Chapter 17 Ronan #2
I lead Killian and Sean toward the back. The same group of armchairs where only weeks ago, Dad and I sat across from Malcolm Langston and arranged my marriage to Simone.
Funny how things come full circle.
Tonight, the man waiting for us isn’t Malcolm Langston.
It’s Rurik Raguzin, brigadier in the Bratva, otherwise known as the Russian mob.
He’s half obscured by a thick plume of cigar smoke, his gaze dark and apathetic as he watches us approach.
Rurik is big—most of the Raguzins are. He’s got a wide frame, every part of him naturally broader than most people.
But for being a guy that must tap in at somewhere around six foot five, probably two thirty or two forty, he’s got a sophistication to him.
He doesn’t have the sprawling tattoos most Bratva soldiers wear like badges of honor. He’s clean cut with a thick but well-groomed beard and a charcoal suit that must be specially tailored for his titan size.
His expression is flat, his eyes small and emotionless, never truly giving anything away.
He’s brought his back up like I’ve brought mine. Two stony blonds flank him like statues, hands clasped in front of them as they wait out this meeting between our syndicates.
I stop in front of his armchair and extend my hand. Rurik takes it, his grip firm and brief before he lets go and gestures to the seat across his.
“Callahan,” he grunts in his Russian-accented baritone. “Sit. Tell me what business you want with me.”
No pleasantries. No small talk. Straight to the point.
Some would find it bad form that he’s offered no chaser. But I consider it being real.
The Irish and the Russians aren’t exactly allies—never have been, probably won’t ever be—so why the hell should we pretend we’re best buds?
I appreciate a guy like Rurik. Somebody who doesn’t do the smoke and mirrors shit but is upfront about where they stand.
I take the chair while Killian and Sean position themselves behind me and decide to let him know. “I appreciate a man who doesn’t waste time.”
“Time is money, and money is valuable,” he answers, taking a slow drag from his cigar. “I’ve heard about your marriage to the weapons dealer’s daughter. As well as your war with the Albanians. The Raguzins have no interest in your conflict or any deal with your father-in-law.”
A grin cracks onto my face. “Rest assured, I’m not here for no deal on his behalf. More like an attempt on my life was made. You understand why I’d want to check potential suspects off the list. I’d like to think if we had a problem, I’d know about it before bullets started flying.”
A waitress in a slinky, lingerie-like dress approaches with a tray of drinks, but I wave her off before she can set anything down. She retreats without a word, respecting the nonverbal cue for discretion.
“Our history hasn’t been perfect. We’ve had our run-ins in the past,” I go on, leaning forward, elbows on my knees and hands clasped. “But I’d like to think there’s a basic line of respect between our families.”
Rurik’s expression remains stoic and unreadable. Even his eyes don’t change, remaining dark and borderline lifeless. “We had nothing to do with it,” he says simply.
“I didn’t think you did.” I lean back again, then give a shrug. “But I had to be sure. Consider this me checking in to make sure there’s no issue. Because if there was an issue... the Callahans would address it. Cordially. Or by other means if necessary.”
“There’s no need for not-so-thinly veiled threats,” he replies, nonplussed. “The Bratva has our own complications at the moment. We have no interest in petty squabbles with other families.”
Killian’s briefed me about what Rurik’s alluding to. He’s got experience dealing with the Russians through his professional boxing and the underground gambling rings the Bratva have a heavy hand in.
He warned me about the turmoil in Raguzin circles. Their Pakhan is old and frail and supposedly on the verge of naming a successor. It’s caused infighting among the brigadiers, each of them jockeying for the position.
Rurik included.
I nod my head, deciding he’s being straight with me. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. I didn’t really want to deal with the Russians when I’ve got the Albanians to fuck up.”
Rising to my feet, I turn to go with Killian and Sean half a step behind. Rurik remains silent as we do ’til he finally decides on parting words.
“Killian.” I glance back to find his gaze has shifted to my boneman. “Good luck at next week’s match.”
Killian merely inclines his head in answer, offering no other reaction.
I wait ’til we’re inside the Escalade, the doors sealed shut against the drizzle and city noise, before commenting on it.
“He got a stake in your next boxing match?”
