Chapter 18 Simone
EIGHTEEN
Simone
The Langston residence glows as if it’s the set of some Hallmark holiday movie. As we walk up the circular driveway, I can’t help basking in the twinkling white lights and the large, ornate wreath on the front door.
Mom has always loved decorating for the holidays; it’s her favorite time of the year, which always made it mine too.
The house itself is exactly as I remember it. A sprawling white stucco mansion with dark gray trim that exudes tasteful wealth.
The place I once called home.
…and then I was given away and married off to a family that’s the complete opposite.
Ronan walks beside me, a bottle of Irish whiskey in his hand. His idea of a thank-you gift for inviting us to dinner.
I’m doubtful my parents will feel the same, though I’m just grateful we’re coming over for Christmas dinner at all.
Ronan and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye most days. But it seems we’ve come to an unspoken agreement we won’t completely be at each other’s throats—for now.
My heart flutters inside my chest as we make it up the front steps, and I think about how this is the first real time I’m visiting as a married woman.
So much has happened since the wedding. So much has changed.
Before we can even reach the door, it swings open and Mom glides out, her arms extended in welcome.
“Simone, honey. There you are.”
She pulls me into an embrace that smells like her signature perfume. Expensive floral notes ensconce me as I sink into her motherly warmth and give her my own grateful squeeze.
“Hi, Mommy,” I say softly. “Thanks for having us over.”
“We’re just so happy you were able to come!” she answers, drawing back for an appraising once-over of me. She’s dressed as elegantly as expected, her silk blouse a creamy white against her darker brown complexion, large gemstone-encrusted jewelry gleaming in the light of the front doorway.
As we let go of each other, Ronan steps forward and presents the bottle of whiskey with a curt nod. “Yeah, thanks for having us.”
Mom’s gaze drops to the bottle, her features straining to maintain the smile on her face. Brows subtly drawing closer and lip twitching as the expression almost slips, she manages to gracefully recover.
“Oh,” she chirps. She carefully takes the large bottle and gives a nod. “How, um, very thoughtful of you, Ronan. I’m sure Malcolm and Michael will enjoy this.”
It’s subtle. So subtle Ronan probably doesn’t even catch it. But I know my mother. She thinks its tawdry to gift Irish whiskey for a formal holiday dinner.
Dad appears in the foyer next, broad and tall compared to Mom’s short, curvy, diminutive size. He’s in slacks and a cashmere sweater, though there’s nothing casual about the energy he’s exuding.
Some tense balance between pleasure at seeing me and irritation over the man at my side.
“Princess,” he says, drawing me into a firm hug. He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Good to have you home.”
“Good to be home, Daddy.”
When he releases me, he turns to Ronan. The two men exchange a brief handshake that’s cordial but stiff and restrained. Two men with a certain level of ego sizing each other up and deciding to keep things peaceful. At least for this evening.
Children’s laughter trickles in from other rooms in the house. Karter and Dante’s kids running amok leading up to Christmas dinner.
I love the sound. Pure and joyful and so different from the heavy tension that seems to follow me everywhere these days.
We head toward the dining room, and Karter emerges from the living room with a glass of eggnog in his hand. He crushes me into a one-armed bear hug the moment he sees me.
“There she is! Looking more grown than ever.”
I laugh as I pull away and shove at his shoulder. “I’ve been grown, cuz. Did you forget?”
“I damn sure didn’t forget how you used to beg us to go caroling every year and it was my ass who had to take you.”
“And sang along with me!” I tease, poking him in the ribs.
He’s grinning until his gaze lands on Ronan. Then the warmth vanishes from his expression, replaced by an icy coolness. “Thought it was just going to be family tonight.”
“Now, Karter,” Mom simpers, stepping between us. “It is just family tonight. Everyone here is family of the Langstons, or have you forgotten your little baby girl cousin is a married woman now?”
“Aunt Ashante, I meant—”
“Mind your manners. Shall we head into the dining room?”
It’s not a request. It’s an instruction, one Karter and everyone else recognizes.
I glance at Ronan, but his expression gives nothing away. If Karter’s comment bothered him, he doesn’t care enough to show it.
The formal dining room matches the rest of the house.
Crisp white walls, a long mahogany table set with fine china and crystal, dark gray accents in the curtains and upholstered chairs.
A centerpiece of poinsettias and evergreen branches runs down the middle of the table, flanked by tall tapered candles.
The meal is a feast.
