Chapter 14 Simone #2
We both laugh as we sit down in the cushioned patio chairs. I lean forward, elbows on the table, desperate for a distraction.
“Please. Tell me what’s been going on with you. I need to hear about literally anything other than my tedious, isolated, under-lock-and-key life with the Callahans. Any distraction helps.”
Chantal’s face lights up. “Oh my God, okay. So you know that fifty-three-year-old with the hedge fund I told you about?”
“Gregory? The one divorced three times?”
“Yes! We’ve really hit it off. Like, really hit it off.” She grins, her dark eyes sparkling. “He took me to the Hamptons last weekend. We stayed at his beach house, and let me tell you, the man knows how to treat a woman. We had champagne on the beach, and he cooked for me—”
“He cooked?”
“I know, right? Who knew rich old men could be domestic? Anyway, I’m thinking this could actually go somewhere. He’s already talking about introducing me to his kids.”
“Chantal, that’s… amazing. But they’re probably pretty grown, right?”
“Girl, they’re our age!” she laughs airily, swatting a hand and crossing her legs. “But you know I don’t care about that. What’s age but a number? Gregory can put it down too. Like, you’d think a man in his fifties would be a flop in bed, but let me tell you—the man can lay some pipe.”
Before I know it, I’m laughing too. The kind of carefree girl talk giggles I’d usually have whenever me and Chantal had one of our bestie dates.
She tells me all about how Gregory ate her pussy better than any man our age. Then she flips the question on me and my cheeks warm just thinking about me and Ronan.
As my best friend, she already knows what my sheepish reaction means. A gossipy grin covers her face as she pushes at my arm.
“Sim!” she gasps. “You’ve been fucking him, haven’t you? You’ve been fucking Ronan Callahan—and you’ve been enjoying it!”
“SHHHHH!” I hush, immediately glancing around. Suddenly I feel like a teenager creeping behind my parents’ backs. “Would you like to broadcast it over the household intercom?”
“Is there one? Don’t even tempt me, girl.”
I roll my eyes. “If you’re asking whether we’ve consummated the marriage… we’re adults. We’ve… we’ve…”
“Fucked? Smashed? Hunched? Got all up in them guts?”
“Chani!” I groan while laughing. “Let’s just say… Ronan knows what he’s doing. Which is good because I sure as hell don’t.”
She smirks devilishly. “I bet you’ve got him hooked on that good good, Sim.”
“Oh please. Have you forgotten I still hate him?”
Our conversation evolves into talk about more than just men. Chantal updates me on what’s going on at the art gallery, including her next event.
“I’m having another showing at the gallery a week before Christmas. It’s a big one—featuring a new artist from London. I’m so excited,” she explains, then her face dims. “Oh. You probably won’t be able to make it. Considering, you know, your situation.”
I frown, looking down at my hands. “I wish I could be there.”
“I know, girl.” Chantal reaches over and squeezes my hand. Then she leans back, her expression turning shrewd. “Speaking of which… have you given it any thought? The solution to your problems?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The text I sent you.”
I shake my head. “Chani, I honestly don’t know what you were talking about.”
She glances around, making sure no one’s listening, then leans in closer. “Being the daughter of a senator has taught me one thing—every problem in the world can be made to go away with the right help. You just have to know who to go to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fight fire with fire,” she says simply. “My dad might be a politician, but he’s turned to… alternative means sometimes to solve problems. The Irish aren’t the only big shots in New York City, Sim.”
My eyes widen as I realize what she’s implying. Then I shake my head. “I couldn’t—”
“I’m not saying you have to,” she interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’m just saying it’s an option.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card, sliding it across the patio table. “He’s Russian. Very discreet. Very good at what he does.”
I stare at the card like it’s a live grenade. It’s plain white with embossed black lettering. A name I don’t recognize with a number printed underneath.
The card doesn’t even specify who he is or what services he offers. I guess that’s the point; the discretion of it all.
