Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Ronan
The buttonmen stand at attention like dutiful soldiers ready for war. Their faces are hardened and they’re strapped, their firearms locked and loaded.
I stride down the center, silently appraising the men I’m about to send out to battle. The guys who’re about to show Dren who he’s really been fucking with this entire time.
We’re at the Callahan warehouse in Red Hook, but this night isn’t about some shipment we’re waiting on from Langston Defense Solutions.
This is about striking back and proving once and for all why the Callahans are the kings of the New York underworld.
Tonight is for Lochlan.
Every detail’s been meticulously planned. Sean’s had our tech guy hack into the Kosovo’s security system, granting us full access to their cameras and alarms.
We’ve bribed a handful of their staff members—housemaids and gardeners who barely make a cent over minimum wage—to get us even more insider information on the premises.
By the time we breach the property, Dren and his family will be surrounded with no means of escape.
He came for mine, so I’m coming for his.
It’s as simple as that.
Dren has a lot to lose for somebody shooting at mobster’s wives and shanking their brothers.
He’s got a wife of his own. A woman named Bora who’s known more for her cut-throat personality than she is for her beauty—or lack thereof. But a guy like Dren doesn’t give a fuck about looks; he wants a woman at his side who will help him dominate, and Bora has always fit the bill.
Then there’re his two teenage sons, Dardan and Dritan.
Both boys are stocky and big for their age, built like linebackers with their father’s dead eyes and naturally crooked teeth.
Dren’s been grooming them to follow in his footsteps since they could walk; teaching them the family business of drugs and violence and ruthless ambition.
Give it a few more years and they’ll be just as dangerous as their old man.
Tonight, they’re all goners.
I reach the end of the line and come to a stop in front of Killian. He’s adjacent to the others, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. His knuckles are still bruised from his work on Bobby Miller, worn like a badge of honor, in true boneman fashion.
“Everything good?” I ask.
He nods. “As planned. Our men breach the compound, trap Dren and his family inside, and execute the lot of them. We leave Dren alive long enough to drag his sorry ass back to Callahan House for you.”
“Assuming he and his small army go down without a fight.”
“Sean’s leading the operation. We’ve got plenty of men on standby. It’ll be a fucking bloodbath—their blood we’ll be bathing in.”
“Good.” I turn for another glance at the buttonmen in formation. “You’ll be with me and Simone tonight at the art gallery.”
“I was the floater in case shit truly hits the fan. You keeping Eddie and Fionn on your detail?”
“Figure we need a third backup. In case.”
From his place in line, Eddie interjects. “Me and Fionn have got it under control, Uncle Ronan. You don’t need to pull Killian from—”
“I missed the part where I was asking for your opinion.” I don’t even spare my nephew a glance.
He has no business meddling, and I’ve warned him before about that.
I continue the conversation with Killian as if he’s invisible.
“Make sure you and Sean are in contact throughout the evening. I want updates on how things go with Dren.”
Killian nods. “We’ll know it all, right down to who takes a shit and when.”
I turn to address the room. The men have remained obediently in line, awaiting their next set of orders.
“You’re dismissed. Tonight’s a big night. Let’s make it count. Let’s remind the Albanians why you don’t fuck with the Callahan Clan.”
Our guys disperse with a chorus of proud grunts and vigorous nods of their heads. I watch them go, my jaw tight and mind already spinning ahead to what comes next.
Tonight has to go right.
There’s no room for error or margin for mistakes. If we fail to take out Dren and his family, the war that’s been brewing will only get ten times worse.
It’ll mean more blood. More bodies. More chaos that threatens the empire my family has built.
I won’t let anybody take away what we’ve got.
That goes for the Albanians and for the Langstons.
The extent of their involvement still remains unknown. I still haven’t been able to reconcile the fact that Simone was almost shot weeks ago on the promenade, and then even more recently, nearly run off the road with Fionn.
It seems if Daddy Langston really is in bed with the Albanians and these have all been misdirects meant to distract me, he’s played it pretty damn close; he’s taken some huge ass risks that put his precious daughter directly in danger.
Still, if it turns out they’ve been in bed with Dren—if Malcolm Langston has been playing both sides this entire time—I’ll do what needs to be done.
I’ll wipe them out without a second thought.
