Chapter 17 Ronan
SEVENTEEN
Ronan
The Banshee is a welcomed respite from the dreary, drizzly day outside.
I push through the heavy wooden door to the warmth from the crackling hearth and the spice of whiskey hanging in the air. It’s mid-afternoon, which means the place is mostly empty. Just a few regulars nurse pints at the bar as they watch the latest rugby game on the mounted TVs.
“Well, would you look at that—still alive!”
The usual cute server wanders over from behind the bar counter, flaming orange hair swishing about her shoulders and freckled cheeks rounded due to her smile. Her Irish lilt is thick and teasing, a knowing glint in her eye as she reveals word has spread about the shooting.
But I can’t say I’m surprised. Nothing stays a secret for long. Damn sure not in circles at The Banshee.
I give her a nod but don’t stop to chat, making my way toward the back where Killian’s already seated, downing a whiskey like it’s water.
He looks up as I approach, his dark eyes scanning me in his usual assessing manner. I would expect no less from my boneman.
“How’re you holding up?” he asks.
“Hurts like a bitch,” I reply bluntly. I settle into the chair across from his, my thigh throbbing as I do. “But still breathing, so what the fuck do I got to complain about?”
It’s been three days since the assassination attempt on the promenade, and I’m popping pain killers every few hours and powering through any other discomforts.
The truth is, I’m healing up well enough.
The bullet wound in my shoulder is closing thanks to Dr. Hino’s expert stitching, and the graze on my thigh has started to scab and itch… which means it’s slowly mending.
Still doesn’t change the fact that heads are about to roll once I find out what the hell is going on.
“I heard back from our copper friend about the CCTV footage of the promenade. He’ll be turning it over to us tomorrow,” Killian explains. He swishes the last of the whiskey in his glass then gulps it down. “Should at least have some plate numbers to track down.”
“It was a man—long and lean on what looked like a Kawasaki Ninja. I’m no sports bike expert, but I caught that much. He sped off too fast to see what model.”
“Means some asshat out there’s been keeping tabs on you.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. “That much is obvious. They knew exactly where and when to find me—and my wife. That’s a real problem.”
“Putting it ever fucking mildly,” Killian agrees crassly.
“If I hadn’t pushed her down when I did, she would’ve taken the bullets.”
“More of Dren’s targeting? Bold as hell, even for the Albanians.”
“More like retaliation for Amar. My special package was delivered to his doorstep,” I say. “Probably loved seeing his cousin’s severed hand wrapped in a pretty bow.”
Killian and I pause as the ginger server walks up with my usual order. She sets down the whiskey on the rocks and mentions she’ll be around if we need anything else. I let her wander off again before continuing.
“My father’s got other theories—or at least that’s what he implied.”
“Like who? The fucking Italians? The Bratva? The government finishing off the last Callahan son now that they’ve locked the elder up?”
“Take another guess. The same family I call in-laws.”
Killian’s heavy brow furrows. “What sense does that make? You said yourself she was in the crossfire.”
“My father’s not known for considering facts once he gets an idea in his head,” I answer, tossing back my whiskey whole. “In his mind, the Langstons are still very much our enemies.”
The pub door swings open, Eddie and Sean barging through. They’re fresh off collections from the associates we do business with in the area.
Eddie slides into the chair beside Killian while Sean grabs the one on my side and straddles it backward, folding his arms over the top with his usual restless energy.
“Pleased to see you’re up and at ’em, boss,” he says by way of greeting. “How’s the shoulder treating you?”
“Still good enough to knock somebody out if need be.” I lift my now empty glass and pour the chipped ice into my mouth to crunch on.
“When’re we settling the score?” he asks. “Next move on the game board is ours, isn’t it?”
“The next move is about to make whoever fucked with me regret ever being born,” I answer darkly. “Just need to get the details sorted first.”
Eddie leans forward, his expression cryptic and conspiratorial compared to Sean’s hot-headed anger. “What if it’s not the Langstons or the Albanians? What if it’s the Russians? We’ve never exactly got on with the Raguzins.”
“How the fuck would you know the Langstons are under suspicion?” Killian asks irritably.
The twenty-year-old shrugs. “Word spreads. Don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You mean gossip, you fucking wanker?”
I ignore their usual sparring and address the meat of what’s been said.
“Could be the Raguzins. Things between us and the Bratva have cooled over the years. But my father’s got a point.
