Chapter 23 #2
The main ballroom is packed with the usual suspects—politicians, lobbyists, hedge fund assholes, and socialites whose only job is looking expensive and pretending to care about whatever cause is trendy this week.
Senator Banks is in the thick of it. He effortlessly works the room, shaking hands and accepting checks from people too stupid to realize they’re funding a man who wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.
There’s no shortage of reps from the underworld in attendance.
Without even trying, I locate Nico Ferrera among some Wall Streeters and Takuya Ito from the Yakuza. I even recognize Beckett O’Leary making a rare appearance from the Westies.
My baby brother is among them. He’s come a long way from the brooding antisocial grump who once hated anything formal.
Back then, he was more than fine letting Dad and I handle the showman side of running a criminal empire. Ronan was much more interested in meting out violence. Part of what made him a great warlord managing the button and bonemen.
These days, he looks perfectly at home chatting with some silver-haired city councilman near the bar. His righthand, Killian, is off to the side, gaze sweeping over the cavernous room in true boneman fashion.
Tonight’s the night, brother. One way or another, this ends between us.
I’m about to switch over to the garage feed when a flash of emerald catches my attention on the ballroom camera.
I know her silhouette anywhere; could pick it out of a fucking police lineup blindfolded.
Chantal’s a plump, curvy goddess draped in emerald silk as she mingles among attendees. Braids pinned up in a fancy updo, she’s showing off her neck and shoulders. The grainy feed can’t hide how damn gorgeous she looks—how she earns glances from several men as she floats through the crowd.
For a long moment, I’m mesmerized, gaze fixed on the screen. Then I come to my senses and clench my jaw.
What the fuck is she doing here!?
She wasn’t on the attendee list, and from what I gathered monitoring her for weeks, she wasn’t planning on showing up.
Why would she change her mind?
My question is answered within the next moment. Chantal laughs at something the district attorney says and then excuses herself. Her expression falters once she’s alone, moving through the crowd and searching the many faces.
I’m glaring at the screen, wondering who she could be looking for.
She spots my baby brother by the bar and hangs back for an extra sip from her flute of champagne. She’s working up the nerve to approach. The champagne gives her the needed boost to go through with it.
The silver-haired councilman Ronan was speaking to steps away, and Chantal takes his place. I’ve never given a fuck about being able to read lips ’til this moment.
But judging by the way Ronan’s face hardens, he’s not a fan of what she’s saying.
Chantal is the opposite; her round features are soft and her expression is benevolent. It reminds me of how she looked the evening she tried to get me to let her negotiate on my behalf.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was pleading with him about something.
…about me.
Ronan shakes his head and then walks off, clearly dismissing what she’s told him. My baby brother’s just as stubborn as I am; of course his reaction would be similar to mine.
Chantal sighs, her face falling.
Tension knots tighter inside my chest. A part of me wants to rush into the Crown and find her. Tell her she doesn’t need to negotiate on my behalf or worry about the feud between me and my brother.
But I already know my brat too well; she’d do it anyway.
She’s not alone for long.
Senator Banks strolls up to his daughter.
As far as I know, it’s the first real conversation the two have had since she left his penthouse.
He places a hand on her shoulder, face creased with fatherly concern.
Whatever he says makes her give a nod of her head.
She accepts a key card he hands her and then turns toward the ballroom exit.
Switch feeds. None of it is your concern.
I force myself to look away and change channels to the parking garage feed.
Chantal’s no longer my business. She’s living her life, and I’m living mine. It’s best we stay apart and I focus on what I’ve got to do.
Odds are, once I do make my last stand against the Callahans, I won’t make it out alive. Tonight could be the night I really do die.
The dead man finally dying for real.
I’ve always known it would come to this—accepted it would when I went down this dark, scornful path—so I’ve got no regrets.
Except… except it would’ve been good to see my brat again.
Against my better judgment, I switch back to the ballroom feed for one last look.
I track Chantal out of the room into the hall outside. She’s headed toward the private elevator at the back. The few other stragglers in the hall are in their own world, tipsy off champagne and the open bar, laughing and flitting off with each other.
It’s as she reaches the elevator and presses the up button that another person appears in the frame. Some man that at first looks like hotel staff, ’til he steps deeper into the shot and I realize he’s wearing a ski mask.
But not just any ski mask—it’s the same skeleton skull mask that me and my guys don. It’s become our symbol when doing our dirty work.
Who else would wear our mask while about to accost Chantal? It couldn’t be… he wouldn’t be so fucking bold and stupid would he?
Would Robby really take it this far?
“What the fuck?” I growl at the screen, my pulse kicking into gear. “Who the fuck is this!? Chantal, look behind you!”
On the feed, the masked figure picks up his pace as Chantal steps into the elevator, and he rushes to slide inside before she can stop him.
The doors glide shut a second later and prevent me from seeing what happens next.
“CHANTAL!” I roar. “FUCK!”
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Aleksei.
“Ronan is finishing. Looks like they’ll go to the garage in fifteen minutes. We ready to move?”
I’ve leaped from the SUV and sprinted across the street, my gun pressing against my hip with every stride.
“Handle it without me!”
“Has the plan changed?” Aleksei asks. “Where will you—”
“I said handle it without me!” I bark, then hang up.