But for Simone’s sake, it’d be better if it doesn’t come to that.
I keep my word about taking Simone to the art gallery exhibit her best friend, Chantal’s, hosting.
It’s mostly strategic—or so I tell myself.
Taking Simone to Chantal’s gallery opening provides plausible deniability if shit goes south with Dren tonight.
While my men are breaching the Kosovo compound and putting bullets in Albanian skulls, I’ll be across town sipping champagne and admiring overpriced art like some hoity-toity asshole who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.
The bottom line is, there’ll be dozens of witnesses who can confirm my whereabouts. It’s a solid alibi, airtight and unquestionable.
It’s the small things like this that wound up being Lochlan’s undoing. He stopped crossing his t’s and dotting his i’s.
In avenging him, I’ll make sure not to make the same mistakes he did.
But if I’m honest, there’s another reason why I’ve decided to keep my promise about the exhibit.
The truth is, I’m a man of my word.
I told Simone I would take her, and despite all the fuck shit that’s happened between us lately, some part of me still feels compelled to follow through.
Try as I might, I’ve struggled to be vicious with the girl. I might fuck her like my worst enemy in the heated moments we share, but the fact that she’s still living as comfortably as any princess in a storybook reveals my hand.
If I really wanted to make her suffer, there’re so many ways I could do so. Yet I haven’t been able to be really rough with her like I’d be with anybody else who I found out had a fucking business card for a hitman.
Some traitorous part of me is holding onto a small shred of hope that maybe the moments where we connected weren’t fake. That it wasn’t all pretend, but something real after all.
I’m fully aware of how fucking stupid that sounds, which is why I haven’t voiced these thoughts aloud to anybody. Least of all my father.
These same thoughts are on my mind as I come home to Callahan House. I’m striding through the halls on the second floor when he emerges from the game room. He’s dressed up himself in slacks and a button up shirt, clearly on his way out like I’ll be.
“Well,” he says, giving me a once-over. “It appears the staff was correct. There is another date night happening.”
“With her, yes,” I answer tightly. “It’s a prior engagement we agreed to.”
He gives a lone, humorless chuckle. An enigmatic gleam flashes in his cold eyes, making his opinion known even before he’s offered any words.
“Make sure you’re pictured,” he says simply. “It’ll cover your ass for what else is going on tonight.”
“That was the plan.” My gaze narrows as he starts to walk off, passing me by. “And what’ve you got planned? I know it can’t be a date night of your own on account of Mom refusing to breathe the same air as you for more than five minutes.”
He stops short and throws a glance over his shoulder. “More like I can’t stand her air for more than five minutes. I’m off to Gossier’s for a meeting with a friend. We’ll see how things fare.”
The corner of his mouth curls cryptically before he’s gone. He’s turned the corner and left me standing alone in the middle of the corridor.
I stare after him, using the moment to decipher the suspicion prickling through me. It niggles away at the back of my neck like some sixth sense.
Dad’s always got something up his sleeve. Some angle he’s working that he doesn’t share ’til it suits him.
Whatever he’s got cooking tonight, I have a feeling I won’t like it.
But I’ve got my own problems to deal with. Starting with the woman waiting for me down the hall.
Chantal’s event is everything I expected it to be and nothing I’d want to deal with.
But I’m not thinking about the pretentious art or the haughty laughter of Manhattan’s elite as they mingle in their designer threads.
My mind’s on Simone and how fucking gorgeous she looks even while hating my guts. She barely let me escort inside the gallery by the arm. She’s kept her distance from me as she chats with her best friend, hair pinned up to expose the delectable column of her throat.
The lighting in the gallery’s supposed to be atmospheric, yet the only thing it does is highlight her bronze complexion and make her look like a fucking dessert to be consumed.
I’d gladly follow if I didn’t think she’d smack me across the face again. And she would anyway if tonight wasn’t also weighed down by the revenge my guys are carrying out.
I’m supposed to be focused on what’s happening with Dren, not hyperaware of how my wife makes my cock hard without even trying.
I bite down hard on my jaw and sulk as Chantal squeals about Simone’s cute outfit and they exchange other tedious compliments.
Her best friend introduces us to her date for the night, a hedge fund manager by the name of Gregory LaMalfa.