Chapter 5
FIVE
Ronan
The day arrives, and we’re in the paper, featured in the New York Times events section. It’s headline news that Ronan Callahan, son of rumored gangster Seamus Callahan, is marrying Simone Langston, daughter of global weapons manufacturer CEO, Malcolm Langston.
Killian tosses a rolled-up copy at me as I sit in a private room at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, biding the time until the wedding.
The room is small, tucked away from the main chapel—dark wood paneling, a single stained-glass window letting in muted light, and a minibar that’s seen more action in the last hour than it probably has all year.
“What’s this?” I ask, catching the paper before it hits my chest.
Killian pours himself some whiskey from the minibar, the pale brown liquid sloshing into a crystal tumbler. “Take a look. Front fucking page of the events section. You’ve made it to the big leagues.” He raises his glass in mock toast. “And all it took was marrying some weapons-dealer princess.”
I unfurl the paper and see a photograph of me and Simone from the engagement dinner. I wasn’t even aware photos were being taken, but there we are, pictured in the paper.
We’re seated together during dinner, neither of us looking at the other. She looks beautiful and elegant but detached. I’m moodier, my expression stone cold. We look like strangers forced to share a table.
Which, technically, we were.
I scoff and toss the paper aside. “Let them print us in the paper. Their waste of ink.”
For the last week, I’ve gone through a range of different stages. Stages a lot like grief—anger, disbelief, bargaining, anger again, and finally, real acceptance.
But it doesn’t mean I like it.
It doesn’t mean I’m going to play the role of some romantic prince in love with the woman he’s marrying.
I’m not in love with Simone Langston and never will be.
Sure, she’s gorgeous, and I’ll enjoy her in my bed however I like. But there won’t be any real feelings between us.
Mostly because I’ve never been the marrying type. I’m the moody grump who prefers to keep to his own devices. The brooding loner who’s better off that way.
Lochlan was always the more traditional brother in that regard, desiring the wife, the kids, the legacy.
As the spare son, none of those things ever mattered to me, so I grew up not even wanting them.
It’ll be the same in my marriage to Simone. We’ll avoid each other except when it comes time to sate my sexual needs.
The door opens, and in walk Dad and Eddie, both already in their formal wear. Dad opted out of traditional Irish kilts for the groomsmen wedding attire.
Instead he’s chosen a navy blazer and trousers with a boutonniere of a white rose and fresh Irish sprig pinned to the lapels.
Our way of representing Ireland.
It’s much like the rest of the wedding: subtle homages to our Irish heritage while giving the Langstons what they wanted, which was a classic American wedding with touches of Ghana.
Eddie spots Killian chugging some whiskey and perks up. “How about sharing?”
Killian doesn’t even look at him. “When your balls drop, you can have a taste.”
Eddie glowers. “Joke’s on you. I get shit-faced regularly at college parties.”
“Good for you, kid,” Killian says dryly.
Dad clears his throat, cutting the conversation short. His gaze shifts to me still sitting in the armchair, nursing my drink, the copy of the New York Times discarded beside me.
He snatches the paper up, grunts, then tosses it back down. “It’s the big day. Many say the biggest of your life. Don’t fuck it up for us. We need this after Lochlan.”
I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn torch my throat before I answer. “I’m glad I could finally be of use.”
“This isn’t the time to be a smartass,” he snaps, baring his teeth in what he calls a grin. His Irish brogue comes out the more agitated he becomes, over three decades in America be damned. “No fucking horseplay, Ronan. Just seal the deal and get her done.”
He turns and walks out, Eddie trailing behind him like a loyal dog.
The door clicks shut.
Killian waits ’til we’re alone again then leans against the minibar, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Wedding starts in thirty. You ready to sign your life away for the family?”
I down the last of my whiskey, the glass hitting the table with a dull thud.
“Always.”
The nave of the Lady’s Chapel at St. Patrick’s Cathedral is historic, known for its soaring Gothic arches, stained-glass windows, and rows of dark wooden pews that sit two hundred.
Half from the Langstons. The other hundred from the Callahans.
Everybody’s dressed in their best designer threads, adhering to the wedding colors of emerald, ivory, gold, and navy.
I adjust my dark emerald tie and tug at the navy waistcoat I’m wearing, the fabric suddenly feeling too constricting.
But what choice do I have at this point? The wedding is here, and it’s time to go out there and face my fate.
I enter through a side door and take my place at the head of the altar. Killian and Eddie follow as my groomsmen, lining up beside me in matching navy suits with emerald accents and ivory boutonnieres.
I observe everyone in the room.
Ashante Langston is seated up front in a tasteful gold wrap dress, her posture regal and composed. Behind her are several of Simone’s male cousins, each one looking like protective older brothers as they stare me down with barely concealed animosity.
