Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Lochlan
I’m not sure when I crossed the line from demented captor to lovesick stalker, but it’s happened faster than I ever thought it would.
I meant what I told Chantal: at all hours of the day I find myself thinking about the girl.
Even as I force myself to carry on with my plan for revenge, I’ve got her on the back burner. She’s a constant on my mind as me and my guys destroy the small businesses associated with the Callahan Clan and convince some of the buttonmen to switch sides.
I’m fucking blackmailing my father, and she’s still frequenting my thoughts. Somehow the girl has put me under her spell, and I’m fully aware she has.
I’m not even fighting it anymore.
On a random Wednesday afternoon, I seek her out around the estate. When I can’t find her on the surveillance cameras, I abandon Grandpa Finn’s office and go searching for her.
After ten minutes of wandering the property, I find her in an upstairs sitting room (coincidentally the one we broke the couch in).
She’s perched on the wide window ledge, her silhouette framed by the late afternoon light.
Her braids are gathered over one shoulder as she gazes out at the distant Manhattan skyline.
The expression on her face is wistful, like she’s longing for what she can’t touch. Beyond this crumbling Gothic hellhole, there’s the big city full of skyscrapers and bustling energy.
There’s a whole life to be lived out there among the living.
She obviously misses it.
My chest clenches from the tension this realization brings me. It’s not that it’s a surprise she does. More so I’d hoped as time went on she would grow out of it. She’d ultimately decide she didn’t mind living among the dead instead…
But can I really blame her? She’s a woman who indulged in galas and parties with the rich and famous. She had the kind of social life many socialites themselves were green with envy of.
Compared to now, where she’s confined to my estate and nowhere else.
Sorcha appears at the other end of the hallway, arms full of fresh linens, and I step back to intercept her before she can scurry past.
“Sorcha, there you are.”
She startles like a spooked rabbit, nearly dropping the armload of folded sheets. “Mr. Lochlan! I didn’t see you there.”
“What’s going on with her?” I jerk my chin toward the sitting room where Chantal is still perched on the window ledge, oblivious to our conversation. “She’s been staring out that window for a while now.”
Sorcha follows my gaze, her expression softening. “I think she’s homesick, sir. She misses her old life—the city, her gallery, her friends and family.”
I release a sigh. “That’s what I figured.”
“She doesn’t complain much about it,” she goes on, clutching the linens tighter. “But sometimes I notice she seems sad when she mentions them.”
If Sorcha’s noticed it too, then that’s obviously what’s going on.
I spend a second mulling over the information. I’ve been so focused on my revenge I haven’t stopped to think about what this captivity has cost her beyond the obvious.
She’s been ripped away from everything she knows.
Her world, her people, her whole identity.
…and while she’s adapted—the girl’s a survivor, I’ll give her that—it doesn’t mean she’s not grieving what she’s lost.
Mourning the death of her own life in a way, much like I have.
“How can I fix it?” I ask aloud. “What would help her feel better, Sorcha? You think a night out?”
The maid’s pale eyes widen, and she almost smiles. “You mean like a date, Mr. Lochlan?”
I scowl, the back of my neck heating up. “Don’t call it that.”
“But that’s what it is, isn’t it?” she teases with a singsong quality to her Irish lilt. It seems Chantal really has brought her out of her shell. “That’s very thoughtful of you, sir. I think she’d love that.”
“She likes art. You think she’d enjoy going to some kind of exhibition? An obscure one where we wouldn’t be seen?”
Sorcha’s smile grows. “That would be a perfect choice. Very perceptive!”
“Don’t mention this to her,” I say, sneaking another glance at the doorway of the sitting room. “I want it to be a surprise.”
“Of course, Mr. Lochlan.”
“In that case, I’ve got an errand for you. I’m sending you to one of the boutiques in the town center. Need you to pick out another dress for her. Price doesn’t matter, alright?”
“Yes, Mr. Lochlan. It’ll be my pleasure.”
“Maybe something pink. It’s her favorite. Shoes too.”
The housekeeper nods, then flounces off down the hall with a new pep in her step, the linens tucked into her arms like a baby.
I stay where I am for a second longer, processing the fact that I’m intentionally planning a romantic date with my captive.
The rooftop terrace was enough of a dead giveaway. Now I’m actively seeking to spoil her with a night out when I should be focused on my mission.
But as I finally turn to walk off, I can’t say I regret my priorities. I can’t stand to see Chantal sad, and though I don’t know what the fuck to call how I feel about her, I want her to be happy.