I shove a valet out of the way as I bulldoze through an employee side entrance of the hotel.
For months now, I’ve planned my revenge against Ronan and the Callahan Clan for what they did to me and my son.
But none of that matters if Chantal’s in imminent danger. Nobody fucking touches my brat and lives to see a new day.
I take the elevator as far as it’ll allow. But once I reach the fortieth floor, I don’t have the key card necessary to make it up to the top few levels.
The same key card that Senator Banks had given Chantal, which meant she was headed to one of the suites.
From the extensive research we’ve done on the event, Senator Banks and his campaign rented out the top floor.
It was being used as his personal stomping grounds before and after the big donor event.
If he gave Chantal a key card, then it was probably to the fiftieth floor where his suite is located.
I wrench open the door to the service stairs and climb them three at a time. It’s the only way I’ll be able to make it up to the higher levels.
My lungs heave for air, and the stitched-up wound in my stomach burns like it’s been set on fire. My body’s way to demand I slow the fuck down.
But that’s not an option when Chantal’s in trouble. The pain and discomfort are ignored as I bolt up flight after flight.
I spill out onto the fiftieth floor with my head on a swivel, searching left and right for any sign of her. If Robby’s so much as breathed on her, I’ll rip him apart with my bare hands.
I’m about to flip my shit that I’ve miscalculated—that maybe Chantal was headed somewhere else, not the top floor—when I hear a scream.
My head spins with the sound as I pinpoint where it’s coming from and notice the door at the far end of the hall is slightly ajar. It’s the door that leads to the rooftop.
I break into another mad dash, quickly making it from one end of the hall to the other. Shoving it the rest of the way open, I unholster my pistol and climb onto the sprawling rooftop terrace ready to blow somebody’s fucking brains out.
The night’s clear and the air breezy, an otherwise nice night if not for the man attacking my brat.
Chantal’s backed up against the rooftop railing, her chest heaving and eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fury. Her dress is torn at the shoulder, and there’s a cut on her cheek that’s starting to bleed, but she’s on her feet and fighting.
That’s my girl.
The masked figure has his gun trained on her, his free hand reaching for her arm as she swats him away.
“Stop fucking struggling!” he growls. “You’ll only make this worse. You want me to shove you over the railing, huh? You want to fall fifty stories to your death, Miss Priss?”
I recognize the voice as soon as I hear it.
…but it’s not Robby like I’m expecting.
“Get the fuck away from her, Marco!” I bark.
The former Italian capo turns partially at the rumble of my voice. He seems to be exhausted from the fight Chantal put up, notable scratch marks on his neck and forearm. He was so locked into trying to contain her he didn’t even realize I was coming from behind.
“You?” I say, my head tilting to the side. “You’re the fucking rat?”
He reaches up with his free hand and pulls off the ski mask, casting it aside.
“Rat’s such an ugly word. I prefer opportunist. Look, nothing personal, Loch.
This is straight business. I received a generous offer from somebody if I could broker a deal with the Russians and get rid of the girl.
They were still willing to pay top dollar.
I get a bigger pay cut, and the person I’m working with gets rid of this one. Everybody wins.”
“Except Chantal.”
“Uh, yeah… well, somebody’s gotta lose, right?” he asks. “You’ve let yourself be blinded by her—we’ve all seen it. I’m just the one who had the guts to do something about it.”
“Framing Robby in the process, is that right?”
“Like I said, somebody’s gotta lose. Robby was the easy target to preoccupy you. All I needed to do was plant a few seeds, and boom! He was on your radar and I wasn’t. Bought me the room needed to make the arrangements I have.”
“You mean like the phone you put in Robby’s backpack?”
“That was one of the ways.”
“I’m guessing it was no mistake the Callahans found us that night on the road.”
“I tipped them off,” he admits with a nod. “How could I not when you were going out on fucking dates like this is some rom-com we’re in?”
“The Russians have been on our asses too,” I say. “You’ve been tipping them off to our whereabouts as well.”
“Funny thing about that is, Robby was always the one suggesting our next hideout. Knew it’d make it look like he was setting us up.”
I jut my chin at him. “Who asked you to broker a new deal with the Russians?”
“Trust me,” Marco sighs, glancing at Chantal. “You really don’t want to know.”
“More like you should know you’re a dead fucking man. Back the fuck up and drop the Glock.”
Marco cocks a brow, then cocks the hammer on the gun. “You mean this Glock?”
He’s pointing it at Chantal’s head as he plays stupid. Chantal squeezes her eyes shut and releases a whimper.
I edge closer, fury beating through me. My teeth are bared, gaze zeroed in on Marco as if we’re out in the wild and I’m about to tear him to shreds.
I will tear him to fucking shreds.
“Drop the fucking Glock,” I growl. “Do it now, Marco.”
“You know what, Loch? I don’t think I will. I think I’m actually done taking orders from you.”
Before I can truly lose my shit, the rooftop’s flooded with noise. It’s the pounding of footsteps that quickly grows closer as whoever’s shown up rushes toward us the way I did Marco.
“Don’t fucking move!”
We both look over to find ourselves on the receiving end of more guns.
My baby brother stops a few feet away, flanked by his righthands, Killian and Sean.
We’ve got ourselves a true ol’ fashioned Mexican standoff.
One wrong move and this whole thing ends in a bloodbath.