuck once you’re gone.”
I finally chance a glance over at her only to find she’s frowning. She’s eyeballing me like she wants so badly to show me I’m wrong but also knows I’m a brooding asshole who’ll snap at her if she tries.
…so she does the thing Chantal Banks does best and turns on the charm.
She changes the subject so she can bait me another way. I imagine this is what she was like with her other boyfriends.
The LaMalfas of the world—the older, detached, wealthy men she’s dated who only wanted her as eye candy, and who she made look good as she hung on their arm.
“I can think of one positive now that you’re divorced,” she purrs.
“You don’t have to have boring married person sex with your ex anymore.
There’s a sexy and very gorgeous girl you’ve taken captive who’s willing and waiting so long as her needs are met.
Maybe we can explore some new things together. ”
Half of a grin cracks onto my face. “You could sell ice to an Eskimo. You might’ve picked the wrong profession.”
“Nope, definitely didn’t. Buying and trading art just so happens to require the same skill.”
She slides off the bed butt naked to meet me in the middle of the room. Her dark eyes gleam suggestively as she traces a finger along my bare, tattooed chest.
“How about a bath? I’m sooo filthy again.”
“Then we’ll have to do something about that.”
I follow her into the bathroom, unable to avoid the thought our interactions feel more playful by the minute. They’re less hostile and hateful and more like a couple spending alone time together.
…until Friday comes and I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do.
I remind myself of this as Chantal twists on the faucet and water begins to fill the tub. As much as she might entertain me, and I’ve grown to actually not mind her company so much, I’ve got a mission I need to complete.
She’s still a bargaining chip, and I’m still out for revenge.
“We’re going on a field trip.”
Chantal sits up from the bed in her room, confusion flickering across her pretty round face. I’ve allowed her a book from the home library, one of Grandma Darcy’s so-called bodice-ripper romance novels.
“A field trip?” she asks, her brows knitting from suspicion. “Since when do I get to go on field trips?”
I pull the handcuffs from my back pocket. “Since now. C’mon, we’re going out.”
“But, Lochlan—”
“I’m not asking, brat. Come here and let me cuff you.”
“This isn’t more sex games, right?”
“Don’t make me tell you again.”
She sets the book aside and slides off the bed. As she pads over, it’s clear she’s upset as she realizes this is for real. She senses this isn’t good.
Probably even feels betrayed after some of the recent concessions I’ve made.
I click the cuffs into place, the metal cold against her skin. She flinches at the sound.
“Do I get to know where you’re taking me?” she asks.
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
I grab her by the elbow and steer her out of the room, down the hallway, and toward the stairs. She stumbles from the brisk pace I’ve set, but I don’t slow down.
The quicker I get this over with, the easier it’ll be.
The sooner I’ll be able to get back to business and things’ll return to how they should be.
Me focused on nothing but revenge against the Callahans.
We make it downstairs where the guys I’ll be bringing with me are waiting. They’ve already pulled up the SUV we’ll be taking into the city.
Marco’s behind the wheel while Aleksei’s riding shotgun. Robby, Petrit, and a handful of others will be following in a second car, serving as backup.
My grip tightens on Chantal’s arm as I nudge her through the back passenger door. She settles against the seat, now frowning. It’s as I lean across her lap to fasten her seatbelt that she pleads some more.
“Lochlan, please tell me what’s going on. I… I don’t like this.”
My chest clenches at how upset she sounds. Give it another few minutes, and she’ll probably start tearing up.
It’s fucking pitiful yet earnest enough I find I can’t meet her eyes.
I don’t answer her as I claim the seat beside hers and redirect my attention out the window. The SUV crunches over the gravelly driveway as we back out and head toward the big city.
Silence fills the air for most of the drive.
Marco’s focused on the road, Aleksei’s never been much of a talker, and I’m forcing myself to think about the huge payout we’re about to receive.
Senator Banks had his chance; he had his opportunity to cough up the money and save his daughter.
He chose not to, so this is on him.
I made it clear what would happen if he didn’t abide by the ransom note. It’s not my fault he doesn’t love his daughter enough to fund her rescue.
…yeah, but you always planned to double cross him anyway. Don’t act like you didn’t.
It’s true—the original plan was always to fuck over Chantal and her father, regardless of whether he paid or not. In my blinding anger and thirst for revenge, I had decided the girl would always suffer.
I’d either kill her myself or sell her off to real traffickers like the Bratva.
This was always part of the plan. Who gives a fuck if she sheds a few tears in the process?
Chantal sniffles at my side, and I grit my teeth, glaring harder out the window.
“Drive faster,” I bark at Marco. “What is this, Driving Miss Daisy? Hurry the fuck up.”
“Right, Loch. Just trying to be casual,” Marco answers with a shrug from the driver’s seat. “Don’t want to attract the wrong kinda attention. Last thing we need is to get pulled over by the boys in blue.”
He speeds up on the interstate, the engine rumbling as it flexes its horsepower.
It takes us about two-and-a-half hours to make it into Brooklyn, where the Vodka Room is located.
The Russian establishment sits on a discreet street in the heart of Brighton Beach, its exterior deceptively understated, providing no sign or lettering as to what the building actually is.
But everybody who lives in the neighborhood understands; they know to keep their eyes down and mouths shut.
I specifically requested this location because I refuse to set foot in Gossier’s in Manhattan.
That’s the swanky underworld favorite. The place where gangsters, crooked politicians, and shady businessmen alike meet to conduct their under-the-table deals.
Dad and Ronan are no different. The arrogant fucks always arrange for their business meetings to be held there among the plumes of smoke and slinky lingerie the female servers wear.