Killian shrugs, settling into the leather seat. “The Bratva have always got a big interest in every match. I’m fighting some Polish fuck, and they’ve bet heavy on me to win.”
The Russians would be more concerned with their sports gambling ring than something like the conflict between our clan and the Albanians.
In the New York underworld, everybody’s got their own interests, playing their own game.
As Sean pulls the Escalade away from the curb into the wet Manhattan traffic, I mentally cross the Bratva off the suspect list.
They’ve got nothing to do with the shooting. It seems like the old saying is true—the most obvious answer is usually the correct one.
Which means all signs still point to the Albanians; which means I’ve got some revenge to plot.
I come home to the sound of laughter echoing on the ground floor.
It’s such a foreign sound in Callahan House that I almost don’t recognize it at first.
But as I make my way down the hall toward the kitchen, it grows louder—warm and bright and so unexpected I find myself slowing my steps just to listen.
When I reach the doorway, I stop altogether.
Simone’s leaning on the kitchen island, a bowl of bread pudding in front of her, her spoon halfway to her mouth as she laughs at something Oona’s said.
The caretaker’s on the opposite side of the counter, her own bowl of pudding forgotten as she gestures animatedly, her Irish lilt sprinkled with amusement.
“—and I says to me mam, ‘I don’t care if you’re the one who birthed me, I’m in charge of this kitchen now!’ Can you believe it? Nine years old and already bossier than a sergeant major,” Oona regales theatrically. “She never let me forget it, God rest her soul.”
Simone throws her head back and laughs. It’s a full belly laugh that lights up her whole face.
When she straightens, she wipes tears from the corners of her eyes, shoulders still trembling from the force of the laugh.
“That sounds like my grandmother. She’s the same way.
Every time she visits us from Ghana, she takes over the kitchen and makes this dessert called kelewele—fried plantains with ginger and spices.
Nobody else is allowed to touch anything.
Not even my mother or any of the staff. She rules that kitchen like a queen. ”
“Ah, sounds like a woman after me own heart.”
I lean against the doorframe, folding my arms to watch them.
Watch her.
There’re small details I’ve gradually started to appreciate about my wife. Things I didn’t pay attention to before but can’t seem to ignore now.
Trivial stuff like how she throws her head back when she laughs hard enough, completely uninhibited. Or how her hazel eyes change colors depending on the lighting and her mood—sometimes green, other times amber or a deep honey brown.
Right now, they’re a golden shade that beautifully contrasts her bronze skin.
As if sensing my stare, both women glance toward the doorway. Simone freezes mid-bite, her spoon resting on her tongue, caught between her lips. She’s truly surprised to see me.
Oona recovers first, planting hands on her girthy hips. “Jesus, Ronan, how long have you been lurkin’ there like some kind of perv? Didn’t your mam ever teach you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”
“Wouldn’t call it eavesdropping when it’s my own house,” I answer, pushing off the doorframe, hands sliding into my pockets. “Besides, nothing wrong with enjoying the rare sound of laughter under this roof.”
Oona’s expression softens, though she tries to hide it behind a huff.
“Aye, well, we best keep it down or your father’ll think we’re havin’ too much fun.
” She gestures to the casserole dish on the counter.
“You want some bread pudding? Made it specially for you and Eddie. I know you three love wolfin’ it down. ”
“I’m good. Thanks, Oona.”
“Suit yourself. I’ve got laundry to tend to anyway.” She gives Simone a warm pat on the shoulder before bustling out of the kitchen, leaving the two of us alone.
I use the opening to stroll deeper into the room, rounding the island ’til I’m standing across from Simone. She’s gone back to eating the pudding, not saying a word, though her eyes track my movements as I come to stand near her.
“You and Oona seem real cozy,” I say.
She shrugs, digging her spoon deep into the spiced pudding.
A small smile tugs at the left corner of her mouth.
“She reminds me of my grandmother. The one in Ghana. She just has that grandmotherly energy about her, you know? She showed me photos of her grandkids. Told me about how much she misses them. But she’s not able to go home for the holidays. ”
I think about that. About how fucked up it is. Oona has worked for this family for as long as I can remember, busting her ass 365 days a year, keeping this household running like a well-oiled machine.
Yet she can’t even visit her own family for Christmas because my father believes loyalty is endless. Unyielding dedication to the Callahans is the bare minimum.
