Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Lochlan
Almost Two Weeks Later…
I never thought I’d see the day where I wouldn’t mind waking up in pink satin sheets. The past two weeks have shown me differently.
Everything in Chantal’s apartment is pink and feminine, but it’s not so bad when I’m waking up to the gorgeous, curvy woman next to me.
My hand drifts down her bare back, admiring how smooth and supple her dark brown skin is. She’s rolled over facing the other way. A quick peek at her reveals she’s still asleep, her face neutral as she dreams.
Unable to help myself, I lean down and press a kiss to her shoulder. My hand drifts to her naked waist, reveling in the soft curves that meet my touch.
She makes a sleepy little humming noise that’s so fucking adorable, but also somehow sends blood rushing to my cock at the same time.
We’ve spent the past two weeks doing fuck all. Simply existing.
Getting to know each other even better than we already did.
Some days we’ve entirely spent in bed enjoying each other and binge-watching whatever we could find on different streaming platforms. Other days we’ve ventured into the city—me always with a disguise—and soaked up the sights and sounds of whatever we were doing.
I’ve also gotten to know Chantal’s ragdoll cat named Coco (for better or worse). The spoiled cat is Chantal in feline form, right down to how bratty she can get when she’s not fed on time.
I’ve never been a cat person and have called her Chantal’s fluffy demon, but in truth I don’t mind the cat so much. If she means a lot to Chantal, then she means a lot to me.
Needless to say, it’s been the two best weeks of my life.
“Lochlan,” Chantal murmurs drowsily. One eye squints open for a peek over at me. “You better not be waking me up before eight again.”
I chuckle then drop a few more kisses along her shoulder. “At Sing Sing, we woke up at five a.m. every day for count.”
“That sounds like torture. I think I’d rather clear out your attic again.”
“It wasn’t so bad. But the breakfast we were served? About as appetizing as what you had at the estate.”
She rolls over to face me, narrowing her eyes. “So you were taking your cues from prison. I knew it!”
“Old habits die hard,” I answer, pulling her closer. “That includes the waking up early. But can you blame me? Look at the view I’ve got.”
“The view of what? My ceiling? Pink satin?”
“More like the gorgeous little brat and big tits I can’t get enough of.”
“I should’ve known,” she giggles.
Which has become one of my favorite sounds I’ve ever heard. It only encourages me to kiss her some more, my hands exploring the plump curves of her body. Everywhere from her waist and hips to the thick thighs I love having wrapped around me.
Chantal’s eyes flutter closed and she hums her approval the more I kiss her and shower her with affection. That’s one thing about my brat—she loves being spoiled and is unapologetic about it.
After a twenty-year marriage where I got little to no feedback other than frosty distance, I’m eating it up. I’m enjoying how vocal she is about what she likes and wants.
Her fingers card through my hair as I’m moving on to kissing and sucking on her throat. I’ve got her under me now, pressed between me and the fancy Tempur-Pedic mattress.
“You know, I’m the nosy type,” she says airily, stroking my hair. “I’ve seen social media. Friends of friends of friends. Your ex-wife has a profile. I’ve seen what she looks like.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And she’s the exact opposite of me.”
“I don’t think you understand how that works in your favor.”
She smiles a little then cups my chin to guide my face back up to hers. “I’m talking about your type, Callahan. Your wife was some Irish waif who looked like she never had dessert in her life, and I’m—”
“Gorgeous. Sexy. Confident,” I interject.
“Yes, and Black and a bigger girl. I love the skin I’m in and don’t plan on ever trying to body switch with anybody, but I wasn’t expecting…” she drifts off briefly. “The leap from her to me is a huge one, is all I’m saying.”
I shift next to her, turning back on my side and propping myself up on my elbow. “Do you know how Cara and I met?”
She shakes her head, brown eyes round and curious.
“I was twenty. She was eighteen. Her father was in a different Irish mob family. Her family fell on hard times and needed help monetarily. My father intervened… for a price,” I explain. “It didn’t matter if I was interested in Cara or if she wanted me either. The deal was made.”
“Wait, it was an arranged marriage?”
“My father wanted me to produce an heir as soon as possible. Which we did. The rest was out of obligation. Divorce typically doesn’t exist in our families.”
“Until you and Cara…”
“Her idea,” I admit. “I was so loyal to the clan, I would’ve stayed with her ’til I was ninety-nine years old and my balls were sagging. Even as miserable as I was.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“But,” I go on, my hand extending to glide over the curvy side of her body, “I say that to explain Cara was never my type. Not in looks and not in personality. We were about as mismatched as you could get.”
