Chapter 19 Ronan
NINETEEN
Ronan
The whiskey burns sliding down my throat, the heat more than welcomed.
I’m on my fourth glass, staring at the far wall of my office. It’s late in the evening, and I’m busy turning things over and over in my head.
Lochlan’s dead.
My only brother, stabbed to death in some massive prison brawl. Forty-eight hours have passed and it still doesn’t feel real.
A knock at the door pulls me out of the spiral.
“Yeah?”
Eddie pokes his head in, his expression an uncertain mix of knitted brows and a half-frown. He’s still got a baby face, exuding eager-to-please energy that reminds me he’s only twenty years old and greener than fresh-cut grass.
But he’s dedicated to the clan—his father just died and already he’s thrown himself back into work for the family.
“Uncle Ronan, you got a minute?”
“Make it fast.”
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Just reporting back from the meet up. You know, the one you sent me and Cian on? We talked to the Ferreras like you asked.”
I take another sip of whiskey. “And?”
“They, uh, swear they had nothing to do with the promenade hit or the prison brawl. Said they got no beef with us and no reason to start one.”
“Who’d you speak with?”
“Their capo. The one who runs their Brooklyn operation.”
My right brow cocks higher than the left. “You gonna tell me his name or do I have to guess?”
“Uh… shit. It was… Vincenzo? No wait. Vittorio?” he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Definitely something with a V.”
“You mean Vitus,” I say flatly. “Vitus Cintoli. He’s been running Brooklyn for the Ferreras for six years. You met with him and you don’t even remember his fucking name?”
Eddie winces, flushing scarlet. “I knew it started with a V.”
“Jesus Christ.” I set the glass down with a hard thud, whiskey sloshing over the rim. “Now I get why Killian’s always busting your balls and giving you shit. I’d expect my brother’s son to be better than this, Eddie. Sharper. More fucking prepared.”
“You’re right, Uncle Ronan. Sorry.”
“You’re his firstborn,” I snap. “It’s up to you to carry on your father’s name.”
The whiskey has made me even more agitated than I was before I started drinking. Which is why, distantly, I recognize I’m being a little hard on my nephew.
I’ve just lost my brother. But he’s just lost his father and he’s trying. He’s only twenty. Practically a fucking kid. Is it any wonder he’s not as adequate as my other buttonmen?
His face briefly flickers with offense, and there’s a flash of hurt in his eyes. Then he stamps it out with a nod of his head and a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’ll… I’ll do better.”
I’m still debating whether I want to let him know it’s not personal that I’m chewing him out when he pivots on his heel and marches from the room.
The door clicks shut, and once again a heavy silence I find unbearable commences. It presses down on me, leaving space to obsess over the loud thoughts in my head.
Fuck.
I’m pissed at myself. Pissed at this entire goddamn situation.
Lochlan called me from prison. Warned me the Albanians inside had heard about our conflict. Told me things were getting “interesting” for him. And what did I do? Told him I was handling it. Told him to sit tight.
Now he’s dead.
My brother was unprotected inside those walls. No Callahan muscle to watch his back or real enforcers to keep the wolves at bay.
Just him, alone, surrounded by enemies the feds locked up.
The information we’ve been given on how the situation went down is minimal. There was a riot that spiraled into a brawl among the prisoners. Some skinhead stuck a shiv in Lochlan’s gut and left him bleeding out on the ground. By the time the guards got to him, it was too late.
I’m not so sure said skinhead was acting of his own accord. That he wasn’t carrying out directions from the Albanians—or whoever is really trying to fuck us up.
Callahan House feels darker than usual. It’s not just blood relatives or syndicate members grieving. Even the staff are in mourning, their faces somber and moods subdued.
Oona’s no exception, her usual sharp tongue on pause.
They all loved Lochlan. For so many years, he was the heir. The golden son.
He was groomed to take over when Dad finally stepped down. He was supposed to lead this family into the future.
Now he’s gone. And somebody’s about to pay for it.
I push myself up from the chair and head over to the minibar, less composed than I usually am. I’ve got a high tolerance for alcohol, but even I’m halfway drunk at this point.
I don’t give a fuck. The mourning justifies it.
I pour another glass, watching the golden liquid swirl in the tumbler. Then I raise it toward the window, where the vast night sky is visible.
“To you, brother,” I mutter. “I’ll burn down the whole fucking Big Apple in your memory if it comes to that. Every last fucking block.”
