Chapter 9 #2
“Yeah, well. Tell my father that. Speaking of…”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance down at it once I reach into my coat and pull it out.
Sure enough, Dad’s calling. Checking in post-meeting with the Langstons.
I answer on speaker. “Yeah?”
“How’d it go?” he asks impatiently.
“Wheels are in motion. We’ll have a shipment next month. Then another in January.”
There’s a grunt on the other end. “That’s the least they can do.”
“I made it clear if they expect protection, they’ve gotta deliver.”
“Well, time’ll tell if they hold up their end.”
“They will. I’m on top of it.”
I wait for more—maybe a “good job” or “well done, son”—but it doesn’t come.
He hangs up without another word.
I shove my phone back into my coat pocket, my jaw tight.
Nothing’s ever good enough for him. No amount of effort is ever enough. Deep down, I know the real reason.
My name’s Ronan, not Lochlan.
Killian glances at me. “Still a prick as always.”
“Figures. It’s a day ending in y.”
We drive in silence for a while, weaving through the city ’til we hit Bay Ridge. The streets narrow, the buildings get older, the accents thicker.
This is our main territory.
We pull up outside The Banshee, an Irish pub wedged between a shoe repair place and a bookmaker’s shop.
The neon sign flickers—half the letters burned out—but it’s home.
Inside it smells of smoky whiskey, stale beer, and salty fried food. The walls are covered in faded photos of Ireland, old hurling jerseys, and a massive Irish flag hung over the bar.
A few regulars are already posted up at the bar counter, nursing pints and watching a football match on the TV.
European football. Not American.
We claim our usual table in the back corner. A cute server with freckles and bright orange-red hair comes over, her accent thick as syrup.
“Afternoon, lads. What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey,” I say. “The good stuff.”
She nods, pausing half a second to sneak a shy smile at Killian, and then disappears toward the bar.
Killian leans back in his chair, cocking a brow. “You see the way she looked at me?”
I snort. “She looked at you like the trouble you are.”
“So she’s a quick learner. Just how I like it.”
I’m about to respond when the door swings open.
A huge, angry, ogre-looking motherfucker walks in.
That’s the only way to describe him. He’s gone overboard on working out his trap muscles—his neck is practically nonexistent, his shoulders hunched up like he’s wearing permanent shoulder pads.
Thick hairy eyebrows. Dead eyes. Thin lips pressed into a tight line. Then there’s the way he carries himself, like he’s storming the stage at some fucking WrestleMania match.
I know right away he’s from the Albanian syndicate.
He stops at our table, looming over us like a mountain. “You Ronan Callahan?”
I lean back in my chair, peering up at him unconcernedly. “What do you think?”
“I am here on behalf of Dren,” he says in broken English, his accent harsh. He crosses his massive arms. “He knows you are working with Malcolm Langston. We do not like this. We do not appreciate the secret alliances.”
I grin up at him, taunting him the same way I had Karter earlier. “Well, my marriage to Malcolm Langston’s daughter was featured in the New York Times. Not exactly a secret, is it?”
Killian chuckles beside me.
His brow furrows like he’s trying to make sense of the question. I help him along in condescending fashion.
“Simone and I fell in love. Tell your Master Dren I don’t appreciate him insinuating our love isn’t real. I find that highly offensive, and it’s never good when I’m offended.”
The henchman clenches his jaw and barks out, “This is not a game. But you are free to play like it is. Dren will have much to say about this.”
“Send him my regards. But first do something about that fucking unibrow.”
He glares like he’s about to smash shit with his large fists, then storms out of the pub, letting the door slam behind him.
The server returns with our drinks, eyeing the door nervously. “Friend of yours?”
“Not quite,” I say, accepting the glass. “But I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him again.”
The Albanians definitely won’t be going down without a fight. Since we’re now aligned with the Langstons, their fight has become a Callahan problem.
Let the games begin.
The rest of the day is spent making rounds to different neighborhoods that are part of Callahan territory.
We check in with all the businesses we have a stake in—some clubs, a few local small shops, a waste management company that pays us twenty percent of their profits for protection against other crime families.
