Wedded to the Enemy (The New York Underworld: The Callahans #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

Ronan

My brother got the crown. I got the curse.

I knew when Dad asked me to accompany him to Gossier’s Cigar Club in Midtown that something was up.

But little did I know we were about to strike a deal that would change our lives. Mine most of all.

The Cadillac Escalade pulls up to the curb just after nine, the city lights reflecting off the shiny paint job. Dad doesn’t wait for the driver to open his door—he never does.

Seamus Callahan may be in his sixties and recovering from colon cancer, but he moves like a man who still owns every room he walks into.

I follow him out, adjusting my shirt collar as we head toward the entrance.

Gossier’s is the kind of place that doesn’t advertise. No neon signs or velvet ropes. Just a brass plaque beside an unmarked door and a doorman who knows exactly who belongs inside.

The interior is made up of lacquered black walls and padded leather—chairs, booths, even the bar. Low lighting from brass fixtures provides a subtle warm glow to the space.

It smells like aged tobacco, expensive cologne, and money. Lots of money. Legal and otherwise.

Men in tailored suits occupy the club in clusters, their voices low, their faces often clouded in smoke.

This is where deals get made. The kind the public never learns about. The kind that change territories, shift power, end lives.

Dad leads the way through the main lounge, past the bar where a few familiar faces nod in acknowledgment. We don’t stop to chat. We’re here for business.

Malcolm Langston is waiting for us in a private corner near the back, his posture relaxed but confident.

CEO of Langston Defense Solutions, one of the country’s leading weapon manufacturers, he’s got reason to be.

He’s in his late sixties, like Dad, but where Dad is all Irish fire and bravado, Malcolm is controlled and refined. His tightly coiled gray hair is trimmed close, his beard neat, his suit immaculate. He’s nursing what looks like a gin and tonic, the glass sweating in his hand.

He stands as we approach, extending a hand to Dad first. “Seamus.”

“Malcolm.” They shake hands like two men who respect each other rather than tense business associates about to conduct a potentially disastrous deal.

Then Malcolm turns to me, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. “Ronan.”

I nod and shake his hand. His grip is solid and firm.

But they’re the hands of a businessman who rarely gets them dirty.

Not by grime. Not by blood.

A man like Malcolm Langston leads. He doesn’t lower himself to do the dirty work.

We settle into the armchairs in the corner, Dad and I on one side, Malcolm across from us. A server appears almost instantly, an attractive blonde in a black slip dress that resembles lingerie.

Dad orders a whiskey. Neat, like he always takes it. I ask for the same.

Malcolm waves off the offer of a refill.

Once the server’s gone, Dad produces a cigar case from his jacket and flicks it open. He offers one to Malcolm, who shakes his head.

“I don’t smoke,” he says simply. He gestures to his glass. “Or drink, for that matter. Virgin.”

Dad chuckles, lighting his own cigar with a gold-plated lighter. “I’d’ve cracked years ago without some liquor.”

Malcolm’s lips quirk slightly—not exactly a smile, but close. “I find life colorful enough sober.”

Dad takes a long drag, letting the smoke curl up toward the dim lighting. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. These men know how to wait each other out.

Finally, he exhales and leans back. “Yes… well… I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now.”

“I have. My condolences.”

The words hang between us.

Lochlan. My older brother.

The golden child, the heir, the one who was supposed to carry the Callahan name into the next generation.

Eight years in federal prison for weapons trafficking. The trial was quick, the sentence harsh, and the fallout immediate.

Without Lochlan, we’re vulnerable. He was the face of our operations, the one with the charm and the connections.

I’m the strategist, the enforcer, the one who plans in the shadows. I’m not built for diplomacy.

Malcolm sets his glass down. “Sharks smell blood in the water.”

“They do,” Dad agrees, blowing another plume of smoke.

“The Albanians have been circling,” Malcolm continues.

“They’ve been trying to move in on my clientele.

Undercut prices and make promises they can’t keep.

I don’t have the kind of muscle to ward them off for long.

” He pauses, his gaze steady. “Being a legitimate company comes with advantages. But also disadvantages.”

Dad taps ash into the crystal tray between us. “That’s what’s pained me having to call this meeting tonight.”

The air shifts, subtle but unmistakable. Whatever Dad’s about to say, I wasn’t briefed on it.

…which tells me all I need to know.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” Dad says. “And there’s only one real solution to both our problems. Something that’s mutually beneficial. Ensures both your family and mine have our interests aligned and protected.”

Malcolm tilts his head, curious to hear more. Dad leans forward, the cigar smoldering between his fingers.

“It’s in our best interest to join forces. Become linked through a union. My spare son,” he says, gesturing to me without looking in my direction, “and your only daughter.”

I go still. My whiskey sits untouched on the table.

“It’ll allow the Callahans to have protections for our weapons dealing under the cover of your manufacturing company. And you’ll receive protection from us. All the muscle you’ll ever need to fend off the Albanians. Greedy fucks.”

“And the Bratva,” Malcolm adds.

Dad nods. “And the Bratva.”

Malcolm doesn’t answer right away. He picks up his glass, swirls the clear liquid, then takes a couple sips. When he sets it back down, his expression’s still unreadable.

“My daughter is highly sought after, you understand. Beautiful, educated, classy. Raised well. Most men are eager to have a woman like her.”

Dad gestures toward me with his cigar, the ember glowing in the dim light.

“Ronan is fine enough for her. He’s good-looking, smart, and he’ll never raise a hand to her in anger.

He’ll treat her well. Ensure she’s taken care of.

” He pauses, taking another puff. “He has traditional Irish values. She’ll be expected to bear his children, of course.

Even if his children’ll never be heirs to the crown.

That honor belongs to my grandson, Eddie.

Lochlan's boy,” he adds as an afterthought.

“But the children they have’ll be valuable in their own way.

Involved in the clan like they all are.”

Malcolm gives an uninterested clear of his throat. “Yes, well. That’s not my objective, Seamus. I don’t care if my grandchildren are heirs to the Irish Mob. I’m sure you understand. I have my nephew to take over my legacy. This union interests me because of how it advantages LDS as a whole.”

“Of course,” Dad says with a chuckle. “Business first. Always.”

“Business first,” Malcolm repeats. He shifts his gaze to me, studying me with the same level of appraisal he reserves for the weapons he manufactures. “Your son understands what’s expected of him?”

Dad doesn’t answer. He just looks at me, waiting for a response.

My confirmation I’ll play along.

“I do what I need to for our family,” I answer throatily. “And our family’s interests align. If taking your daughter as a wife means solidifying that deal, then that’s what’ll happen.”

Malcolm gives a satisfactory nod. “Then it sounds like we’re all on the same page. Of course, we’ll want to make it official sooner than later. Get the ball rolling.”

So this is it. This is my use now.

Not as the heir. That ship sailed long before I was ever born.

Not as the golden child. I was never that either. That was always Lochlan.

As the spare, my purpose is clear: forge an alliance between my family and the family of a weapons dealer. Spend the rest of my life tethered to the old ball and chain—some woman I’ve never formally met.

A wife I never asked for.

But loyalty is everything. Dad taught me that from an early age. The family comes first. If this is what he says I’m needed for, then I’ll do it.

It’s not as if most marriages are built on real love anyway. Half the couples in the clan can barely stand each other. Many are arranged. So long as we can tolerate each other and she’s easy on the eyes, I’ll make it work.

I’ve dealt with worse assignments than this.

I meet Malcolm’s gaze and extend my hand across the table.

“You’ve got a deal.”

And just like that, my life’s no longer my own.