No less than half an hour later, I’ve returned to Grandpa Finn’s office to finally get more work done. Today’s the deadline for the blackmail letter.
Dad has had days to decide if he’s going to follow instructions and meet my demands. He’s yet to wire the money over, so I grab the burner phone and dial him directly.
Time to make it clear I wasn’t bluffing. He better pay up or risk every last skeleton in his closet coming out.
“Who the fuck is this?” he rumbles as soon as he answers.
“You received the letter,” I answer, keeping my voice low and disguised. “You know what day it is.”
“Fuck off with that shite. You’re not getting a cent out of me!”
“Bold choice. You better be prepared for what happens if you don’t pay up.”
“You think I give a fuck, you arsehole? Go on, then—do your worst. Better yet, come say it to my face like a man and see what happens when you fuck around with Seamus Callahan, you spineless prick!” he bellows.
I grin to myself, the phone firm against my ear. “Hope you’re still saying that once the Feds are breathing down your back about to send your wrinkly ass to the pen.”
“Try it, you cunt! I’m not afraid of you, and when I find out who you are, I’ll put you in the ground myself.”
“We’re done here,” I say. “Enjoy your empire while it lasts. It’s been fun burning it to the ground, you fucking piece of shit.”
I hang up before he can respond, slamming the phone down on the desk.
Anger pumps through me and makes my heart beat twice as fast.
I’ll be honest—he fucking got to me. His brazen dismissiveness got under my skin and reminded me how little to nothing fazes my father.
Little to nothing matters to him except protecting his own hide. He’s not worried because he probably figures he can pin his dirt on somebody else.
I was the fall guy last time; he’ll find somebody else this time.
A scowl clenches onto my face as I start pacing back and forth in Grandpa Finn’s office. The most troubling part of all is the money isn’t coming. The backup plan failed.
My operation is bleeding cash, and I’ve got no immediate way to solve the problem. Yet giving Chantal up is still not an option—it’ll never be an option again.
So what the fuck am I gonna do?
I’m still pacing and mulling over options when Robby turns up at the door. He taps his knuckles against it for my attention then juts his chin.
“Mind if I come in for a moment, boss?”
I halt mid-step, cutting him a stern glare. “What the fuck do you want, Robby?”
“I just, uh…” He slides into the room, glancing around as if he expects to find a third person in hiding. “I thought I’d check in. See how things are going. With the, you know, the money situation.”
“The money situation,” I repeat slowly.
He claps a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it out of twitchy habit. “Yeah, ’cuz the guys are still talking, and I figured I’d ask.”
I cock a brow at him. “The guys or you? Have some balls and be honest about what the fuck you’re saying.”
“Uh, I mean… I’m not gonna pretend I’m not wondering too,” he says, adding a nervous laugh. “At this point everybody’s wondering what our next move’ll be. That’s all.”
“If it’s the backup plan you mean, it fell through. I was blackmailing my father, and he didn’t take the bait. He’s refused to cough up any cash.”
His face falls. “Oh shit. That’s, uh... that’s not great.”
“No shit. Thanks for the astute observation,” I snap.
“There’s gotta be other options, though, right?”
“As in?”
He rubs at the back of his neck some more, then gives a half shrug. “I don’t know, maybe we could look at striking another deal.”
“We killed several of Rurik’s men. You think he’s open to any kind of business talks?”
“Nah, not the Bratva—fuck no. You know they were tailing me yesterday in Brooklyn? They’re out to get us, Loch. That’s another fire to put out,” he explains. “But I meant somebody else.”
“I already told you we’re not using the Italians for any other deals. I’ve already got them tied up in the Callahan sabotage—”
“What about a cartel?” he interjects quickly, a desperate edge to his voice. “You know they take people too. They love the flesh trade almost as much as narcotics. What if we approached them and saw how much they’d be willing to cough up for the—”
“Stop that fucking thought right now,” I rumble instantly. I start toward him at a fast stride, making him jump several steps back in alarm. “How many fucking times have I told you she’s not for sale? How many fucking times have I told you to not even think about her?!”
He shrinks the louder I yell, his knobby throat quivering. “R-right… of… of course, boss. I… I just… I thought…”
“You weren’t thinking, that’s the fucking problem!” I boom.
“We need money, that’s all. Some of us… we’ve got bills. My son, Mikey’s medical—”