Chapter 13 Ronan #2
We waste no time acting on what’s happened. As soon as I head downstairs, Killian and Sean are waiting in the foyer. Eddie’s joined them, the last to find out what’s going on. The three look up as I come down, their expressions tense but ready.
“Time for some payback? I’m in the mood to crack skulls,” Killian says. He juts his chin in Sean’s direction. “Teagan called Sean a minute ago. He’s tracked Amar’s location. He’s in Morris Park doing business on Dren’s behalf and having lunch. If we roll now, we’ll catch him in time.”
I nod. “Let’s go.”
We pile into the Escalade—me, Killian, Eddie, Sean, along with Cian. The engine roars to life, and we head to the Bronx, specifically Morris Park where the Albanians rule.
The drive is tense. Nobody speaks much. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of Killian’s knuckles as he flexes his hands.
Eddie breaks the silence, his tone uncertain. “Look, I’m just gonna say it. Are we overreacting? I mean, it’s not like they seriously hurt her.”
“Jesus Christ. Shut the fuck up, Eddie,” Killian snaps. “But thanks for the reminder why you’re still pissing in the kiddie pool while the rest of us swim with sharks.”
Eddie scowls, sinking back into his seat.
I keep my eyes on the road, my jaw clenched. “Nobody threatens my wife and gets away with it. That’s the bottom fucking line.”
The silence that follows is thick. It’s final.
We arrive in Morris Park and head to the block where the Albanians usually hang out.
The neighborhood is their territory—narrow streets lined with brick buildings, Albanian flags hanging from storefronts, old men sitting outside cafés smoking cigarettes and playing dominoes while the women hang their laundry out to dry.
We earn stares from locals who know we’re the Callahans and don’t belong here. Conversations stop. People back away.
But I lead the pack, flanked by my men, my long black coat billowing in the cold November wind.
I don’t give a fuck if we’re not supposed to be here. If we’re encroaching on their territory.
The time for respect and civilized discourse is over. If there was ever a time for it in the first place.
We approach the Albanian restaurant called Arberia. It’s a small, unassuming place with faded red awnings and a hand-painted sign in Albanian script. Through the window, Amar Kosovo sits at a corner table, shoveling lamb and rice into his mouth like he’s got no care in the world.
That’s about to change.
I shove the door open. The bell above it chimes, absurdly cheerful for what’s about to go down.
Amar looks up, his fork pausing mid-air. His thick eyebrows knit together. Then his eyes narrow with recognition.
Killian locks the door behind us.
The female server, a young brunette with her hair pulled back and stains on her apron, screams, dropping the plate she’s carrying.
The elderly grandparents in the kitchen peer out through the service window, their wrinkled faces going pale with terror.
They know this is no friendly visit and are realizing they’re caught in the middle.
Amar bares his teeth like some rabid dog, pushing back from the table with such force his chair topples over. He stands to his full, massive height. Taller than any of us.
“You don’t belong here, Callahan.”
“Could say the same about you,” I retort. “Yet that didn’t stop you from strolling through SoHo.”
“I was delivering Dren’s message.”
“Yeah? Well, now it’s our turn.”
Sean and Teagan rush at him first, moving in from either side. Amar is ready for them, throwing out heavy punches like the ogre he is. His massive fist connects with Sean’s jaw, sending him tumbling down.
Teagan gets a solid blow to Amar’s ribs that would drop most men, but Amar barely flinches. Instead, he grabs Teagan by the collar and headbutts him with brutal force. Teagan stumbles back, dazed, blood streaming from his nose.
Cian and Eddie go next, tag-teaming. him.
Eddie lands a punch to Amar’s gut, and Cian sweeps his leg, trying to take him down.
But Amar is a mountain. He grabs Eddie by the shirt with one massive hand and tosses him like he weighs nothing.
Eddie crashes through a table, wood splintering, chairs exploding around him. He groans, struggling to get up.
Cian doesn’t fare any better, getting tossed aside just as easily.
Then Killian steps up.
He moves like the predator he is. All calculated footsteps and no wasted motion. Years of professional boxing have honed him into a weapon. He feints left, drawing Amar’s attention, then lands a devastating blow straight to Amar’s face that packs the power of a heavyweight champion behind it.
Amar’s head snaps back violently. His eyes roll, showing the whites. Then he crashes to the ground like a redwood tree that’s been chopped down, the entire restaurant seemingly shaking with the impact.