Traditional American favorites mingle with Ghanaian dishes. Honey-glazed ham and roasted vegetables sit alongside jollof rice and fufu with chicken. The savory aromas blend together so well it’s enough to make your mouth water.
We’re still taking our seats when the doorbell rings, and a moment later, Senator Banks and Chantal sweep into the dining room. Chantal carries a bottle of wine, which she presents to Mom with an air kiss to each cheek.
“Riesling,” Mom says sweetly. “And Joh Jos at that. Always such impeccable taste, Chantal. Thank you.”
Though the compliment’s genuine, the contrast couldn’t be more glaring. Mom thinks highly of the Banks’s offering while finding Ronan’s lacking.
Once everyone is officially seated, the conversation flows. Stilted at first, but loosening as the wine is poured and the food is passed around. Dad and Senator Banks fall into a discussion about the upcoming special election in New York, where Senator Hardman’s vacancy will be filled.
“Gacy’s going to eke out a win,” Dad says confidently, cutting into his ham. “He’s got the momentum.”
Senator Banks shakes his head, swirling the wine in his glass. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve heard Rothschild’s gotten a little extra help. From the underworld if you catch my drift.”
“The Ferreras?”
“Who else?” the senator chuckles. “The Italians are almost as ruthless as the Iris—”
He stops abruptly, clearing his throat as his gaze flicks to Ronan.
The table goes quiet, an awkward blank space now occupying the room.
To his credit, Ronan simply grins. “It’s okay to tell it like it is, Senator. The Irish. You were gonna say the Irish are ruthless and cunning, right?”
Senator Banks stammers, blinking rapidly. “I... well, I didn’t mean—”
“Gentlemen,” Mom says. “I do think we’ve had quite enough politics for one evening, don’t you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer as she turns to Chantal. “Chantal, you must tell me about that famous artist from London you’re featuring at the gallery. I’ve heard he’s made some interesting demands.”
Chantal’s happy to regale us with the horror stories of her experience thus far. She launches into a story about how he’s requested a special kind of mood lighting that required she import glass bulbs from South America.
Everyone else listens and joins in as the topic grows legs and flourishes from there.
But I’m much more focused on Ronan.
He’s sitting beside me, his jaw tense despite his neutral expression. He’s not comfortable around my family, probably because he senses how they disapprove of him.
Regardless of the fact we’re married or the business we deal in, the Langstons don’t approve of violent, bloodthirsty gangsters.
Without thinking, I let my hand creep toward his on the table. I curl my pinky around his. A small gesture that’s barely noticeable. Just enough to let him know I’m here.
That I’m with him.
I’m sorry my family is treating him like an outsider when he agreed to come here for me.
He glances at me, a glimmer of surprise in his otherwise vibrant green eyes. It’s one of the first times I’ve ever touched him first. Certainly the first time in front of others like this, even if they’re too distracted to notice.
Without a word, he reciprocates the small little gesture by covering my hand with his.
We stay like this for the rest of dinner, his hand cupped over mine as if we’re a real married couple showing tender affection.
Hours later, as we walk out to the towncar waiting in the driveway, the cold December air biting at my cheeks, I turn to Ronan.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For coming tonight. You didn’t have to put up with all of that.”
He shrugs, his breath misting in the night air. “They’re my family too, remember, princess? Even if they hate my guts.”
I catch the dark humor and laugh before I can catch myself.
Blunt but true.
The towncar navigates the residential streets of Scarsdale, driving us back toward the glittering city that never sleeps.
The partition is down, the driver’s eyes fixed on the road, and the low hum of the engine fills the silence between us.
Except it’s not really silence. It’s more so tension. The kind that crackles like static electricity, making my skin prickle with awareness.
I’m still a little tipsy from the wine at dinner, warmth buzzing through my veins and making my tongue feel lighter. Bolder in the moment.
I’m giddy and flushed, very cognizant of the man sitting beside me.
“So you survived your first Langston family dinner,” I say, glancing over at him. “All without cussing anyone out or threatening to knock their teeth out. I’m impressed, Callahan.”
Ronan’s lips twitch as if to grin. “Barely. Your cousin looked like he wanted to stab me with his fork. Hope he’s aware I’m Irish and we’ve always got a blade of some sort on us.”
“Karter’s protective. He’ll warm up eventually.” I pause, then add, “Maybe.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
I laugh, shifting in my seat to face him more fully. The movement makes my knee brush against his thigh, though I don’t pull away. Neither does he.