Then there’s my side, where Dad and Mom sit side by side without acknowledging each other, their faces polite masks. The rest of the clan fills out the pews—enforcers, arbiters, cleaners, old family friends—all on their best behavior for the formal occasion.
For music, we’ve settled on a live harpist straight from Ireland and a Black organ player Malcolm knows personally from his hometown in Georgia.
The harpist fills the room with gentle Celtic hymns, the notes floating through the air like something out of a dream.
It’s beautiful, I’ll admit that much.
I rarely get nervous. But as I stand here and wait for my bride, for the course of my life to change forever, I’m tenser than usual. My jaw is tight, my hands clenched at my sides.
I want to get this shit over with.
The bridesmaids come down the aisle in gold dresses, their bouquets wrapped in ivory ribbon. They take their places opposite the groomsmen, their faces noticeably neutral.
Then comes Simone’s best friend, Chantal Banks, in a gown that’s navy with gold beading to symbolize her role as Maid of Honor.
She’s short and curvy, her hair swept into an elaborate updo adorned with more of the same gold beading.
She catches my eye and gives me a look of curiosity mixed with concern.
Next is the flower girl, my nine-year-old cousin Chloe. She looks adorable in her emerald-tulle dress, her bright red curls bouncing with each step as she scatters ivory rose petals down the aisle.
The ring bearer is from Simone’s side. Her cousin Karter’s boy, a chubby kid in a suit and bowtie who takes his job very seriously as he marches through the room like a little soldier and makes everyone chuckle.
Then the organ starts, deep and resonant, filling the chapel with jarring sound.
Everyone rises to their feet.
Simone appears at the opposite end of the aisle with Malcolm by her side.
I go still. My pulse pounds in my ears.
She looks fucking gorgeous.
As irritated as I am by this entire situation, I simply can’t deny what I see with my own eyes—Simone Langston is one of the most beautiful women on earth.
No doubt about it. And dressed up as a bride? It’s almost unreal.
Her makeup is subtle, proving she hardly needs any. Just a dash of lip color and blush and mascara women wear, and she’s a fucking sight to behold.
Her brown skin glows against the pure ivory of her gown.
Loose dark curls cascade over her shoulders, framing her face.
The dress is off-the-shoulder lace with a feminine silhouette and a corset-style bodice that hugs her breasts and the rest of her curves.
The sweetheart neckline shows off her décolletage and collarbones.
Her train is long and chapel length, trailing behind her like a princess out of a fairytale.
She meets my eyes from a distance as her father walks her down the aisle, the organ music swelling. I find myself unable to look away as she grows closer, each step bringing her nearer.
It finally hits me.
This is it. This is my wife for the rest of my life.
We don’t do divorce in my family, and judging by how long her parents have been married, it seems the Langstons don’t either.
When she reaches the altar, Malcolm passes her hand to mine. His grip is firm, his dark eyes warning me without words. Then he takes his seat.
Everything feels surreal. I’m aware of the priest starting to officiate, his gentle voice welcoming everyone in attendance to witness the blessed union between Ronan Callahan and Simone Langston.
Time blurs, and I damn near black out.
I only come to when I realize my lips are moving. I’m answering the timeless question I’ve been asked.
“Ronan,” says the priest. “Do you take Simone to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
Simone looks me in the eye as she’s asked the same question. She doesn’t blink or even hesitate.
“I do.”
We slide rings onto each other’s fingers—mine a simple platinum band, hers a delicate ring with tiny emeralds and diamonds that pair well with her engagement ring.
The priest raises his hands. “By the power vested in me by the state of New York, and in the presence of God, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He pauses, a smile breaking across his face. “You may kiss the bride.”
The room erupts into raucous applause, everyone jumping to their feet.
I curl an arm around her waist and bring her up against me, the two of us still peering into each other’s eyes.
Simone looks startled. Completely shocked, like she can’t believe what’s just happened.
I bow my head and press my lips to hers.
They’re as soft and pillowy as they’ve looked.
…as I’ve already begun to imagine.
She goes still in my arms as if she’s waiting to wake up from a dream. But no relief comes as our lips touch and we seal the deal that’s been made between our families.
One that is binding for the rest of our lives.
I pull back as the nave is drowned in celebration. Cheers, clapping, someone whistling.
Simone whispers, her voice barely audible over the noise, “Let me go.”
I tighten my grip, leaning in so only she can hear. “I can’t. I won’t ever.”
Her eyes widen, lips parted, nostrils flaring.
“Because we’re married now,” I go on, reminding her as much as I am myself. “Which means we’re stuck with each other, princess. We’re serving a lifetime sentence together. From this moment on, I’m all you’ve got.”