“Grab him,” I order. “Stand him up against the table.”
Teagan and Sean move despite their injuries, hauling Amar’s large mass up. It takes both of them plus Cian to get him standing. They slam his hands flat on the table, holding him in place. Amar groans, semi-conscious, dazed, and bleeding.
I turn to Killian. “Give me my toy.”
Killian produces a machete from inside his jacket, the blade razor sharp and gleaming. He hands it to me, the weight familiar in my grip.
I run a finger along the sharp edge, delighting in the cool steel.
It’s funny how I’ve used it so many times, how it’s been covered in blood and gunk, yet it always washes off and looks like new after it all.
This time will be no different.
I step toward Amar, completely calm. “You should’ve known better than to do what you did.”
Amar’s head lolls, his eyes struggling to focus on me.
“Nobody hurts what’s mine. And guess what? That includes my fucking wife. It’s time to let Dren know,” I say, “that if he even thinks about coming anywhere near her again, he’s a dead man. He can count on that.”
I raise the machete high, then bring it down.
The blade slices clean through Amar’s right hand—the same hand he used to hurt Simone. The machete severs it at the wrist with a wet, meaty thunk.
The hand flops to the floor, fingers still twitching.
The staff in the restaurant scream, huddling together in the kitchen doorway. The grandmother covers her mouth, retching.
Amar howls, the sounds like a deeply wounded animal. Blood sprays in an arc across the white tablecloth, pooling on the floor, and dripping down his arm in thick rivulets.
But I’m not done. I’m only getting started as I swing the machete again.
The machete comes down on his skull, cracking it open and splitting bone. The force of it reverberates up my arm.
Amar’s howling stops instantly. Cut off mid-scream.
His body goes completely limp. My men release him, and he tips backward, crashing to the floor with a final heavy thud. His eyes are still open, staring at nothing. His mouth is agape, frozen in his final moment of agony.
Blood pools around his head, spreading across the cracked tile floor in a dark, viscous lake.
I step over his body, my boots squelching in the blood, and wrench the machete out of his skull. It takes some effort—the blade is lodged deep.
When it finally comes free, it’s dripping with the same gunk it usually is. It’ll be washed off and like new in no time.
I look to the others. Eddie is pale, his eyes wide. Sean is wiping blood from his mouth. Teagan and Cian are breathing hard. Killian looks like he could go for more bloodshed, that familiar hungry gleam in his dark gaze.
“C’mon,” I say simply. I gesture to the severed hand on the ground. “Somebody bag that up. Don’t want to forget our gift for Dren.”
My crew rushes to follow my orders. Teagan grabs Amar’s severed hand and wraps it up in a table cloth he steals from one of the tables. Cian and Eddie move to the doors, undoing the lock and propping it open.
I turn to leave then pause at the door for a look back at the wide-eyed, terrified staff huddled together. The young brunette is crying. The old folks are trembling.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone conversational, like I’m apologizing for being late to dinner. “Where’re my manners?”
Reaching into my coat, I pull out a thick roll of hundreds held together by a rubber band. I toss it onto the table where Amar’s half-eaten meal remains.
“For your troubles. And the cleanup.”
No less than an hour later, I’m back at our estate. The adrenaline’s still pumping through my veins. My heart’s still racing and showing no signs of slowing down.
I stride through the front door, past Oona who takes one look at me and crosses her arms, muttering something in Irish. I ignore her like I had earlier, rushing up the stairs at an even quicker pace.
I push open the bedroom door.
This time, Simone’s sitting up in bed, propped against pillows as she reads a book. It’s only late afternoon, but she’s obviously decided she’s done for the day, having changed into one of her silky nighties.
She’s pinned her hair up, though a hunk of it still frames the right side of her face. Bangs that haven’t finished growing out.
She looks so fucking soft. So damn beautiful and irresistible.
She glances up as I enter, visibly surprised to see me back so soon—and covered in blood.
But not just anybody’s blood. We both know who it belongs to, splattered on my shirt like some Picasso creation. Dried on my fingers, staining them red.
“Ronan—” she starts uncertainly, but I don’t give her a chance to continue.
I cross the room in a few long, quick strides. I should head to the bathroom to shower and change out of these clothes. But those aren’t options as I cut across the room and grab Simone’s face with both hands. She gasps before I silence her with a desperate kiss on the lips.