Chapter 15 Ronan
FIFTEEN
Ronan
The moment our first shipment from LDS comes in, I’m at our supply warehouse in Red Hook.
It’s where we stash all our so-called contraband. Stuff like weapons, drugs, and other important items to keep our operation running smoothly. The industrial neighborhood’s discreet and out of the way enough that it makes for the perfect place to stockpile our shit.
As promised, Malcolm Langston’s delivered—we’ve been sent the small shipment in December we agreed upon.
I walk among the three pallets of inventory, Teagan and Eddie shadowing me as I assess what we’ve got. The warehouse is cavernous and cold, with overhead lights that wash out any color or warmth. The place stinks of oil and dust, serving as a reminder that it’s nothing fancy.
Our warehouse is purely functional.
Eddie’s explaining that apparently there are some crates missing in the shipment, and some of the inventory logs don’t match the actual product. It seems LDS fudged the numbers to make it seem like there was more product than there is.
So much for Papa Malcolm keeping his word after all.
“How many crates short are we?” I ask, tension clenched in my jaw.
“At least seven,” Teagan answers, consulting a clipboard. “Maybe more in actual product. The manifest says thirty-two, but we’ve only got twenty-five.”
Each crate is the size of a coffin, made of reinforced wood and metal, and bears red-stenciled numbers and shipping codes on the side. I stop in front of one and gesture to Teagan.
“Open it.”
He grabs a crowbar and wedges it under the lid, prying it open with a screech of nails pulling free. I step closer and glance inside.
Military-grade rifles. M4 carbines, by the look of them. Sleek, black, deadly. Neatly arranged in foam padding.
But it’s true. There’s less than agreed upon.
Malcolm did mention the December shipment would be small, but this is even smaller than expected. We were promised enough weapons and ammunition to arm at least fifty men. This? Maybe thirty. If we’re lucky.
Irritation prickles through me, my mind already working through how to address the situation, when the rumble of a car engine interrupts.
A Rolls-Royce pulls up to the large, garage-sized overhead door that’s ajar. I recognize it immediately as Dad’s car, thanks to the family insignia on the front license plate.
Shit.
His driver, Brian, rushes to get out and open the back door. Dad steps out, looking as unimpressed and dissatisfied as ever in his woolly sweater and slacks. He’s got a cigar clenched between his teeth, his white hair neatly combed back.
He approaches, flanked by two of his personal security guards—two new guys I don’t even know the fucking names of. Dad keeps a rotation of them, and they never last very long. But they always bear a resemblance: muscly, mean mugs, mirrored sunglasses, and a false sense of toughness.
I’m admittedly surprised to see him show up so suddenly, but I play it cool, sticking my hands in my pockets as he gets closer.
“Dropping in unannounced, dear Dad,” I say, my tone light and sarcastic. “Should I be concerned?”
He barely spares me a glance. Instead he starts walking around the pallets full of weapons, his features twisting in deeper distaste the more he sees.
I watch him with narrowing eyes. “There a problem?”
He takes his time answering. All intentional on his part.
My father’s never been one to cut anybody slack.
If he’s got a problem, he wants to make it known.
He wants to drag it the fuck out. He finally stops and looks at me, his emerald eyes cold.
“There is obviously an issue. We’re being shortchanged by the Langstons.
What are you going to do about it, Ronan? ”
I grind down on my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’ll handle it.”
“Will you? Because so far, I’ve been letting you handle it, and all that’s happened is Malcolm Langston tried to swindle us into a March shipment. Now we’ve found ourselves warring with the Albanians on his behalf.”
“Hey!” I step toward him, temper flaring up suddenly. “You forget who struck this deal in the first place? I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you to ally yourself with him and tether our family to his through marriage. That was all you, Dad.”
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking ’til we’re almost nose to nose. His men and mine watch on in tense, uncertain silence.
“The only reason I made that deal,” he says in a low, venomous tone, “was because we had few options left. Since the real heir, Lochlan, is gone. And I’ve been left with… you.”
The contempt in his voice when he says you is unmistakable. He spits the word out like it tastes bad on his tongue.
He doesn’t like that he’s been left with the spare son running the family’s main operation instead of the golden child Lochlan, who he obviously prefers.
…who he’s always preferred.
But I don’t give a fuck if that’s the case. That’s what he doesn’t get.
