Chapter 9
NINE
Ronan
There’s a fundamental difference between my family and the Langstons.
The Langstons call ahead. They schedule meetings and reserve conference rooms.
The Callahans? We show up when we feel like it and kick the fucking door in.
It’s a Tuesday morning when we pull up outside the Langston Defense Solutions Headquarters building in Midtown.
We storm through the front doors like we own the place.
Me, Killian, and a couple of the boys—Cian, Sean, Teagan—steamroll through the lobby and pack into the elevator, taking it up to the top floor.
The moment the elevator doors split open, we’re flooding Malcolm Langston’s private office floor, striding past the sleek reception desk, ignoring the wide-eyed secretaries who try to stop us.
“Excuse me? Sir, you can’t—”
“We can,” I interrupt without slowing down. “We are.”
The women exchange shocked looks, though none of them dare utter another word.
We look every bit the problematic Irish gangsters we are.
Tattoos visible on our hands and forearms and stamped on our necks. Mean mugs that could make the toughest guy on the street piss himself. Black coats that barely conceal the fact we’re heavily armed.
The corporate types in their pressed suits and designer heels don’t want none of this. They know good and well it’s best to stay out our way.
We find Malcolm in a glass-walled conference room in the middle of a telecall. He’s alone at the long conference table except for his nephew Karter, Simone’s favorite cousin. They’re facing a massive screen showing quarterly projections, investors’ faces boxed up in a teleconference grid.
I don’t knock. I push the door open, and the five of us enter.
You’d think I were a part of the meeting the way I stroll in.
Malcolm’s head snaps toward us, his jaw tightening. He’s mid-sentence, some rehearsed corporate speak about growth margins, when he sees us.
For a brief second, he’s thrown off. Surprise then anger flash in his dark eyes, and he stumbles over his words before catching himself.
“Uh… gentlemen, I apologize. We’ll have to reschedule. Something’s just come up. I’ll call you back within the hour.”
The investors all speak at once, each with varying levels of protest, but Malcolm’s already hit the disconnect button. The projector screen goes dark.
He slams his hands on the board table and rises to his feet. Despite his five-nine stature, it’s a power move.
A sign Malcolm Langston’s no pushover.
He might be a civilized suit-and-tie businessman who plays by the rules in the public eye, but he’s still an alpha male in his own right.
“What the fuck are you doing here!?” he barks.
Karter’s on his feet too, glaring at us like we’ve just spit in his face. “What are these jokers doing here? You think you can barge in here like—”
“We just did,” Killian grunts like the cold enforcer he is.
I step forward, hands in my pockets, calm as anything. “Time to discuss business, Malcolm. All the finer details we didn’t go over when we struck the deal. You know, weapons shipments. Prices. Storage. That sorta thing.”
Malcolm’s nostrils flare. “You’ll get your weapons when I can work it into the LDS shipment schedule.
It’s not as simple as loading crates of guns onto a truck and sending them to your doorstep.
Months of planning go into our company’s manufacturing and delivery.
We have clients across the globe, including the U.S. government and military.”
“Frankly? I don’t give a damn about all that,” I say, shrugging with my hands still in my pockets. “None of that concerns us. We’re here about our weapons and our weapons only. If you expect us to protect you from here on out, then we’re gonna need some hard details. Some solid numbers.”
The tension grows ’til it’s a suffocating presence in the room.
There’s no mistaking this interaction for anything close to pleasant. It’s adversarial and openly so.
“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth seconds later. “Sit.”
We take our seats at the table—me across from Malcolm and Karter to his right. Killian and the boys remain standing behind me, arms crossed, looking every bit the armed guard they are.
But Karter can’t bite his tongue. As we sit down, he snaps at his uncle in disbelief.
“Uncle Malcolm, you’re not seriously negotiating with these wannabe gangsters—”
“Shut up,” Malcolm says, sparing him no glance.
Karter clamps his mouth shut, but the animosity in his glare lives on. He eyeballs us like he’d like to take one of the ballpoint pens on the table and jam it into our throats.
My throat.
It’s so fucking amusing the corner of my mouth twitches.
Malcolm takes another second to compose himself, flattening a hand on his tie and tugging on his suit blazer. He folds both hands on the table and speaks with the same businesslike tone he’d used on the telecall.
“We’re currently tied up manufacturing-wise. Our plant in Ghana is overburdened and understaffed. We recently signed a new contract with ACOM—the U.S. Army major command—and they take priority. The best we can do as far as weapons shipments is March.”