We’re walking across the lot with dump trucks rumbling past and piles of garbage stacked high when my phone pings.
It’s an alert from the cameras at Callahan House.
Little does Simone know, the entire house, except for a few select rooms, is rigged with cameras.
Everything she says and does is under surveillance.
I check my phone. She’s moping around the garden outside, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold. Her dark hair falls over her slumped shoulders, her entire aura dejected.
I pocket the phone and keep walking.
The truth is, this first week of marriage, I’ve been avoiding being home.
I resent the fact I’m now married. And I resent even more that I’m so damn attracted to a wife who hates me. A part of me hates her too, for interrupting my freedom and solitude as a bachelor.
When I wasn’t married, there were no expectations of me except to run the buttonmen—what the Irish Mob calls our enforcers—and collect cash from all our rackets.
But now that I’m married, it’s like I’m the new Lochlan. I’m no longer just the spare son. I’m the son expected to produce for the family.
It’s a hell of a lot of sudden responsibility.
But if I’m being honest, I’ve found it enjoyable getting under Simone’s skin. She hates me so damn much I’ve leaned into it.
Originally, I’d planned to let her sleep in her own room. It seemed easier that way since I’ve got no interest in having a wife and this marriage was forced on us both. But since she was so fucking disobedient, I decided to force her to share a room with me as husband and wife.
I make her endure my company in our marital bed because I know she hates every single second of it. I’ve put her on a strict schedule to further torment her.
Though it’s not like she’s the only one being tortured.
Waking up next to her warm, soft body every morning.
The way she curls into herself in sleep, one hand tucked under her cheek.
Watching how her little nightie dresses ride up her bare thighs, exposing smooth brown skin.
Remembering how amazing her pussy felt wrapped around my cock on our wedding night.
She was so fucking tight. So wet and hot and silky from the inside.
I’ve had my share of women. But this was different. Simone was like heaven clenching around me as I took her purity and left her in a puddle of my cum.
It’s taken every ounce of my self-control to keep from giving in and taking her again.
More hours pass as we collect more debts and cash owed to us. At one point, Killian has to break the fingers of a gambling addict we’ve loaned a hundred grand to. The man can’t pay us back, so Killian does what needs to be done.
He’s one of our bonemen for a reason.
The cracking sound echoes in the cramped apartment, followed by screaming that I tune out.
Just another Tuesday.
It’s nightfall by the time we’re finished. Killian stretches, cracking his neck. “You good for another round at The Banshee?”
Before I can answer, my phone goes off.
It’s security at Callahan House.
“Mr. Callahan, we have a problem. Your wife—she’s left the premises.”
My entire body goes rigid. “What do you mean she left?”
“A convertible came to pick her up. We didn’t realize until she was already gone—”
“You fucking useless idiots! You’re supposed to keep an eye on her!” I hang up on him, my hand gripping the phone so hard the case might crack any second.
I pull up my other means of keeping tabs on her, a tracking app that knows her whereabouts at all times thanks to the tiny device embedded in her wedding ring.
A little insurance policy she doesn’t know about. The app loads, a blinking dot appearing on the map, moving through the city streets.
She’s headed to the Lower East Side. What the fuck is she doing in that part of town at this hour? And who the fuck is she with?
My temper snaps free like a chain breaking. A current of rage fills me up, hot and violent.
I rush to one of the Escalades without a word, wrenching the driver’s side door open. Killian follows, sliding into the passenger seat without question.
Ever the righthand man.
I speed off, barreling down city streets, weaving through traffic like a madman. Horns blare. Someone screams at me through their window. I don’t give a fuck.
All I can think about is her. Out there. Without me. Without protection. What’s she doing? What the hell is she thinking?
Doesn’t she know she belongs to me now?
As I speed through the city streets with one eye on the tracking device app, it dawns on me where she’s headed.
She’s going to a party block on the Lower East Side, a strip where there’s plenty of clubs and bars.
My wife apparently thinks she can go for a night out without telling me.
I pull up with screeching wheels outside Club Axis. The club her blinking dot has gone into on the city map.