The Vodka Room is more underground. Less expected that a dead man like me would show up.
If I showed my face at Gossier’s, it’d blow my cover. Word would certainly get around that Seamus Callahan’s dead son is, in fact, alive.
We park in the alley outside the Russian pub, then head inside as a unit.
Chantal’s eyes are rounder than I’ve ever seen them. Her lips are parted as she peers up at the building as if in recognition.
…as if she knows what this place is, which is curious. How would she?
“Lochlan,” she whispers as I escort her through the door.
“Shhh,” I shush. “No speaking. Keep your mouth shut, brat.”
Once through the main door, the inside opens up to a low-lit moody pub. The walls are painted a dark crimson, and the sconces flicker so faintly, shadows run long and deep. There’re tables situated across the floor, and a main bar with stools off to the left.
The floor’s black hardwood and thuds under every footstep.
Only a handful of patrons are here. All Russian men downing vodka or in the middle of quiet, private conversations.
Rurik Raguzin is waiting on us at the VIP table near the back. He looks as stony-faced as ever, blinking slow as he stares us down.
The Russian brigadier gives even Aleksei a run for his money in terms of size.
He’s at least six-five, his frame wide enough he makes any space seem cramped. Despite his massive size, he possesses a sophistication that sets him apart from typical Bratva thugs.
He’s opted to go tattoo free, no ink to be found on his pale skin. He’s in a charcoal gray suit that’s been specially tailored to accommodate his enormous shoulders, and he’s flanked by two blond soldiers that eyeball us coldly.
Rurik’s flat expression tightens when his gaze drifts from me and Chantal and lands on Aleksei. Both men regard each other with the same intense kind of hostility I have for Ronan.
It’s no secret the Raguzins consider Aleksei to be scum for what he did.
I don’t know all the details. Just that Aleksei went against the pakhan’s wishes, and Fedorov Raguzin doesn’t fuck around.
“Lochlan Callahan,” Rurik grunts. His small, lifeless eyes shift back to me and then to Chantal. “You are on time.”
“I’m a man of my word. But I expected your father to be here for the deal.”
“He could not make it. He had other matters to tend to.”
“Then let’s get this over with.”
I shove Chantal forward, and she stumbles, barely catching herself.
Rurik rises from the booth, his massive frame unfolding like a mountain coming to life. He towers over Chantal’s diminutive five-two stature even more than I do.
The Russian captain begins circling her. His dark eyes travel over her body as if assessing livestock.
As traffickers, I guess that’s exactly what the Bratva does.
“This is her?” he asks in his thick Russian baritone. “The senator’s daughter? The one on the news?”
“The very same. She’s in mint condition. I’ve taken proper care of her. She doesn’t have a scratch on her.”
Chantal peers over at me with knitted brows and glassy eyes. The look on her face says it all—she’s so deeply hurt by what’s happening she can’t even bring herself to speak.
It’s night and day from the situation in the Maldives.
When she found out LaMalfa was selling her, she was hurt. She was shocked. But she was also ready to raise hell and go out defiant and swinging.
Now that she’s found out I’m selling her, she’s visibly shaken.
…visibly so upset she’s staring at me like I’ve deeply betrayed her.
As if I’ve broken her heart.
I clench down on my jaw and ignore her stare, trying to focus on Rurik as he conducts his assessment.
But it’s damn near impossible when his assessment is of her.
“Open your mouth,” he commands.
Chantal hesitates, finally releasing a small whimper before she obeys. She opens her mouth and flinches as Rurik grabs her chin and then peers inside, examining her teeth. He lets out a grunt of approval before he continues circling her.
“Perfect teeth,” he admits. “Her size… she is very thick. Very healthy. Curves in the right places. Good for rough handling.”
I can’t hide the scowl that comes to my face. “You done? Where’s the cash?”
“It is here for you.” Rurik nods his head at the blond on the left. “She seems worth the five million. We will get much use out of her.”
As the blond steps forward with a briefcase, Rurik’s hand slides down to palm Chantal’s ass. He gives it a pinch hard enough she jumps and cries out. He merely grunts as if once again in approval.
“The payment,” the blond says in an accent even thicker than Rurik’s.
I’m damn near seeing red. Rage is pulsing through me to the point I’m almost fucking shaking on the spot. My hands are clenched, and I’m glaring at Rurik like I’ve glared at many men seconds before I slit their throats.
I’m so fucking irate I don’t even realize ’til the blond clears his throat that the briefcase has been snapped open to reveal dozens of hundred dollar bills.
But Marco and the others notice. Robby whistles from somewhere behind me, and Marco promptly steps forward to take hold of it.
“As agreed,” Rurik says. “Count it if you like.”
I blink, forcing myself to stay cool. As cool as I can when rage is burning me up from the inside and I want nothing more than to rip him to fucking shreds for pinching her ass like that.
…this was the plan. This is nothing but business. She’s just merchandise.
Move the fuck on.
I shake my head to the side. “No need. I trust you wouldn’t be foolish enough to shortchange me.”
“Then it is done. The transaction is complete,” Rurik says. He snaps his fingers and the other blond—the one on the right—moves toward Chantal, grabbing her by the arm. He’s about to drag her off to the backroom.
“Lochlan,” she cries out finally, panic taking over. “Lochlan, please… don’t… don’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me!”
“Silence!” Rurik roars at her. “Take her away. She will need to be prepped for our customers.”
“LOCHLAN!” Chantal screams. “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!”
I tear my gaze away as I turn around and head for the exit. Blood pounds in my ears every step of the way ’til we’re finally outside and Chantal’s cries have faded…