Chapter 17 #2
I wave a hand, dismissing all of them. “That’s enough. Get out and go do something useful. And tell the guys if they’ve got concerns, they can bring them to me directly instead of gossiping like a bunch of schoolgirls.”
Marco and Robby file out, still muttering to each other under their breath. Akio takes his time, tucking his laptop under his arm and pausing at the door.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, glancing back at me, “I don’t care about the girl either way. I still make more working for you than I ever did as a busboy.”
Then he’s gone and I’m left alone, hyperaware that the team of men I’ve put together in secret are growing restless.
What once seemed like a fail-proof revenge scheme suddenly has a whole shit ton of cracks.
All because of a spoiled princess who somehow got under my skin. Who I can’t seem to let go of no matter how much the logical side of my brain tells me it’s necessary.
Which means it’s time to get creative and find workarounds.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out where my new money source is. For weeks now, I’ve had Akio putting the Callahan accounts into a state of disarray.
Now it’s time to really damage their pockets.
I pull up the surveillance feeds on my laptop and go straight to Callahan House. I click through the various rooms with cameras ’til I find Dad in the den where he usually spends his weekend afternoons if he’s not golfing.
Despite his cancer being in remission, he still smokes up a storm, regularly puffing on cigars whenever the urge strikes.
This afternoon’s no different as I locate him indulging in a cigar as he streams the latest hurling match in Ireland.
The old man looks smaller than I remember.
Grayer. More weathered in even the last year since I’ve seen him in person. Maybe the many terrible things he’s done are finally catching up with him.
Good. I hope it’s eating him alive from the inside.
I watch as Oona shuffles into the frame, her arms full of mail that she sets on the side table next to Dad’s leather armchair. She’s been the caretaker of Callahan House for as long as I can remember, her once blonde hair now streaked with silver.
Once she’s gone, Dad reaches for the stack of mail with lazy disinterest. He flips through a few envelopes—bills, invitations to whatever bullshit charity events the family uses to launder their reputation, other junk mail and correspondence he’ll never respond to—then he reaches one that makes him pause.
A plain white envelope with no return address.
Only his name scribbled on the back.
I lean closer to my laptop screen, a slow grin spreading across my face as I watch him tear it open and unfold the single sheet of paper inside.
The letter is direct, immediately cutting to the chase with no flowery language or dramatic threats.
Just the cold, hard facts laid out in black and white.
Police Commissioner Arthur Blackwood was murdered back in March 2009. His body dumped in the Hudson River after he refused to play ball with the Callahan family’s interests.
I know about it because I was there.
Still young and proving myself, it was some fucked up test of loyalty he puts everybody through. His way of binding you to the family’s sins so you can never walk away clean.
But his hands are dirtiest of all. Especially when I have evidence that ties him to the scene.
Now that secret is going to cost him.
The letter demands five million dollars wired to an untraceable offshore account within two weeks. If the money doesn’t appear, every detail about Commissioner Blackwood’s murder goes to the worst trifecta he’d ever want—the NYPD, the corporate media, and the Feds.
I end the letter by warning him I’ve got more dirt on the family; I’ve got every crime he’s ever committed ready to be exposed.
Much of it tangible evidence the authorities would love to have dropped at their feet.
This is just the tip of the iceberg.
On the screen, his face clenches into a scowl. His hand crumples up the paper as he releases an angry roar.
He’s got no idea it’s me; he might think it’s a family insider.
But how could it be his eldest boy when he’s dead?
He’ll likely start looking at the other men in the clan sideways, questioning if somebody’s a turncoat. If somebody’s selling him down the river to save their own asses. It’ll only add to Ronan and the family’s issues tenfold.
…and still provide me an opportunity to get the cash needed to continue my operation.
If he doesn’t pay up, then I follow through with my threat. I leak the family dirt and make it public.
Either way, I win.
I close the feed of Callahan House and switch to a different camera, this one showing the garden on the west side of the estate.
Chantal’s still helping out Sorcha, even though I’ve told her she doesn’t have to anymore. But she’s insisted on continuing the garden project as if it’s a point of pride for her now.
She’s laughing at something the maid’s said, the two young women obviously good friends. She seems genuinely happy gardening in the spring sunshine.
Would she be if she had to stay here permanently? Would she be open to this being the rest of her life? Not necessarily as my captive, but maybe as something more?