“Just in case,” Chantal says quietly. “You don’t have to use it. But if things get bad… if you feel like you’re drowning and there’s no other way out… never forget. You have options.”
It’s still morning on Thanksgiving Day when the house fills with a host of delicious and savory smells.
The scent of roasting turkey, fresh bread, and herbs like sage and thyme fill every corner of Callahan House.
Oona can be heard in the kitchen running the operation like an Irish Gordon Ramsay, barking orders at a small team of cooks and ensuring the preparations for the big holiday feast are just right.
“No, no, no! The gravy needs more stock, you dumb fucks! And where’s the butter for the leeks? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do I have to do everything meself?”
Her shouting is always followed by the clang and clatter of pots and pans as the staff rush to correct their mistakes.
I’m upstairs changing into the simple wrap dress I’ll be wearing for the day. It’s one of the outfits I bought in SoHo on the shopping-trip-that-shall-not-be-named. It’s deep burgundy, modest but flattering, cinched at the waist, highlighting my hourglass figure.
I take my time getting ready, brushing my thick hair until it falls in smooth waves over my shoulders and applying just enough makeup to look polished.
When I head downstairs, I’m met with the loud, brash sound of laughter and deep male voices echoing through the halls.
I follow the sound to the den.
It’s the first real time since I moved in about a month ago that there’s actually a full house.
The den is packed with men—Seamus, Ronan, Eddie, all seated with other high-ranking men in the clan. I recognize Killian, of course, stretched out in an armchair with a glass of whiskey.
There’s a man named Tully McKinnon, silver haired but menacing enough with a scar running down his cheek. And another man—older, tubby, with square glasses—who I think is Beckett O’Leary from a different Irish crime family the Callahans are on good terms with.
Half of them puff on cigars, the room hazy with smoke. They’re deep in conversation that’s more than just family business. They’re discussing other topics too, like sports and current events.
Someone mentions the Giants’ game. Someone else laughs about a politician caught in a scandal.
I hover near the doorway, peering in for a few seconds too long.
Beckett O’Leary notices me, clearing his throat and jutting his chin in my direction.
Suddenly everyone in the room is glancing over at me.
My heart damn near stops.
Ronan’s father, Seamus, scowls in agitation. A couple of the others like McKinnon look furious, like I’ve just committed some unforgivable sin.
I can’t make out Ronan’s reaction. He glances from me to his father, his jaw hard.
Seamus sets his whiskey down with a loud thud. “The women aren’t supposed to be in the den. They’re supposed to either be in the kitchen or off socializing on the patio.”
I start stammering, heat flooding my face. “I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t eavesdropping… I just… I was—”
“Calm down, Seamus,” O’Leary interrupts, his tone lighter. “The girl means no harm.”
Seamus’s gaze doesn’t waver from me. “It doesn’t matter what she meant. She shouldn’t be going where she’s not supposed to. Part of a wife’s duty is knowing her place.”
The room goes silent for a moment that feels like an agonizing eternity.
Then Ronan stands up. “I asked her to come down and find me.”
Everyone looks at him. Seamus’s eyes narrow, though he doesn’t argue.
Ronan crosses the room and gently takes my arm, steering me away from the doorway. I can feel the eyes of every man in that room on my back as we walk down the hall.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, shaken. “I didn’t mean to intrude—”
“Don’t worry about it, princess,” he cuts me off. “My father’s an uptight fuck who’s known to be cold to strangers. He still views you as one. Just ignore him. He’s like that with everybody.”
But I’m still thrown. Still humiliated. My cheeks are burning, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just made a terrible impression.
Ronan leads me out to the patio, where the wives have assembled.
It’s colder out here, the November wind brisk and persistent, but the patio heaters are on, glowing orange.
There are about six women in total, all dressed nicely, all holding glasses of wine or champagne. They’re chatting quietly, their voices soft and subdued compared to the booming laughter of the men inside.
