Chapter 30
THIRTY
Chantal
“…police say that they’re investigating the alleged sex trafficking ring and are pursuing all possible leads that have emerged—”
The TV drones on in the background as I stand in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom deciding if the sundress I’ve slipped into is too much for the quick lunch we’re having at Callahan House.
My goal is to give effortlessly chic while also not looking like I’ve tried too hard to impress my boyfriend’s family who he was also coincidentally trying to murder a few months ago.
It’s a delicate balance.
“You’re overthinking it,” Lochlan says from the foot of the bed where he’s sat down. “You look fine.”
“Fine? Fine?!” I spin around to glare at him. “Fine is what you say about Starbucks coffee. Fine is not what you say about your girlfriend’s thoughtfully curated outfit.”
He’s pulling on his boots in such a careless way it’s peak masculinity. He figures so long as he’s brushed his teeth, showered, and run a comb through his hair, he’s good.
A rough-and-tumble man like Lochlan doesn’t give much thought to his looks or what he wears otherwise.
It’s irritating but also makes me want to climb him like a tree. Unfortunately, we have places to be first.
“I meant beautiful,” he amends. “Radiant like a goddess that’s descended from—”
“Careful, Callahan. I know when you’re mocking me.”
“It’s funner than you realize.”
I throw a decorative pillow at his head, which he catches easily because of his impressive Irish-mobster reflexes.
But he’s my Irish mobster, so I guess I’ll keep him.
“You know what’s not fine?” I say, turning back to the mirror to adjust my earrings. “Your snoring. I swear, last night it sounded like someone was operating a chainsaw in our bedroom.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Baby, you absolutely snore. You snore like a freight train. You snore like a hibernating bear. You snore like—”
“Alright, you’ve made your point.”
Coco meows as she trots into the room and leaps onto the accent chair next to the full-length mirror.
Lochlan rises from the bed and crosses the room to wrap his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on top of my head as we both look at our reflection in the mirror.
“How about your fluffy demon cat? I’d snore less if she wasn’t sleeping on my chest,” he grumbles.
“For the last time, Coco is not a demon. She likes sleeping on your chest. She says it’s warm.”
“She says?”
“We communicate. It’s a vibe.”
He snorts, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You might be as psychotic as you say I am. You know that, right?”
“And yet you love me.”
“And yet I love you.”
My heart flutters at the three little words, even weeks after first hearing them.
Lochlan Callahan loves me.
The man who kidnapped me—and turned my entire world upside down—loves me. The even crazier part? Against every logical argument my brain tried to make, I love him too.
Life is wild like that.
The news broadcast continues, finally capturing our attention as I reach for perfume to spritz on.
“The sex trafficking ring is believed to be operated by members of the Russian organized-crime syndicate known as the Bratva. Several women were rescued when they escaped this spring, but one of the survivors, twenty-three-year-old Jhene Prince, has gone missing again under mysterious circumstances.”
My stomach pits at the name as a photo appears on the screen at the same time.
A young Black woman with natural springy curls and wide, haunted eyes. I gasp as I make the connection and realize I know that face.
In the dim light of the backroom at the Bratva’s pub; it had peered at me from behind the rusted bars of her human-sized cage.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
Lochlan tenses up at once, always on guard. “What?”
“That’s her. One of the women from the cages.” I step toward the TV, my heart pounding. “When you took me to the Vodka Room—when you were going to sell me—she was one of the other women in the cages. Remember the key you tossed? It landed at her feet.”
The news anchor continues, oblivious to the bomb she’s just dropped in my bedroom. “Prince was last seen leaving a women’s shelter in Brooklyn three days ago. Authorities are asking anyone with information about her whereabouts to contact the tip line shown on your screen.”
A number flashes across the bottom of the screen, but I’m barely registering it.
All I can see is that photo—Jhene’s heart-shaped face and her sad, dark eyes that are so piercing it takes me back to the Vodka Room.
She got out. She was rescued.
…but now she’s missing again.
“You think she ran?” I ask pensively, turning to look at Lochlan.
His expression is grim. “Maybe. Or maybe the Russians decided she knew too much and sent her to the bottom of the Hudson River.”
I heave a deep sigh, worried about a woman I barely know. The real truth is, at the time I was locked in the cage next to Jhene’s, she pissed me off.
It was like she had resigned herself to her fate when all I wanted to do was rise up and fight.
But at the same time, it also made me sad for her. For what she must’ve been through to reach such a dark place.
I’m not some naive optimist, though. I’m aware what Lochlan says has merit to it. There’s a very real chance the Bratva has hunted down any woman who did escape.
They’d want to tie up loose ends. Eliminate witnesses. Make problems disappear.
Jhene Prince might be hiding… or she might be dead.
“The Russians don’t let grudges go,” Lochlan says, echoing my thoughts. “We’ve had a truce with them in recent years, but when I was first coming up? One of the worst mob wars the clan fought was against Fedorov Raguzin and his men. The way things’ve been going as of late? They must be pissed.”
“At who?” I ask. “Us?”
“It wouldn’t be the most surprising turn of events, brat.”
I nod blankly, my insides twisting into knots. Lochlan’s quick to draw me into his arms and tell me he’s just being honest.
That, like always, he’ll never lie to me.
But he’ll also always protect me. It’s comforting and is enough to take my mind off the matter; except when I glance back at the TV one last time and see Jhene’s photo still up on the screen.
Lochlan reaches for the remote and turns it off. “We should go. We don’t want to be late.”
“True,” I say, forcing myself to push the worry to the back of my mind. “We have some newlyweds to send off.”
It’s hard to believe Callahan House is the home of ruthless Irish mobsters when we pull up and the summer light glints off the many windows in picturesque fashion.