I release a dark laugh, shaking my head. “I’m sorry to disappoint. Where’re my manners? I should’ve been born a clone of Lochlan. Then maybe you’d finally be satisfied.”
“That’s your problem,” he snaps. “You’re too busy being a smartass instead of thinking strategically and making the right moves. You think I haven’t heard about your stunt in Morris Park?”
“And?”
“Do you believe that was a smart move?”
“It was sending a message. That we won’t tolerate the Albanians’ disrespect.”
“Disrespect against who?” he challenges. “Our family? Or do you mean your wife?”
I hold his gaze. “My wife is our family.”
His lip curls into a sneer as he bares his teeth. “Simone’ll always be a Langston at heart. She can’t be trusted. So instead of murdering men for her and doting on her at holiday dinner, why don’t you prioritize the wellbeing of the fucking family first?”
He pauses long enough to let his words land. For me to take them in as I glare into his cold, sneering face.
“Allow me let you in on a secret, Ronan,” he says almost in a whisper. “She’s disposable. A pawn. A toy. A means to an end. Who knows? She may not even be around for long.”
My expression darkens as I glare at him and clench both fists at my sides.
He beckons to his security guards. Together they start toward the open garage door. As he walks off, he speaks from over his shoulder.
“Fix this situation. Immediately. Get Malcolm and LDS in line with these shipments and what our family’s getting out of this deal. Or I will.”
Then he’s gone, the Rolls-Royce pulling away with a low purr.
I stand where I am, staring at the empty doorway, aggravated by the impossible situation I’ve been put in.
These days, when I finally make it home, I’m exhausted from filling my brother’s shoes.
It’s harder than anybody thinks. I’m essentially still playing my old role as a warlord in the family—overseeing the buttonmen and bonemen and other fixers under our payroll—but also now acting as Clan Chief like Lochlan was.
Managing territories, negotiating deals, keeping our operations running as smooth as ever. It’s a lot to fucking handle. So much so the stress is starting to get under my skin.
Probably why I’ve decided to do what I’m going to do tonight.
No matter what the fuck my father says. Maybe intentionally in defiance of him.
Take Simone out for a night on the town. It’s time we give it a try.
We’ve been married for a month and have never spent time alone outside our bedroom.
Getting to know the woman I’m married to seems like common sense. Even if our marriage is forced and arranged.
One of the maids greets me as I pass through the foyer. I nod politely and head upstairs to the third floor where our bedroom is.
I push open the door and find Simone unwinding for bed. She’s sitting by the window in a plush armchair, wearing a bathrobe and a minty green face mask that’s almost alien-like. Her bare feet are propped up on an ottoman as she carefully paints her toenails with shimmery pink polish.
She’s already resigned herself to yet another early night in. I can tell by the way she’s settled into her routine, unbothered, expecting nothing.
Certain she’ll be alone for yet another night.
I stop in front of her, hands in my pants pockets, my head tilted to the side.
“What’re you doing?”
Her gaze stays focused on her baby toe as she coats it with polish. “What does it look like? Just some self-care.”
“There’s no need for self-care tonight.”
She glances up briefly, then back to her toes. “Why’s that?”
“’Cuz I’m going to take care of you,” I say. “By taking you out on the town.”
She looks up again, this time with widened, curious eyes. She’s thrown enough that she almost drops the nail polish brush she’s holding.
“What?”
“Get dressed. We’re going out.”
The shock on her face fades into suspicion. Her brows furrow. “Where?”
“Stop asking questions. Just get dressed.”
“Ronan—”
“It’ll be just me and you tonight,” I interrupt. “So we’re officially on a truce. Let’s actually try to get along, alright? How’s that sound?”
She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or if this is some kind of trick.
Then the corner of her mouth quirks up slightly, like she’s tempted to smile.
“Okay.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’re in Manhattan.
Simone got ready surprisingly fast for someone who was in a bathrobe and a face mask that made her look like a Martian.
But now she looks as gorgeous as ever in a mid-length black dress that’s backless, the fabric accentuating her ass so well that makes it hard for me to think straight.
She’s pinned her hair up to further show off her neck and shoulders—smooth brown skin I want to put my mouth on—and kept her makeup simple: mascara that emphasizes her alluring hazel eyes and wine-stained lips that are plump and full.
It takes all the effort I’ve got to behave myself as we walk up to the Chophouse, a steakhouse I managed to get us into on short notice. Normally you have to book reservations weeks, if not months, in advance.