The Albanians could be too obvious,” I say.
“We look into everybody ’til we get some solid leads.
’Til then, they’re all suspects. Bottom line is nobody shoots at me or my wife without signing their own death warrant. ”
The ginger returns yet again to refill my glass and Killian’s then turns to Sean and Eddie to take their orders. As she scribbles on her notepad, I catch the way her gaze flicks to Killian—a quick, blushing glance she tries to hide behind her curtain of orange hair.
Killian notices too, the corner of his mouth twitching.
When she walks off, Sean leans against the backward chair with a shit-eating grin. “So what’s the deal with the ginger, Kill? You tapping that?”
“Her name is Bridget,” he snaps. “Get it right, you fuckwad.”
Sean throws his hands up in mock surrender. The ribbing continues with Eddie joining in, landing a few well-placed jabs about Killian finally finding somebody who can tolerate his PMS-level mood swings.
Killian counters the jokes by pointing out Eddie’s voice still pitches high like a fourteen-year-old girl and then gives Sean shit about his munchkin size.
I tune them out, my shoulder throbbing with the same dull, persistent ache. Tossing back my second glass of whiskey, I turn over the questions still without answers.
Whoever’s behind this—Albanian, Italian, Russian, or somebody else entirely—I’m going to find them.
When I do, they’ll wish they’d found God before they ever fucked with me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, disrupting my vengeful thoughts. I pull it out to find a number I don’t recognize. New York area code but otherwise unfamiliar.
I answer on guard, suspicious from the moment the call begins.
A robotic, automated recording greets me. “You have a collect call from Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison. Press one to accept.”
I press one, connecting myself to the caller. It’s only been a couple months since we’ve spoken, though Lochlan’s rasp sounds rougher and drier than I remember it.
“Little brother,” he says as soon as we’re connected. “How is the free world treating you?”
I push back my chair and step away from the table for some semblance of privacy.
“Loch, didn’t know you’d be reaching out. You hardly ever call.”
“And you hardly ever visit,” he counters. “Though I’m guessing that’s Dad’s doing. He does run things after all. Has he actually let you take the reins, or is he still pretending he’s retired?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“At what cost?”
I allow a second or two for Lochlan’s bitterness to pass, deep down aware he’s got a right to feel the way he does.
He was always the loyal and obedient heir to Dad’s empire. He did everything he was ever groomed to do, following in our father’s footsteps as required, only to be the sole fall guy.
The one who wound up behind bars while the rest of us enjoy our freedoms.
If it was me, I’d be pretty fucking bitter too.
“Word from the outside travels inside,” he goes on a moment later. “In case you couldn’t guess why I’d call, little brother, I’ve heard about the latest. The conflict between you and the Albanians. And so have the Albanians at Sing Sing. Which has made things very... interesting for me in here.”
My gut clenches. “I’m getting to the bottom of it.”
“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re floundering. Seems like you and Dad aren’t up to snuff to handle the situation.”
“What the fuck did I just say?” I growl. “I’m on it. It could be the Albanians… or it could be a red herring. Somebody taking advantage while we’re distracted fighting them. But rest assured, big brother, somebody’s gonna pay.”
“Then you better figure it out fast. You’re not the only one suffering consequences.”
The line goes dead, the drone of the dial tone incessant.
I stare at the phone in my hand, jaw tight and pulsing.
When I turn back to the table, Killian’s watching me with a knowing look. “Lochlan?”
“Who else but my cheery fucking brother?” I ask in answer. “We need to figure out who’s behind this. Now.”
The afternoon’s piss poor weather only gets worse into the evening, with drizzle coming down and a frosty draft blowing through the city.
I wind up in Midtown at Gossier’s Cigar Club. Killian and Sean are backing me as we cross the slick sidewalks and slip through the nondescript entrance that’s for club members only.
Gossier’s has long been a place for syndicates like ours and other unsavory—but wealthy as shit—characters to meet under the guise of drinks and a smoke.
The inside is made up of black lacquered walls, padded leather, and low lighting from brass fixtures. The place reeks of aged tobacco, a permanent haze clouding every corner.
Men in tailored suits are gathered at different tables, wrapped up in private discussions about whatever business they’re conducting. A few glance up as we enter but then go right back to their own talks.
That’s the thing about Gossier’s—everybody’s here for not-so-legal reasons, which means everybody minds their fucking business.