Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Lochlan
A month later…
“Noooo, the peonies go on the dining table, not the entryway! The hydrangeas are for the entryway!” Chantal groans. She’s in micromanager mode trailing after one of the staff members we’ve hired for the estate.
He’s a jumpy man named Edgar, in his early forties and who seems to be slightly intimidated by her (and even more by me).
I watch her dog his footsteps from the den doorway, leaning against the frame with arms crossed and a lopsided grin on my face.
Over the past month, we’ve transformed this place from a dusty relic into a house that feels livable. The west wing now boasts fresh paint, refinished floors, updated plumbing, and enough tasteful décor to fill a small museum.
The east wing is still a disaster zone—sealed off behind plastic sheeting and caution tape—but we’re getting there.
Sorcha scurries past me with an armful of linen napkins, cheeks flushed and short dark hair slipping into her face. She shoots me a look that clearly says help us before disappearing into the dining room.
“Brat,” I call out. “How about you take a break and stop harassing poor Edgar?”
Her jaw drops open in indignation, hands notching on her thick waist. “Not fair, Callahan! You know how important this is. This is our first official event as a couple. It’s sort of like our debut.”
My right brow cocks higher than the left. “What are we, debutantes at a ball? Chill, brat. It’s just a couple friends and family.”
She produces a growly noise that only makes me chuckle and then calls out to Krista, another staff member we’ve hired, about how the foyer hasn’t been mopped.
I take pity on my brat—and Edgar and Krista in a roundabout way—and head over to slide my arm around her shoulders.
“Hey,” I say. “Breathe. It’s gonna be fine.”
“I am breathing! But Edgar won’t for long if he screws up the peonies one more time.”
“Pretty sure it’s illegal for a boss to issue that kind of threat to an employee.”
She glares up at me. “You’re saying this? The mobster who takes people prisoner and slits his men’s throats at the drop of a hat?”
“Which makes me exactly the right kinda person to say it. I would know, right?”
The tension deflates from her shoulders as she releases a sigh and gives an incredulous roll of her eyes. I’m able to steer her back down the hall toward the den.
“I just want things to go well,” she admits. “You should see me at my gallery on the night of an exhibit.”
“I can only imagine. But it’ll be fine. You really think Aleksei’s gonna give a fuck if we have peonies where the hydrangeas are supposed to go?”
“With his good eye he might!”
I silence her with a kiss. Nothing too deep. A simple press of my lips to hers to cut her off and reroute her panicked thoughts.
When I pull back, she blinks up at me with a slightly dazed expression on her face.
“Better?”
“It’s a start,” she mumbles begrudgingly.
“Good enough. Now stop terrorizing the staff and come look at what Sorcha did with the table settings. She’s been working on them for two hours, and I think she might cry if you don’t approve.”
I follow her into the dining room, where Sorcha has indeed outdone herself with the table settings.
Crisp white linens paired with polished silver and crystal glasses that Chantal found in some forgotten cabinet and insisted on handwashing herself.
Candles in brass holders line the center of the table, waiting to be lit.
It looks straight out of a home lifestyle magazine, which I’m sure was Chantal’s intention.
“Oh, Sorcha, this is beautiful,” Chantal gushes breathlessly. Her earlier stress has melted away as she drinks in the scene. “The napkin folds are perfect. Where did you learn to do that?”
Sorcha ducks her head, cheeks pinking. “YouTube, Chantal. Watched a few tutorials.”
“Wow… well, you’re officially my favorite person in this house.”
“I’m right here,” I protest.
“You’re my favorite person I’m sleeping with. There’s a difference.”
Sorcha releases a small bleat of laughter then promptly excuses herself to check on something in the kitchen.
We’re alone again as we survey the dinner table that’ll soon be full of the guests we’ve invited over.
“You sure you’re ready for tonight?” I ask.
She leans back against my chest and sighs. “As ready as can be in our Addams Family Home Sweet Home. You?”
“I’ve survived worse than a dinner party.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “It’ll be fine. If it’s not, we’ll blame the caterers.”
“And Edgar,” she mutters.
The guests start arriving over the next hour, and within minutes, the west wing is filled with an eclectic crowd that would make any normal host nervous.
Good thing Chantal and I have never been normal.
Monique is the first to show up, dressed as though she’s stepped out of a vintage fashion editorial in a burnt orange wrap dress I’m sure cost more than most people’s rent.
