Chapter 29 #2
“Hitman for hire. Operating out of Brighton Beach. Old contacts. Legitimate work this time. Mostly legitimate.”
“You’ve always had a talent for cracking skulls. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of clients.”
It’s funny to think about how our crew was thrown together so haphazardly, yet we gave the Callahan Clan a real run for their money. At one point we had them against the ropes before shit went left, certain deals broke down, and then Marco betrayed us.
The doorbell rings, trilling loud enough to drown out the ambient chatter of the party. Chantal’s voice rises above most of the others as she announces she’ll answer.
Being the paranoid and always-on-guard SOB that I am, I go to answer anyway. Call me overprotective, but I always want to make sure my brat is safe. Even under our own roof.
I make it to the foyer as she’s already opened the door and is aiming an awkward smile at the guest on our front step.
The gangly neck and sandy hair are instant giveaways even at a distance.
What the fuck is Robby doing here?
He’s holding a case of Polish beer, eyes darting nervously between Chantal and the rest of the foyer. When he spots me coming up behind her, he manages to look even twitchier.
“Uh,” he stammers. “I… I mean… uh, hi.”
Chantal glances back at me, brows raised and brown eyes speaking for her. The question she’s asking as she defers to me is, is he serious right now?
“What the fuck do you want?” I grunt coldly. “Who told you to come here?”
“I… I… uh... you know…” he stutters, his whole face going red. He clears his throat, shifting the beer case from one arm to the other. “Sorcha… she invited me. Said it might be a good chance to… to… you know, clear the air.”
That would explain it.
Those two have always seemed to have a thing for each other. She’d often blush when he was around, and he’d usually ask probing questions about her and her situation.
Chantal’s unimpressed, openly eyeing him with suspicion, which is fair considering the last time they interacted he was trying to figure out how to sell her to the Russians.
The fact it was actually Marco pulling those strings doesn’t erase the awkwardness.
“I brought beer,” Robby adds lamely, holding up the case. “It’s Polish. We’re not that known for our beer, but… but it’s good stuff. Trust me.”
“We don’t,” Chantal retorts. “That’s the problem. You literally tried to sell me to the Bratva.”
“That was... I mean, technically that was Lochlan’s plan, I just..
. you know, I got a lot of bills. I would’ve sold my own mother if the price was good enough.
Not to say I’m not trustworthy. ’Cuz I am very, very trustworthy.
But money’s money, right?” he rambles. His eyes widen as he receives blank stares from us and he realizes he’s made it worse.
“Actually you know what? Let’s start over.
“What I really mean is, I’m sorry for everything. I fucked some stuff up, and I made some mistakes. But I’m trying to do better. Hence the beer as a peace offering. And if you ever get a parking ticket? Let me know, I can call in a few favors at the station. I know a guy in the traffic department.”
“Shut your mouth and get your ass inside,” I growl. “One wrong move and you’re a grave in our backyard. Got it?”
“Crystal clear, boss.” His eyes swing over uncertainly to Chantal and he tips an imaginary hat. “Boss lady.”
He rushes past us in the foyer, and I spy a nosy housekeeper peeking around the doorframe of the dining room.
Sorcha’s face lights up as she realizes he’s been granted entry.
“I’ll keep a close eye on him,” I say, sliding my arm around Chantal. “Even Robby’s not stupid enough to fuck up his second chance.”
“Let’s hope. He better treat Sorcha right too.”
Social hour eventually morphs into dinner time.
Everybody’s herded into the formal dining room where Sorcha and the rest of the staff have put out a veritable feast to stuff ourselves with.
We’ve kept Grandpa Finn and Grandma Darcy’s old dining room set, instead hiring a furniture maker to repair some of the wobbly legs and cracks in the tabletop. The result is an old vintage charm about the dining room that makes Chantal beam proudly every time she walks into the room.
She’s really embraced the old-age feel of the home, playing to its strengths while adding modern touches where it makes sense.
The dining room fills with the sounds of clanging silverware and casual chatter as everybody digs into their meal.
The staff have prepared dishes like a roast and medley of vegetables, freshly baked rolls, and a savory lamb stew that’s so popular it’s the first to go.
Everybody almost looks like part of a different crew than guests at the same event. We’ve got everything from former enemies, reluctant allies, and whatever category Monique’s investment banker boyfriend falls into (he’s been quietly sipping wine and looking vaguely terrified since we sat down).
