Chapter 3
THREE
Ronan
What’s the first thing two powerful families do when they’ve arranged their son and daughter to be married? They throw a party.
I step out of the Rolls-Royce onto the curb outside the Beekman Hotel in Lower Manhattan, adjusting my wool coat as Killian and Eddie follow behind me.
The cool evening air bites at my face, but I ignore it. I’ve got bigger things to worry about tonight than the weather.
Killian comes up on my side and grunts, “They better have a stockpile of whiskey on hand.”
“For you and me both,” I answer.
Killian Rourke’s been my best friend since we were kids—back when we had a fistfight in the schoolyard over something neither of us remembers now.
We both walked away with bloody noses and mutual respect. Over twenty years later, he’s a boneman for the clan, which means he specializes in breaking bones and bringing pain to anybody who crosses us.
But he does that anyway as a professional boxer. He’s got that “beaten” look to his face—bent nose, restructured jaw, heavy brow—that somehow makes him insanely attractive to women.
Go figure.
Then there’s Eddie, who comes up on my other side.
Nineteen years old, a college sophomore at NYU, and my brother Lochlan's boy. He’s enamored with all things clan related, even after his dad’s recent lengthy jail sentence.
The kid’s got ambition, I’ll give him that. Whether or not he’s got the brains to back it up remains to be seen.
We stroll through the Beekman’s lobby as a trio.
I have to admit, the place is impressive. Timeless luxury.
Dark, weathered wood everywhere and geometric Art Deco lines and patterns running along the walls and floors. The armchairs are deep eggplant and moss green, plush enough to sink into. Chandeliers hang overhead like crystal clouds, casting bright light across the space.
Even breathing in the air feels like it costs you a pretty penny.
“This is way fancier than Sullivan’s,” Eddie mutters, looking around like he’s stepped into a museum. “But it’s no contest. Sullivan’s would’ve been a better time.”
I cut him a sidelong look, unimpressed. “The engagement isn’t about a good time. It’s about solidifying the deal.”
Eddie shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t get why the deal’s necessary anyway. My dad’ll be out in no time.”
“Eight years is nothing to sneeze at.”
Killian snorts. “This is why you’re just a college kid, Ed. Let the grown-ups do the real work.”
Eddie shoots him a pointed look that Killian easily ignores.
“You don’t agree with the marriage either,” he mumbles.
Killian shrugs. “Different reasons than wanting to party at fucking Sullivan’s. What’s an arms dealer need protection for? A seedy knob like Malcolm Langston? Sounds fishy, don’t it?”
I don’t answer. Because honestly? He’s not wrong.
It’s worse when I remember Dad didn’t inform me beforehand; he let me go in cold to our meeting at Gossier’s, then sprung the arrangement on me.
But that’s the life of a spare—you’re so fucking expendable nobody gives a fuck about using you when it’s convenient.
We enter the Beekman’s prestigious Temple Court Room, where most of the guests are already in attendance, mingling in clusters under vaulted ceilings and golden lighting.
The walls are adorned with intricate mosaic tiles, gleaming like an old cathedral.
It’s grand. Elegant. And completely suffocating.
Eddie beelines toward a cute girl standing near one of the tall windows. Kacee McKinnon, daughter of an arbiter for the clan.
I shake my head, watching him flash that same cocky grin Lochlan used to wear at his age. The kid takes after his father.
For better or worse.
Killian grunts something about grabbing a drink from the bar and disappears into the crowd, leaving me standing alone.
I take a moment to survey the room. The Langstons are on one side—polished and refined and dressed like they’re attending a charity gala.
The Callahans are on the other—darker suits, rougher edges, whiskey in hand instead of champagne.
So much for cross-family unification.
Someone slides up behind me, their hand reaching around to grab my crotch. Their hot breath tickles my ear.
“I’ve missed you,” the person purrs. “And your cock.”
I glance over my shoulder despite already knowing it’s Byrdie.
Who else could it possibly be but the desperate bird?
I’ve always said her name suits her.
She’s a slender woman with permanently flushed cheeks and hair too dark for her pale complexion.
We had a thing in the past. Nothing serious. Just a fuckmate arrangement that worked ’til it didn’t.
I remain unfazed, my expression flat. “You’ve cleaned up nicely.”
She glowers at the subtle dig, her hand dropping away as she steps around to face me. “I was always good enough for your bed.”
“Don’t be too flattered. Most times I was just looking for a warm hole.”
“Your moans said differently,” she scoffs.
“Tell yourself that when men stop calling, Byrdie?”
My gaze travels beyond her as I scan the room again. I’ve never had interest in this conversation, but what little patience I did have has been lost.
“I heard you’re getting married.” She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “At first I thought it was a joke. Then I realized it was real. And I laughed all over again.”
“I have more important matters to handle,” I say, turning to leave.
She grabs my arm, leaning in close, voice back to a whisper. “I’ll be waiting up late tonight. You know where to find me.”
I jerk my arm away and walk off without another word.
I wander through the mingling crowd, searching for one face only.
Dad’s near the center of the room, deep in talks with some of the men in the gang—Fionn, Tully, and a few others. He’s in his element, cigar in hand, commanding presence radiating off him like heat.
Malcolm Langston is across the room with his wife, Ashante. She’s a stunning woman in a cream silk dress that contrasts with her dark brown skin. She looks as regal as her husband looks powerful.
They’re in polite conversation with a business associate, both of them smiling like this is just another corporate event.
But there’s no sign of their daughter.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. People turn their heads, craning their neck for a glance.
…and there she is. Finally.