She’s got a tall Korean guy on her arm—the investment banker boyfriend she’s been seeing for a few months now—and he looks appropriately bewildered as they step through the front door.
“So this is the haunted mansion,” he says, glancing around at the restored foyer with its gleaming hardwood floors and fresh coat of paint. “I was expecting more cobwebs.”
“I’ll show you the before pictures,” Monique replies. “Crazy what a fresh coat of paint can do.”
Chantal swoops in to greet them, and I hang back as the women embrace and exchange compliments. The boyfriend—pretty sure his name is David—gives me a polite nod that I return. He seems decent enough, if a little too clean-cut for my taste.
Aleksei arrives next, alone as always, carrying a single bottle of vodka he obviously bought at some corner liquor store on his way over.
“Housewarming gift,” he grunts, shoving it into my hands. “The good stuff. Don’t waste it on cocktails.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He disappears into the parlor without another word, probably to find a corner where he can brood in peace.
Akio shows up shortly after, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt that looks like he slept in it and carrying a small, wrapped box.
“What’s this?” I ask as he hands it over.
“External hard drive. Contains a few terabytes of... let’s call it insurance,” he says, shaking some of his messy hair out of his eyes. “Dirt on every major player in the city. Politicians, bankers, a few clergy members. You know, light reading.”
“You brought me blackmail material as a housewarming gift.”
“What? You’re hard to shop for.”
I can’t argue that point. In fact, blackmail material seems like the perfect gift to give me the more I think about it.
Killian arrives with Cian and Teagan, the three of them looking about as comfortable in a social setting as wolves at a garden party.
Killian’s wearing a dress shirt that’s slightly less rumpled than usual, which I suspect is Simone’s influence.
Cian and Teagan immediately post up near the bar, clearly planning to treat this as more of a drinking event than a formal dinner.
Notably absent are Cara and her boytoy, Sean. I didn’t expect them to show—who would want to show up to their ex-husband and his new girlfriend’s housewarming dinner?
Me and my ex-wife were over the moment I found out she’d been fucking Sean while I rotted in prison.
No amount of awkward dinner parties is going to change that. Some bridges are better left burned.
The last to arrive are Ronan and Simone. The temperature in the room shifts the moment they walk through the door.
Simone’s in a navy-blue dress that matches Ronan’s button-up shirt, her dark hair in loose waves over her shoulders. She scans the foyer ’til her eyes land on Chantal, and for a moment, neither of them moves.
They don’t hug or even greet each other like they usually would. Instead they exchange nods so awkward and stiff it makes the beef me and Ronan have feel like light work.
And we tried to kill each other—repeatedly.
I wasn’t sure when we invited my younger brother and his wife if they would even bother turning up. It wouldn’t have surprised me if they hadn’t. The feud between us wasn’t exactly something most people can get over, even after a month or two.
My brother and I are left standing around like two idiots while our women pointedly ignore each other.
“Loch,” Ronan says flatly.
“Ro,” I return.
We stare at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. Two men who spent months trying to kill each other, now forced to make small talk at a dinner party because the women we love happen to be best friends.
“You’ve… uh, done a lot with the place,” Ronan offers finally. “Grandpa Finn would be proud.”
“It’s mostly been Chantal’s vision. I just sign the checks.”
“That’s unsurprising.”
Another beat of awkward silence passes between us.
“Drinks are in the parlor,” I say.
“Lead the way.”
We walk side by side toward the bar, two former enemies navigating uncharted territory—reluctant coexistence.
Once we do reach the parlor, we go our separate ways.
Ronan heads off to congregate with his righthand, Killian, and his buttonmen Cian and Teagan.
I go in the opposite direction to find some of my misfits. I find Aleksei and Akio near the bar in the parlor, both of them nursing drinks and looking about as natural at the dinner party as an elephant would in a business suit.
“Hell of a place you’ve put together, boss,” Akio says casually. “With only half the rodents that were here when we lived here.”
“Chantal’s genius.”
Aleksei grunts in what might be mild approval or intense distaste. Hard to tell with him.
“Speaking of living arrangements,” I say, leaning against the bar. “You two still going freelance? Now that we’re officially disbanded.”
Akio gives a shrug. “I’ve got some prospects. Few tech companies looking for security consultants. Boring corporate shit, but the pay’s good and nobody’s trying to kill me. Might give it some thought.”
“And you?”