I’m at the head of table with Chantal on my right.
Ronan’s claimed the opposite end, Simone beside him. The two women still haven’t spoken directly to each other, but at least they’ve stopped pretending the other doesn’t exist.
I consider it progress.
Killian and Aleksei are seated across from each other, which was either a big oversight on Chantal’s part or a deliberate choice to see what happens when you put two massive, moody enforcers in close proximity.
They’ve been silently eyeballing each other for the past twenty minutes like two wolves deciding whether to fight or form a pack.
“So then the detective realizes the killer has been living in the walls the entire time,” Monique says, gesturing dramatically with her wine glass.
“Literally inside the walls. For three years. Eating scraps from the kitchen and watching the family through tiny holes he drilled. Creepy as all get out, right?”
David, her boyfriend, looks mildly nauseated. “Is this appropriate dinner conversation?”
“It’s true crime, babe. It’s always appropriate.”
“She’s not wrong,” Chantal chimes in. “Neek once told me about a guy who dissolved bodies in acid while we were eating fondue. I’ve never looked at melted cheese the same way.”
“You’re welcome for that, by the way,” Monique says. “If you stay ready, you’ll always be ready.”
At the other end of the table, Akio’s explaining cryptocurrency to Cian and Teagan, both of whom look like cavemen far beyond their depth.
Robby’s seated next to Sorcha, the two of them sneaking glances at each other when they think no one’s watching.
If I had a real working heart, I’d think it was endearing. But mine is black and cold except for where my brat’s concerned.
“This roast is pretty damn good,” Ronan says. “Your kitchen staff interested in taking a position at Callahan House?”
I grunt out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve stolen something from me, Ro.”
He gets the ribbing I’m giving him and merely shakes his head and retorts, “Then you should be used to it by now, right?”
Son of a bitch.
I glare at him from the head of the table, and slowly—very reluctantly—realize that maybe my brother and I can reach a real understanding.
We both seem to be embracing how fucked up and toxic things got between us. We’re both at a place where we can give each other shit about it.
It feels like some form of therapy for brutal, fucked up men like us.
“We actually hired caterers to help with the meal,” Chantal explains brightly. “Lochlan’s contribution to dinner was staying out of the kitchen and not scaring the staff.”
Simone makes a small sound that might be a laugh, quickly suppressed. Chantal’s gaze darts toward her, hope flickering in her expression before she looks away.
“I have to say,” Monique announces, “this is the weirdest dinner party I’ve ever been to. Even weirder than this séance in Brooklyn I attended where the medium caught fire.”
“Caught fire how?” Akio asks, suddenly interested.
“Candle mishap. Very dramatic. She was fine, but her wig was a total loss.”
“This is normal for us,” I say dryly. “Just wait ’til dessert. That’s when the real craziness starts.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” David asks nervously.
“You’ll find out when you find out.”
The conversation bounces around the table, jumping from topic to topic with a chaotic energy that happens when you put too many strong personalities in one room.
Aleksei and Killian have progressed from glaring to grudging nods of acknowledgment. Robby’s laughing at something Sorcha said, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing from the force of it.
Then there’s Chantal and Simone, who through it all, keep sneaking glances at each other.
Dinner winds down and the group splinters off into smaller conversations, drinks in hand and guards slowly lowering.
The staff and caterers we’ve hired clear the table while everybody else migrates toward the parlor or out onto the terrace where Chantal has strung up fairy lights as if we’re hosting a garden party and not a gathering of criminals and their associates.
I’m refilling my whiskey when I notice Ronan and Simone slip out of the parlor and head down the hallway toward the west wing. Chantal notices too—her eyes track them like a hawk watching prey, though she pretends to be deeply invested in whatever Monique is saying about a book she’s recently read.
“Go,” I murmur, leaning close to her ear.
“Go where?”
“After them. You’ve been staring at Simone all night like a sad puppy.”
“I am not a sad puppy.” Chantal folds her arms in a pout.
I cock a brow at her. “Really, brat? You are so. You’ve been moping every chance you get. Go fix your friendship before I lock the two of you in the hall closet together.”
She glares at me, but there’s no conviction behind it. After a moment, she sets down her wine glass and follows the same path Ronan and Simone took.
I give her a thirty-second head start before I trail behind, because truthfully I’m as nosy as she is. They do say couples usually share a lot of the same personality traits.