Simone Langston’s walked in.
I go still, struck speechless for one of the first times in my thirty-one years.
She’s gorgeous.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Loose dark curls fall to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face that has features people pay for.
High cheekbones. Glittery eyes a golden hazel shade. Lips naturally full and pouty, colored a deep rosy pink that pairs well with her rich brown skin.
She’s wearing a floral cocktail dress that’s fitted to perfection—cinched at the waist, highlighting the swell of her hips, with a neckline that tastefully teases cleavage.
She looks like some regal princess.
A fucking queen in the making.
My future wife.
But as she gracefully enters the room, she doesn’t even glance in my direction. Her eyes sweep the mingling crowd, landing on her parents, on other guests and back again.
Anyone but me.
She ignores me completely.
Killian walks up beside me, whiskey in hand. I grab it from him and drain it in one quick swallow.
He raises a brow. “That bad, eh? Have at it. Turns out, the bar is bottomless.”
I don’t bother answering him. But one thing is clear: it’s going to be a long fucking night.
Dinner is uneventful.
Everyone sits down to a full-course meal dutifully served by the Beekman Hotel waitstaff. White tablecloths, crystal stemware, carefully plated entrées prepared by chefs that are probably world class.
It’s all very civilized. Very proper.
Though it’s my engagement dinner, Dad and Malcolm are the center of attention, keeping the conversation going and everybody roaring with laughter.
I’m seated next to Simone, though she still hasn’t so much as glanced at me. She seems to be otherwise in good spirits, smiling politely at something her mother says and sipping her wine every so often.
I can even smell her perfume. Just traces of it. Something alluring, like jasmine.
Not only does she look fucking delectable, she smells that way too.
Malcolm stands, raising his glass. The room quiets down.
“A toast,” he says, his baritone naturally commanding. “To the upcoming nuptials. We’re entering a new time of prosperity for both our families. The Callahans are now as good as blood.”
Everybody else is grinning ear to ear.
But being the observant bastard I am, I notice how Dad reacts. Pick up on his tells—he wipes at his nose and double blinks before nodding in agreement.
He’s pleased by the deal that’s been struck, but calling the Callahans as good as family to the Langstons is a bridge too far.
It seems my new father-in-law feels the same underneath it all. It’s in the thinly veiled warning he gives me during the toast.
His gaze seeks mine toward the end like he wants to make sure I get where things really stand.
“I hope you understand the precious gift you’ve received, Ronan. My daughter is truly something special.”
I hold his gaze and merely give a tight nod. Tension works my jaw, but I don’t take my eyes off him.
Not ’til long after the toast is over.
I know a subtle threat when I receive one, and Simone Langston’s father just issued it.
Mistreat his daughter and it’s on.
As if Dad won’t break the deal as soon as it advantages the Callahans. There’s no such thing as honor among thieves, after all.
Once dinner’s over, social hour breaks out. Everyone disperses into cliques around the room, mingling among themselves.
I’m on my third whiskey of the night when I realize Simone’s no longer at my side.
I look up just in time to see her rounding the corner, slipping out of the room.
Seems my little bride couldn’t wait to make her escape. But the question is: Where’s she going?
I set my glass down and follow.
She strides down the side corridor with purpose, heels tapping against the marble floor. After rounding another corner, she disappears into what appears to be a private bathroom.
I pause for a moment, weighing my options. She’s ignored me all night. We’re about to be husband and wife in exactly seven days.
Fuck it.
I walk up to the door and wrench it open, stepping inside.
Simone’s at the sink, touching up her lipstick. She gasps and whips around, so surprised she drops the tube. It clatters onto the tile floor.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“Meeting my wife,” I say, closing the door behind me. “You’ve been ignoring me all night.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “That’s been intentional.”
I twist the lock on the door. Her gaze flicks to the doorknob then back to me. Even if it weren’t locked, she’d still need to get past me, and I’m twice her size and much stronger.
I take a step toward her, a cocky grin slashing across my face.
“You’re upset by the news? Is that what’s going on?”
She makes a sound of disgust and shakes her head. “Get out.”
“Ronan Callahan,” I say, holding out my hand. “Your soon-to-be husband.”
“I don’t give a damn to meet you.” She doesn’t take my hand, instead going to turn away from me.
I grab her by the arm before she can and wrench her toward me. She stumbles in her heels, her curvy body brushing up against mine.
We’re suddenly up close, staring into each other’s eyes like lovers.
This is fun. This is like a new kind of game. Just how far can I push my bride when she clearly hates me?
“You should,” I say smugly. “We’re going to be spending a long time together. The rest of our lives, princess.”
“Let go of me,” she warns.
“Though I’ve gotta admit.” I pause long enough to let my gaze drop, openly appraising her body. “I’m relieved you’re very easy on the eyes. This would’ve been a lot harder if you weren’t.”
She yanks her arm from my grip as I laugh. “I said don’t touch me!”
“I’ll be doing a lot more than that soon. But don’t worry. Promise to treat you right.”
“You can go fuck yourself, Callahan,” she growls, jaw tightening. Fire flashes in her eyes, making them look more golden brown than usual. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t agree to this. I’ll always hate you for that alone.”
“You might be right, princess—it doesn’t matter, does it?
” I reach into my pocket and withdraw the engagement ring that’s an heirloom in my family and has been passed down for my future wife to wear.
I grab her hand and push the ring onto her slender ring finger before she can even think to pull away.
“Either way, as my wife, you belong to me. And… look at that. The ring fits perfectly. Must be a sign.”
Then I walk out, leaving her standing there, furious and beautiful.