…or would she bail on me the first chance she gets?
“The last time you took me somewhere it didn’t end so well,” Chantal protests.
She’s equal parts suspicion and curiosity as I lead her from the parlor where she was admiring the O’Keeffe to another part of the house she’s never been.
We take a narrow staircase at the back of the estate that winds through old servants’ quarters and takes us to the fourth floor where the attic is.
As this dawns on her, she slows up, her hand still in mine.
“Lochlan…” she trails off.
I squeeze her hand. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, brat. But you’re gonna have to trust me.”
“This isn’t some kind of murder scenario, right?” she asks.
“Did you really just ask me that?”
Her eyes narrow. “Because if it is, you need to know that I will come back as a ghost and haunt your ass for eternity. I’m not playing around. I am petty enough to spend the afterlife devoted to your misery, Callahan.”
“You’re not in any danger, brat. Damn sure no murder scenario.”
“That’s exactly what someone planning a murder scenario would say.”
I bite back the grin that threatens to form and pull her up a narrow, creaky staircase. It’s not the staircase for the attic itself but to the rooftop terrace.
A place nobody ever bothers to come up to since Grandma Darcy passed.
Decades of neglect has left it in decay like the rest of the estate, though its former glory still shines through.
Chantal gasps as she comes to my side and admires the private space.
Wrought iron furniture sits next to a wall of overgrown vines, their leaves rustling gently in the late evening breeze. The stone tiles are cracked in places, weeds pushing through the gaps, and the railing that runs along the edge is rusted but still solid.
But none of that matters because the real draw is what’s above us.
The sky is a deep velvet canopy, scattered with more stars than you’d ever see in the city. Out here in the middle of nowhere, with no light pollution to drown them out, the constellations are so vivid they almost look fake.
Tonight, it just so happens the moon is full.
Also why I’ve decided to bring her up here.
“Oh my god,” Chantal breathes, releasing my hand so she can move toward the railing. She tilts her head back, her long braids hanging down her spine as she stares up at the sky. “Lochlan, this is... how did I not know this was here?”
“Grandpa Finn built it for my grandmother,” I explain, coming to stand beside her. “She loved the stars. Used to spend hours up here with her telescope, mapping constellations and boring the shit out of anybody who’d listen.”
Chantal laughs, still gazing upward. “The same grandma who loved art too? She sounds like my kind of woman.”
“Make no mistake, she was a firecracker. Gave my grandpa as good as she got. Kept him in line, and I think some part of him liked it. The other Callahan wives have usually been docile. But not Grandma Darcy.”
“I can get behind that. But for real… this is incredible. Maybe I should’ve requested an hour up here each night, not with the O’Keeffe.”
“You’re allowed up here anytime you want,” I answer, turning my gaze up at the sky. “I’ve told you the restrictions’ve been lifted.”
A gentle knock interrupts us.
We both look over our shoulders to find Sorcha hovering in the doorway with a large wicker basket. She’s nibbling on her lip as if fighting off a nervous smile.
The young maid still jumps at her own shadow despite the fact I’ve told her she’s got no reason to. A couple years in an abusive relationship seems to have done a number on her.
“Mr. Lochlan, I have the goods as requested,” she says in her Irish lilt, bowing her head.
“Set it on the table, Sorcha. We’ll unpack it ourselves.”
She scurries over to the wrought iron table near the center of the terrace and sets down the basket, then disappears back through the door without a word.
Chantal watches her go with raised eyebrows. “What’s in the basket?”
“A light dinner.”
I pull back the cloth covering and reveal the contents: fresh bread still warm from the oven, a selection of creamy cheeses, cured meats sliced paper-thin, little pots of fancy butter with herbs mixed in, and a bottle of wine that cost more than I’d ever give a fuck to spend on it.
But this isn’t for me. It’s for the bratty little captive I’ve decided to spoil tonight.
Chantal’s eyes go wide. “Did you... did you plan this?”
“Sorcha went to the delicatessen in town,” I admit, sounding oddly self-conscious about the whole thing. “I told her to pick out things you’d like.”
Chantal stares as if I’ve grown a second head. Then her face softens, and she gives me a small smile.
“Who knew the psychopathic Irish gangster could be so romantic and thoughtful?”
“Brat…” I warn, trailing off. The back of my neck’s suddenly hot.