Chapter 20 Simone
TWENTY
Simone
“Thank god he let you out of the dungeon!” Chantal gushes the moment she’s through the doors at Café Boulud.
She’s dropped into the seat across from me, giving a sigh of relief.
As short and curvy as ever, today she looks a couple inches taller in a cropped embroidered sweater and double pleated wide leg trousers.
Her cherubic face is lit up, her mahogany complexion radiant.
“It feels like we see each other less and less these days, Sim!”
I smile at her, setting down my menu. “Thankfully my husband was kind enough to let me have the day to myself. I get to do whatever I want. So of course I chose brunch with my favorite friend.”
She laughs, tossing her braids over her shoulder. “Girl, there’s no need to butter me up. I’m just surprised is all. So how are things going with your tyrant husband? I did notice you two seemed to be less at each other’s throats at Christmas Eve dinner.”
It takes me a moment to answer, mulling over what to share and what to skip.
The truth is, Ronan and I have come a long way since the engagement dinner weeks ago. We’ve reached our own understanding. We can tolerate each other now, at least in increments. I’ve even begun to… like him on some level.
But I promptly remind myself that that’s as far as my feelings will ever go.
He can be funny. I appreciate how blunt he is and how he keeps it real and doesn’t try to pretend to be something he’s not. He’s attractive and sexy, and he can damn sure lay pipe in the bedroom.
I don’t want him dead or hurt.
But that’s the extent of how I feel. That’s the line I refuse to cross.
“Things are better than they were when we first got married,” I finally say as our server approaches to pour us some sparkling water. “I’m actually trying to be there for him right now. His brother was murdered in prison.”
Chantal’s brows shoot up. “Oh damn. I heard about that on the news. Some kind of prison riot on Christmas, right? That’s… that’s heavy.”
“The whole family’s in mourning. It’s been tense.”
She slowly nods then tilts her head with a curious expression creeping in. “I guess this means you don’t need that special help I provided after all.”
I lean in slightly across the table. “You mean the business card with the mystery name and number? Where did you even get the contact info for what I’m assuming is a freaking Russian hitman, Chani?”
She giggles, bubbly and light in a way that completely contradicts the darkness of the topic.
“I told you, girl. My dad might be a senator, but he knows people. And other people who know people.” She waves her hand dismissively, reaching for a sip of sparkling water.
“But no worries if you don’t need to call him.
It’s just good to have as a backup. You know, in case. ”
In case I ever get desperate enough to have my husband killed.
…sure. Just a casual backup plan.
I shake my head but can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
That’s Chantal. She could make a murder plot sound like planning a spa day.
Our server returns, and we place our orders. Both of us go for the Quiche Lorraine with café au lait. Classic brunch fare for a day that’s supposed to feel normal, even when nothing about my life is normal anymore.
Once the server leaves, Chantal’s gaze drifts to the table next to ours. “Is the mean-mugging Irishman your bodyguard for the day?”
I glance over at Fionn. He’s seated at the adjacent table, nursing a black coffee, his heavy brow and glower intimidating and off-putting. He looks like he could snap someone’s neck without breaking a sweat, which is probably why Ronan assigned him to me.
“Yes,” I confirm with a smirk. “He’s my security for the day. Ronan doesn’t let me go anywhere without it.”
“I suppose that’s a good thing considering all the close calls you’ve had lately.”
“Um… yeah, I’d rather not even think about that. Enough about me. How’s the gallery? You’ve been so busy preparing for your next showing.”
Chantal’s dark eyes immediately light up. “Girl, it’s this weekend, and you better come this time! You missed the last one because of your honeymoon or whatever.”
“It wasn’t a honeymoon. It was me being held captive in Callahan House.”
“Same difference. But seriously, you’re coming, right? Promise me.”
“I promise, I promise. I already mentioned to Ronan how important it is, and he agreed to let me go.”
“Let you,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “The bar is in hell with these men, I swear.”
I snort. “You’re telling me. I never thought I’d see the day where I had to ask an Irish mobster for permission to go anywhere.”
“Well, at least it’ll be a chance for you to meet Gregory.”
“Gregory?”
“My new man, remember? He’s a hedge fund manager. Fifty-three years old. Distinguished. Sophisticated. Knows how to treat a woman and knows how to eat pussy like it’s a delicacy.”
I nearly choke on my sparkling water. “Okay, maybe cool it on the X-rated language. We are at a restaurant who’s average patron wears pearls. Literally.”
“Let them be scandalized. If it’s not that then it’s the age people are tripping over,” she says, shrugging.
“I introduced him to my father the other day. Daddy did not approve. Turns out, he wasn’t comfortable with his daughter dating a man only ten years younger than him.
” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “But please. He had no issue sleeping with his intern before he and Mom got divorced. She was only five years older than me! The audacity of that man to judge my choices.”
I laugh despite myself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m fabulous,” she corrects. “There’s a difference, Sim.”
Our food arrives, and we dig in, the quiche flaky and rich, the café au lait is creamy and smooth. For a while, we lose ourselves in gossip and light conversation.
Chantal updates me on the nightmare artist from London who’s been driving her crazy with even more last-minute demands. I tell her about Oona and her bread pudding and how the caretaker has become my unexpected ally in Callahan House.
It almost feels like my life is still the same. Almost as if I’m still the Simone I was before the arranged marriage. Before the enemies who fuck dynamic started with Ronan. Before drive-by shootings and prison murders and bodyguards tailing my every move.
For the hour or two we have brunch together, sipping our café au laits and laughing over stories, I can pretend nothing’s changed.
After brunch, Chantal and I hit Madison Avenue.
For a few blissful hours, we lose ourselves in retail therapy. Fionn trails behind us like a silent shadow, his disgruntled expression unchanged whether we’re browsing silk scarves at Prada or trying on cashmere sweaters at Ralph Lauren.
By the time we’re done, we’ve both accumulated several shopping bags, and my arms are aching from carrying them.
We’re stepping out of our last store when Chantal gasps and checks her phone.
“Shit. I’m running late.” She’s already backing away, her heels clicking on the pavement. “I promised Greg we’d meet up this afternoon. He has something really important he wants to tell me. I completely lost track of time.”
“I can give you a ride,” I offer.
She waves me off. “You forget I’ve got my own driver? He’s around the corner.” She blows me a kiss, already turning to leave. “Stay safe, girl! Text me later!”
I watch her disappear into the crowd of shoppers, wondering if this is the last time we’ll spend alone time together for a while. It seems like things will never be like before, where we’d meet up several times a week.
Chantal’s so busy with her art gallery and the older man she’s dating while I’m in the middle of an arranged marriage and intricate mob war dynamics…
Fionn appears at my side, wordlessly taking the bags from my hands. He loads them into the Rolls-Royce parked at the curb, then opens the back door for me.
“Would you like to make any more stops before heading back to Callahan House, Mrs. Callahan?”
I consider it for a moment, then shake my head. “That’s alright. We can head home.”
He nods and closes the door behind me before sliding into the driver’s seat.
The drive back to Bay Ridge is quiet. I’m distracted by my phone, drafting a text to Dad that I’ve been putting off for days.
Hey Daddy. I’ve been thinking about coming back to LDS now that it’s the new year. I’ve had enough time off post-wedding to last me a lifetime. Ready to get back to work as PR Director. I’m sure I can talk Ronan into it.
I hit send and watch the screen, waiting.
The reply comes a minute later.
It’s for the best if you keep your distance from LDS right now.
I frown, typing back immediately.
Why?
His response is just as cryptic.
For reasons you won’t understand.
What the hell is he talking about?
I stare at the messages, my stomach twisting with unease. Does this have something to do with the conflict with the Albanians? Or is it more about the tensions between my family and the Callahans?
Things aren’t exactly warm and fuzzy between them, but I was under the impression everything was at least cordial. Business as usual.
But the vibe from Dad’s messages gives a whole different energy.
I decide not to respond, sliding my phone into my purse with a sigh. I’ll figure it out later. Maybe call him and Mom tonight when I can actually press for answers.
A Hummer appears seemingly out of nowhere.
It crashes onto the street behind us, engine roaring, and starts tailgating so closely I can barely see anything else through the rear window. Fionn’s eyes snap to the rearview mirror, his jaw muscles flexing.
“Are these motherfuckers really riding my ass like I think they are?”
Before I can answer, the Hummer surges forward and rams into the back of us.
The impact throws me forward, my seatbelt catching hard against my chest. The Rolls-Royce veers partially out of our lane, and Fionn fights to recover, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he straightens us out.
But the Hummer’s not giving up. Not even close.
It pulls up on our left, so close sparks fly and metal grinds against metal with a horrific screech.
They’re trying to force us off the road.
I’m screaming, gripping the overhead handle as Fionn cusses and swerves, fighting to keep the car from jumping the curb and plowing onto the sidewalk where pedestrians are walking.
Other cars honk and slam on their brakes. Suddenly we’re barreling down the wrong side of the road, headlights flashing, horns blaring.
Then police sirens wail behind us.
The Hummer peels off instantly, tires squealing as it flees the scene.
Fionn finally gets control of the car and we come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, the engine smoking, the once pristine luxury vehicle banged up and scraped to hell.
My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Someone just tried to run us off the road, and by no means was it an accident.