Old Chantal would’ve been tempted to take photos for aesthetic purposes. New Chantal teases her former mafia-heir boyfriend about the property he inherited.
“So I see Ronan got the nicer house,” I say.
Lochlan glares,, and I laugh before tucking myself into his side, a hand resting on his chest.
“Kidding,” I go on. “Our house is way cooler. Pretty sure come Halloween little kids will think it’s haunted.”
Simone meets us in the foyer with a happy squeal and a hug that nearly knocks me off my sandal heels. She’s practically glowing; three months traveling everywhere in Europe will do that to a girl, even if she hasn’t left yet.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” she says. “Three months almost feels too long.”
“We literally just made up, like, four days ago, and now you’re abandoning me.”
“I’m not abandoning you! I’m going on a delayed honeymoon with my husband. His first vacation in years, by the way.” She pulls back and grins. “But yes, also abandoning you. Only temporarily!”
“Wow. The audacity.”
Ronan appears behind her, looking uncharacteristically relaxed in a casual heather-gray button-down instead of his usual all black. It’s a little startling, but also a reminder that even intimidating mob bosses go on vacation with their wives.
“Loch,” he says with a nod.
“Ro,” Lochlan returns.
The two brothers still regard each other like stiff soldiers from opposite battle lines, but it’s understandable given their recent history.
The funniest part about it is I can already tell their hatred has waned. Each time they’re around each other it’s like they’re more and more tempted to officially reconcile.
Simone and I have decided to ease them into it before they even realize it’s happening. Another covert reason why we came over today to send them off. But neither man realizes it.
We settle on the terrace for a light lunch. Nothing fancy, just sandwiches and salads that Oona prepared before shooing us out of her kitchen.
The conversation flows easier than you’d think, with Simone dominating most of it with her detailed itinerary of everywhere they’re visiting.
Ever the organized planner, my bestie gives even me a run for my money.
“We’re starting with the United Kingdom.
England and obviously Ireland since it’s Ronan’s family’s stomping grounds.
That’s the first month. Then it’s two weeks in Italy, then another two in Greece, then we’re doing Spain and Ibiza,” she rattles off.
“Ronan tried to argue for just one week a piece, but I reminded him \ he owes me for being such an uncouth asshole the first couple months we were married.”
“Sounds fair to me,” I agree.
As we’re finishing up, Ronan pulls Lochlan aside near the window. I pretend to be deeply invested in my sparkling water while absolutely eavesdropping on their conversation.
“You sure you don’t want to step in while I’m gone?” he asks, his voice low. “The clan could use—”
“I’m sure,” Lochlan cuts him off, not unkindly. “I told you; I need time. I’m not ready to be back in the thick of it.”
“And if something comes up? The Russians—”
“Then your righthand can handle it.” Lochlan nods toward Killian, who’s lurking on the edges of the terrace like the guard dog he often is. “He’s more than capable. I’ll play backup if necessary, but the day-to-day? That’s not my life anymore.”
Ronan studies him for a moment then slowly nods. “By his own admission, Kill’s more of a soldier than a commander. But sounds like he’s about to have to step up.”
They shake hands, the handshake as tense and stiff as their nods, but it almost makes me pull out my iPhone to snap a photo.
Maybe there’s hope for the Callahan family after all.
The goodbyes take longer than expected, mostly because Simone keeps remembering things she forgot to tell me and I keep remembering things I forgot to tell her.
We promise to FaceTime every other day, minimum, and she makes me swear to send photos of the estate renovations so she can provide unsolicited opinions from across the ocean.
“I expect a full tour when I get back,” she says, hugging me one last time. “Every room. Even the creepy ones.”
“You’d probably prefer to stay away from those. That’s where we keep the bodies.”
“I’m choosing to believe that’s a joke.”
She laughs and squeezes me tight before finally releasing me to join Ronan at the door. We wave them off as their car pulls away, watching until the taillights disappear at the exit of the circular driveway.
Alone again, Lochlan and I spend a few seconds basking in the warm summer sun on our faces.
“You know,” I say casually, slipping my arm through his, “I think I want to go to the Caribbean for my honeymoon.”
Lochlan cocks a brow. “That so?”
“Mhmm. Just putting it out there. For future reference. Hypothetically speaking.”
“Right. Hypothetically.”
“I mean, if someone were to surprise me with a ring at some point—like even a surprise trip to Tiffany’s today while we’re in the city—I wouldn’t be opposed.” I shrug innocently. “Just hypotheticals.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Good to know. I’ll take it under advisement.”
“You do that.”
“Though I’d have to ask Coco’s permission first. She seems like the type to hold a grudge if she’s not consulted on major life decisions.”
“She absolutely is. Very particular about these things. She obviously gets a vote in who her stepdad is.”
He laughs and pulls me closer for a kiss to the top of my head. “Come on, brat. Let’s go home.”
Home.
…our home.
The crumbling estate we’re slowly turning into a place that symbolizes what we’ve built together.
I never imagined I’d be with a man like Lochlan Callahan.
A year ago, if you’d told me I’d fall in love with a man who kidnapped me from a Maldivian resort and dragged me into the dark underbelly of New York’s criminal underworld, I would’ve laughed in your face and then probably called security.
I was more than happy with my Wall Street executives and ego-driven businessmen in expensive suits.
But life has a funny way of surprising you. It comes at you fast, throwing curveballs you never see coming, and if you’re lucky, sometimes it’ll give you one you didn’t even know you needed.
…like a grumpy, overprotective, surprisingly romantic Irish mobster who calls you brat and looks at you like you’re a goddess from his deepest fantasies.
My biggest takeaway from this entire ordeal?
A happy ending is a happy ending, no matter how unconventional the road that got you there.
This is mine.
TO BE CONTINUED…