Heavy bass thumps even on the sidewalk, vibrating through the concrete. There’s a long line of people waiting, dressed in designer streetwear like crop tops and gold chains, and two muscly Black bouncers at the door.
Their arms are crossed as they let clubgoers in a few at a time while turning away others.
I storm toward the entrance, Killian at my side.
One of the bouncers steps in front of me, holding up a hand. “Whoa, hold up. Back of the line—”
I grab the front of his shirt and slam him against the door so hard it rattles. My face is inches from his. “You know who you’re fucking with?”
The other bouncer, eyes wide, grabs his partner’s arm. “Curtis, he’s a Callahan. Let him in. We don’t want none of that. You know Q’s cool with ’em being here.”
The tension eases. Curtis nods, his jaw tight. I let go of him.
They step aside, and we walk in without another word.
The club’s an assault on the senses.
Dark except for flashing blue and silver lights that strobe across the packed dance floor. Heavy hip-hop beats thump through the room. The bass is so deep I feel it in my teeth. Bodies are everywhere, pressed together, moving in rhythm.
From the first foot inside the club, one thing is immediately obvious.
Me and Killian are the Whitest guys in the place.
We stick out like sore thumbs, earning a couple stares from people in the crowd.
But nobody dares step to me. They seem to recognize that Killian and I, with our hard faces and the way we move, might not be the kind of men to mess with.
I’m more concerned with finding my wife.
I scan the club, gaze sweeping the place wall-to-wall. The crowded bar where people shout orders over the music. The dance floor packed with gyrating bodies. The VIP section roped off with velvet cords.
Then I spot her.
Simone.
She’s in the VIP section with Chantal, both of them perched on a leather couch, drinks in hand. Fuck if the sight of her doesn’t make my blood run even hotter.
My naughty little fucking wife is wearing a short dress.
A very, very short dress that shows off her long, shapely legs and barely covers her fat ass. The dress is made of some kind of thin, partially sheer material that clings to every curve she has.
Her tits. Her ass. The dip of her waist and flare of her hips.
It’s all on display thanks to the clingy fabric. Something the men in her vicinity seem to be enjoying getting a view of.
She’s wearing a full face of makeup. Dark, smoky eyes and glossy lips that further seem to symbolize her rebellion.
She’s straightened her hair into long sheets that fall over her shoulders. She looks like a fucking fantasy come to life.
Gorgeous. Sexy. Dangerous.
Every man in this club knows it. They’re all eyeing her and Chantal as if deciding when best to make their move.
My hands curl into fists.
They’re drinking and laughing when some guys in ball caps approach. Two of them. One says something to Simone, gesturing to the dance floor. She glances at Chantal, who giggles and nods.
Yes.
They say yes to the assholes and let them guide them to the floor.
The song playing changes to something with a heavy, grinding beat as they start dancing.
Simone is obviously a natural dancer. She moves to the beat, rotating her hips in circles that remind me how good she was at riding my cock.
Then the man steps behind her, pulling her up against him. Her ass to his front, his hands on her waist. On his face he’s got the biggest fucking grin I’ve ever seen.
He thinks he’s scored; he’s about to get lucky with my wife tonight.
An instant, intense, blinding rage surges through me.
My vision narrows, and I black out. I’m no longer in control of what I do as primitive, territorial urges take hold, and suddenly I’m launching myself into the crowd.
She’s mine. My fucking wife.
And she’s out here, dressed like that, dancing with another man. Letting him touch her. Letting his hands rest on her waist where my hands should be.
People notice me coming and start scrambling out my way, clearing a path. Their faces are all a blur. The one and only thing I can see is my wife dancing with another man.
They look up at the last possible second. Simone’s eyes widen in shock while the guy laughs like I must be mistaken.
“You mind? I’m in the middle of some—ARGH!”
I’ve pulled my fist back and decked him in the jaw.
My knuckles crack against his face, and his head snaps back, his balance lost as he tumbles to the ground.
Gasps ripple across the dance floor. The music keeps playing, but people around us have stopped dancing, staring in shock.
I don’t give a single fuck.
I grab Simone, my grip like iron around her wrist.
“You’re coming with me.”