“So cute, little, thick Black girls who are sometimes bratty and spoiled but always lovable and witty are your type?”
“That’s very specific,” I chuckle.
“I’m all specifics, Callahan.”
“Then yes,” I answer. “That sounds like my type. I was attracted the moment I saw you. Including when you scratched the fuck outta Robby.”
“A girl’s got claws and she will use them.”
“I found out the hard way, remember?”
She giggles as her finger trails down the definition on my chest. “Shit, I forgot all about that. I scratched the fuck out of you too! Then Marco on the rooftop. Damn, I’m a menace.”
“You defend yourself, which has always impressed me about you. Nobody expects it from you ’til they get gouged within an inch of their life.”
“Be careful or you might be next… again.” She leans over and drops a peck on my lips and then finally sits up. “Okay… but seriously, what time is it anyway? I’m actually supposed to be a functioning human today. I’m having lunch with Simone and Monique.”
“The three musketeers reunite.”
“Sort of. Simone’s still trying to convince me I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome and I’ll come to my senses. Then there’s Neek—she probably has a new conspiracy theory about what really went down on the rooftop at the Crown.”
“Paranoid and discerning; she sounds like a mobster in a former life.”
“Knowing Neek, it wouldn’t surprise me.” She’s grabbed hold of her phone off the nightstand and started scrolling through notifications. “What about you? What’s on the agenda for Lochlan Callahan, dead man walking?”
The question sobers me up faster than I’d like. I’ve been avoiding thinking about the message I received yesterday—the cryptic text from Dad asking to meet him at the Banshee this afternoon.
He offered no explanation or context. Just a time and a place and the implicit expectation that I’d show up.
“Got a meeting,” I answer, sitting up beside her. “My father wants to meet at the Banshee.”
Chantal quirks a brow. “The Irish pub in Brooklyn?”
“The one and only.”
Her playful energy morphs into one of caution. “Are you going?”
“Probably,” I say, running a hand through my unkempt hair. “Figure I’ll hear what he has to say. It doesn’t mean I’ll like it, but I’ll hear it.”
“Fair.” She swoops in and gifts me another quick kiss before getting up out of bed and starting for the bathroom. “Just promise me you’ll behave yourself, Callahan. Don’t rip his throat out, okay? Might make lunch with Simone a little awkward.”
A crooked grin slashes across my face as her twinkling gaze meets mine from the bathroom doorway. “All I can say is I’ll do my best, brat.”
The last time I was at the Banshee I was a free man. I was an alive man.
For decades it’s been the preferred pub of the Callahan Clan. It’s the place we’ve met up at to celebrate our biggest victories and commiserate our worst losses. Much of the time we met up at the pub for no reason at all. Just to drink and have a good time.
As I round the block where it’s located, I’m unsurprised to find the sign outside still flickers. It reads “The B_nsh_e”, the pub owner, Tom, refusing to replace the sign ’til all the letters fall off.
It’s become a running joke among the regulars that the old coot’ll die first.
I’m showing up alone to meet Dad. Though I don’t exactly got a choice; my band of misfits have all but disbanded.
Aleksei and Akio are the only two I’ve been in contact with. The Russian enforcer is going rogue, deciding to become a hitman for hire (for the right price, of course).
From what he’s said, Akio’s choosing to use his tech genius to hack into some major company’s sophisticated software and sell the data he’s able to harvest.
You know, standard criminal career paths.
Petrit’s fucked off to reunite with the handful of Albanians who survived the Dren confrontation months ago.
As for Robby, nobody’s heard much from him. Aleksei mentioned he was suddenly going the straight and narrow route, pretending he’s an upstanding NYPD detective after all.
So long as he stays the fuck out of my way, we don’t got a problem.
I reach the pub door and step inside, greeted by the same smokey smell of whiskey and warm, low-lit atmosphere.
The walls are still covered in faded photos of Ireland, old hurling jerseys, and a massive Irish flag hung over the bar as if we’re in Dublin, not fucking Brooklyn.
But unlike most times where you’d swing by the Banshee, the place is empty. There’re no regulars posted up at the bar nursing pints. Even the TV is off, no European football match playing on the screen.
Only Tom and some ginger-haired server are behind the counter. The only patron sits in the far corner waiting for his son to arrive.