Ronan’s mother, Shaylee, fusses at him the moment she sees him. “Your hair has grown too long,” she says, reaching up to touch it. “You need a trim. And this beard? So unkempt, Ro!”
Ronan shrugs her off, his tone dismissive. “It’s fine, Ma.”
It’s one of the first times I’ve actually seen Mrs. Callahan home and not away on one of her spa retreats.
She looks elegant with tastefully applied make up and a pixie cut that frames her oval face.
But there’s a coldness to her, a distance that makes it clear she’s here out of obligation, not desire.
Most of the other women carry the same air. Dutiful wives obedient out of obligation and loyalty to the family.
The Callahan Clan itself.
Except one woman who stands more off to the side. She’s noticeably thin and frail looking with very long golden-brown hair that comes only a couple inches short of her waist. She clutches a wine glass like it’s the only meal she’s had, her face pale and eyes watery.
It takes me a second longer to realize why she looks familiar. She’s Eddie mother.
She’s Cara, Lochlan's wife.
Her husband is locked away in federal prison for the next eight years.
I wander over to introduce myself, sensing a fellow outsider. “Hi. I’m Simone.”
She stares with blue eyes that are wide and wary. “I know who you are.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband.”
“Well…” she replies with a shaky, sardonic laugh. “There’s not much to be done about it now, is there?”
I’m not sure what else to say as the wives go on chitchatting. Thankfully, Ronan keeps me company. We find seats at a patio table and he foregoes returning to the rest of the men inside.
A relatively small gesture of solidarity, but one that sticks in my head anyway. I shoot him an appreciative smile and mouth, “Thank you.”
The afternoon is fading by the time we finally sit down to the huge feast spearheaded by Oona.
The dining table stretches almost the length of the room, covered in a cream linen tablecloth. The food is endless—golden roast turkey, glazed ham studded with cloves, mac and cheese bubbling and cheesy, seasoned green beans, cranberry sauce, and so much more.
There’re even some uniquely Irish additions like soda bread and colcannon with cabbage and cream.
The Callahans don’t hold back. As soon as the food is served, everybody digs in—man, woman, and child alike. Even the frail-looking Cara loads her plate and eats with surprising appetite.
Seamus sits at the head of the table, claiming both turkey legs for himself. He tears into them like a barbarian, grease dripping down his chin, making no effort to be neat about it.
The conversation around the table is loud and chaotic. Eddie and Killian are butting heads over the football game earlier, arguing about the final score.
“The Giants crushed it,” Eddie says, grinning. “I’ll have to tell my dad about how well they did.”
Cara makes a small, warbling cry at the mention of her husband. Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears.
Seamus slams his hand on the table, making everyone jump. “Grow some skin, Cara. You’re way too bloody sensitive.”
She flinches, shrinking into herself.
Seamus’s gaze sweeps over everyone at the table, cold and commanding. “We’ve got to be strong. We’ve got to show how resilient we are. Not just the men. But our women too. We can’t have any weak links. Weak links will be sniffed out and removed… permanently.”
His gaze lands on me as he speaks, staying on me longer than anyone else.
My stomach tightens. I shift uncomfortably, diverting my gaze to my plate.
“Lochlan's doing time to prove his devotion,” he continues with his impromptu speech. “The least you all can do is remain strong for him.”
I can feel the weight of his words. The accusation weaved into them.
I’m convinced now.
Seamus Callahan doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like me at all. Not even a little bit.
Which begs the question, why the hell did he strike the deal with Dad to marry me to his son? Is there some other ulterior motive at play?
Ronan’s hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing firmly. I glance up, meeting his eyes. He winks at me, his husky voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Don’t worry, princess. Ignore him.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Maybe my husband and I are growing closer than I ever thought we would. We’re gradually bonding like I never anticipated we would.
But a part of me still demands I fight it. The Langston inside me has allegiance to my family only.
My real family. Not the one I’ve been forced into.
That could be why Seamus Callahan doesn’t like me. He sees right through me…