I scoff and lean back in the chair. “With all due respect, Mac, I’ve gotta be honest. Look, you’re Simone’s dad. My father-in-law. Which means you’re family. But March? That’s not good enough. We need you to do better.”
“We?” he challenges.
“Yeah,” I answer coolly. “We. Consider me as good as my father. March just ain’t gonna cut it if you expect protection from the Albanians. And other threats, of course.”
“And what other threats would those be, Callahan?”
“Guess. You entered into a deal with us, Mac. Something we take very seriously. If you expect us to deliver on our end of the bargain, we’re damn sure gonna expect the same. And when that doesn’t happen…”
As if the tension could get any thicker.
Malcolm gets exactly what I’m saying. His body language tells me all I need to know.
The gritting of his teeth. The way his eyes shrink and jaw sets like he’s chewing on glass. He understands and now he’s calculating the situation.
Contrasted with Karter’s outright anger—his fists clenched on the table, his posture rigid and glare deadly—Malcolm’s response is controlled.
It’s the measured response of a true businessman.
He knows the family bullshit is a farce. The Langstons and Callahans are no more family than we were before the deal was struck.
But he’s married his precious daughter to me.
Us.
Now he’s locked into an alliance, supposedly playing for the same team. But it doesn’t mean a damn thing if one of us doesn’t uphold our end of the bargain. As soon as that happens, all bets are off.
He’d rather not go down that road. At least not yet. I’ve backed him into a corner.
I might not be as charming and likable as Lochlan. My older brother was always the one people liked—the popular guy who could make friends and cut deals with anybody.
But I’ve got my own methods. My own negotiation tactics. I know how to play hardball with the best of ’em.
As I sit across from Malcolm Langston, I know a smart man like him will make the right choice. He realizes he’s got to deliver.
“Fine,” he concedes finally. “We’ll find a way to do January. That’s the best I can do. We’ll move some things around at the plant and get in a shipment specifically for the Callahans.”
I shake my head. “That’s not good enough. We’re gonna need December.”
That’s all Karter can tolerate. He explodes, half rising out of his chair and slamming a fist on the table.
“You think you run shit? You think you can just waltz in here and make demands? This was a mistake. Marrying Simone to this joker was marrying down. She’s worth gold, and we married her to dirt! ”
If he were any guy off the street, I’d wipe the scowl off his face. I’d knock his fucking teeth out.
But he’s Simone’s cousin. He’s a Langston, and I’d rather not get blood on my shirt this early in the morning.
So I bite down on my jaw and stare amusedly in the face of his angry outburst. I mock his ass, meeting his gaze like he’s the fucking joke. Not me.
It only makes him angrier. He yells about how he won’t take disrespect.
Malcolm raises a hand and shuts him up mid-rant.
“Enough!” he rumbles. “Shut up and sit down, Karter! Now.”
Karter’s mouth drops open like he’s about to argue, then he throws his arms up in the air like he can’t believe what he’s just heard. But he sits back down like the obedient little follower he is, despite how he silently fumes.
Malcolm turns his gaze back to me, his expression carved from stone. “I can finagle a small shipment in December. But that’s the absolute best I can offer. The bigger shipment will have to be January when I can get more bodies at the plant and increase production.”
I hold out my hand, a crooked grin spreading across my face. “That’s more like it. Sounds good enough.”
Malcolm glares as he accepts my handshake. His grip is firm, almost punishing, like he’s tempted to clench harder.
Then he pulls his hand back and gestures to the door. “Now get the hell out. I’ve got investors to talk to.”
I stand, still grinning. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mac. We’ll be in touch to arrange local transit.”
Killian and the boys follow me out. I don’t bother looking over my shoulder, but I already know Malcolm and his nephew glare at our backs the entire way out.
We leave LDS Headquarters and pile into the Escalades parked on the street. The Manhattan traffic is a nightmare as usual—taxis honking, pedestrians jaywalking, delivery trucks blocking entire lanes.
But I’m in no rush.
Killian’s in the back beside me, for once grinning. “Fuck if that wasn’t the funniest shit I’ve seen in a while. You had Langston by the balls and squeezed ’til he sang.”
I laugh, the sound rough and deep. “Who said spare sons can’t get shit done? And I do it without the fluff unlike Loch.”
“Spare, my ass,” Killian says, taking out his lighter and pack of cigarettes. “That birth order shit means fuck all. Everybody knows it.”