No exceptions. Not even for the holidays.
He didn’t approve of any of our employees getting time off, no matter how much they’d busted their asses and earned it.
“I’ll talk to him,” I hear myself say. “See if I can get him to let Oona and some of the others go home for Christmas.”
More genuine surprise flickers across her features. “Really?”
“It’s next week. She deserves to see her grandkids. I’ll arrange the travel for her so she won’t have to worry about that either.”
It takes Simone some effort to fight off the rest of the smile starting to bloom on her face. She barely manages by biting down on her bottom lip and glancing away.
“Speaking of Christmas,” she says slowly, setting down her spoon. “It’s one of the biggest occasions of the year… at least that’s how it is in my family. How do the Callahans celebrate? What’s the plan for us?”
Right away, I get what she’s really asking.
She wants to see her family.
A month ago—hell, a week ago—I never would’ve considered compromising. I don’t do sentimental shit like Christmas. Nor do I give a fuck about holiday traditions or family dinners or any of that.
But ever since the shooting, I’ve grown more… receptive to my wife. You could even say a little fonder.
Simone helped clean me up when I was bleeding out on that dusty couch. There was deep concern etched on her face, and she seemed on the verge of tears when I turned down her pleas to call 911.
She was really worried about me—and horrified by all the blood—yet she stuck by my side.
That kind of loyalty means something to a man like me.
“How about a compromise?” I say reasonably. “Christmas Eve with your family. Then Christmas Day here. With mine.”
Her second attempt to fight off a smile fails. Her eyes sparkle, turning an even deeper golden shade of brown as her lips spread in a smile and she slides off the stool. She comes around the island before I can register what she’s about to do.
Rise on tiptoe and press a kiss to my cheek.
“Thank you, Ronan,” she murmurs breathily against my skin.
Damn near in my ear.
It sends a vibration straight through me, though I manage to hold onto composure on the outside.
Then she’s gone, slipping out of the kitchen and leaving me behind like I’ve been rendered motionless.
Just about have after the warm, soft feel of her lips on my cheek and the ticklish whisper of her words near my ear.
How could one woman have such a fucking visceral effect on me?
I never thought it possible.
I stare at the empty doorway, my mind spinning. Why do I even give a fuck if it makes her happy to see her parents for Christmas?
I still don’t want her—or anybody—as my wife. I don’t care about sentimental bullshit.
And yet…
My cheek tingles where her lips touched me. I bring my hand up, brushing my fingers over the spot, confused by the strange warmth spreading through my chest.
“I never thought my son could be so determined to be so daft.”
I glance over my shoulder.
Dad stands in the opposite doorway, the one leading to the family den and other parts of the house. He’s dressed in another one of his woolly argyle sweaters, hands at rest in his pants pockets. A fatherly presentation if not for the deep look of disapproval carved onto his face.
He steps into the kitchen, his footsteps heavy on the tile. “I heard you come home. Assumed you’d stop by to brief me on the latest about what the fuck’s going on. Instead you’re in here chitchatting with Oona and your wife.”
“Why don’t you ever say her name?” I counter.
He ignores the question. “I heard you went to Gossier’s for a sit-down with the Bratva.”
“Yeah. So. What about it?”
“It’s been three days since the shooting, Ronan. Three bloody days. From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re dragging your feet. What’re you doing about it?”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Last time I acted on a threat from Dren, you scolded me for killing Amar. You acted like it was rash. So what do you really want? Make up your fucking mind.”
He closes any last distance between us ’til we’re face to face and his cold eyes bore into mine.
“I want my son to get the fucking job done,” he spits. “No more half measures. I want my spare to step up now that he’s all I’ve got left. For him to realize he’s the new heir, which means he can’t go getting distracted by a pretty smile and tight pussy.”
My hands clench into fists at my sides, rage boiling in my chest.
If he wasn’t my father…
“You started this war with the Albanians on behalf of the Langstons,” he continues, his Irish brogue deepening to a growl. “Fuckers we still can’t trust. So you better figure out a solution. And fast.”
He’s gone in the next moment, striding out of the kitchen through the same doorway he appeared.
I glare after him, fury pulsing through my veins and my jaw locked so tight it aches…