I drink it down in one long swallow.
My phone buzzes on the desk. I set the glass down and pick it up, squinting at the screen.
It’s from Killian.
Tracked the plates on the assassin’s bike. Registered to an LDS employee. Low-level fuck named Bobby Miller.
LDS as in Langston Defense Solutions.
My blood boils over as I grit my teeth and text back.
You know what to do.
Three dots appear, followed by a skull emoji.
Killian’s on it. Bobby Miller won’t see another sunrise.
But that’s not enough. One dead lackey doesn’t answer the bigger question.
I set the phone down and stare at the door, my eyes narrowing as my thoughts churn through various possibilities.
If the Langstons are involved in this fucking shitstorm—if Malcolm’s working to destroy us from the inside out—then they’ve double-crossed the Callahan Clan.
Malcolm Langston shook my father’s hand and agreed the arranged marriage would signify our mutually beneficial business arrangement.
But it sure as hell is looking like that was a lie from the start. A giant fucking lie he and his sweet little princess might have to answer for…
“How did they fuck it up this time?”
I’m storming through the open industrial-sized garage doors of the clan’s supply warehouse in Red Hook before anybody can answer.
The space is cavernous, comprised of concrete floors and exposed steel beams, the air thick with the stench of stale oil and dust. Rows of coffin-sized crates line the floor, supposedly filled with our first big shipment from Langston Defense Solutions.
Supposedly.
Eddie and Sean share a nervous glance as they tail me through the rows. Their nervousness radiates off them in thick waves, but I don’t slow down. I’m ripping the lid off the nearest crate before either of them can speak, and what I find makes my temper surge.
Half empty. The crate’s half fucking empty.
I move to the next one only to find the same thing. And the weapons that are here? They’re not the latest models we were promised.
They’re outdated. Second-rate.
The kind of shit you’d sell to some third-world militia, not the Irish fucking mob dominating the country’s biggest city.
“This is a joke,” I snarl, slamming the lid back down. “We were promised top-of-the-line hardware. Military grade. This is garbage.”
Eddie steps forward, a zealous glint in his eye. “Maybe we should pay Malcolm Langston another visit. This one a lot less polite and professional than the last time we showed up at LDS.”
I ignore him for the time being. I’m so damn pissed it honestly doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea.
Let Simone’s cousin Karter mouth off like he had the last time—I’ll fucking gut him like a fish and give him something real funny to laugh about.
“Sean,” I say. “Get Malcolm on the phone. Now.”
The redhead promptly pulls out his phone to dial his number. “It’s his secretary, Ronan. She’s claiming he’s out of the office for the day.”
I snatch the phone from his hand and press it to my ear, my voice a low rumble.
“Listen to me very carefully, sweetheart. I don’t give a fuck if your boss is out of the office.
I don’t give a fuck if he’s on a yacht in the Caribbean or getting his dick sucked in the Hamptons.
You better find a way to get a hold of him in the next fifteen minutes or some very bad things are about to happen. Do you understand me?”
The woman on the other end starts stuttering. “Oh… I… I... yes, sir. I’ll call his private number right away. I’ll have him reach out immediately. I promise.”
I hang up and toss the phone back to Sean.
Eddie’s pacing now, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“This isn’t good enough, Uncle Ronan. The Langstons are playing us for fools.
It’s time we make it clear we won’t be double-crossed.
What if they’ve been working with the Albanians all along?
What if this whole arranged marriage is a sham? A fucking setup from the start?”
He’s only echoing possible scenarios I’ve considered. In light of what Killian found out about the promenade assassin, it’s entirely possible the Langstons have been playing us for fools.
A black Escalade pulls through the garage doors and rolls to a stop. The driver’s door swings open, and Killian steps out covered in blood.
Though it’s a regular occurrence for the boneman, this time is different—the bruises on his knuckles signify the escalation in this conflict between our clan and the people out to fuck with us.
He cracks a grin at us that’s both dark and cheerful and speaks for itself. Cian and Teagan climb out of the back, dragging a body between them.
Bobby Miller.
…or what’s left of him.
The guy looks like a squashed piece of fruit. His face is so swollen I can barely make out his features, his eyes nearly puffed shut, blood crusted around his nose and mouth. One of his legs drags uselessly behind him, his kneecap shattered.
“Went fishing,” Killian announces. “Got ourselves a catch to filet.”
“Looks like you’ve already had a sample,” Sean jokes darkly.