Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Ronan
Callahan House has been transformed into a goddamn field hospital.
The den is packed with wounded men sprawled across couches, chairs, and the floor itself. Blood-soaked towels pile up in corners and stink up the room with smells of metallic funk and dry sweat, creating its own unique stench that would probably make most people gag.
But this isn’t most people. These are Callahan soldiers, hardened buttonmen who’ve seen worse and lived to tell about it.
Dr. Hino moves from guy to guy silently but proficiently, more than prepared to handle the situation. He’s cleaned up our messes enough times, and this won’t be the last.
His small frame weaves between the wounded, glasses low on his nose and hands steady as he stitches flesh.
He doesn’t ask questions or offer comfort. He’s here only to do the work and then move onto the next body.
That’s what I’ve always respected about Hino. No bullshit. No sentiment. Just results.
Word is, he used to be Yakuza back in the day. Ran with one of the families in Little Tokyo after he immigrated to the States decades ago.
From there he somehow ended up setting up shop as an underground physician for anybody with enough cash and sense to keep their mouth shut. In other words, those of us in the underworld.
The only one he’s not treating tonight is my father.
Dad took the worst of it. Dren got him with a bullet to the chest that grazed his lung. Stubborn as ever, he insisted on walking out of the warehouse on his own two feet, oozing blood everywhere and all.
It wasn’t ’til he was inside one of our SUVs that he really collapsed.
Last I heard, he’s in surgery at Mount Sinai. Teagan’s been texting me updates every hour, but there’s nothing to do now except wait and hope Seamus Callahan is too stubborn to die.
Knowing my father, he probably is.
I’m sitting on the edge of a leather armchair, my shirt stripped off, while Hino examines the damage.
My ribs are bruised to shit, probably cracked in a few places.
My face looks like it went through a meat grinder.
There’s a gash on my wrist that needs attention, and my knuckles are split open and swollen from all the punches I threw tonight.
“You never stay out of trouble for long,” Hino remarks as he threads a needle, his Japanese accent heavy but his English precise. “Every time I see you, more holes to fix.”
“What can I say? Somebody’s gotta keep you in business.”
He doesn’t smile in answer. He simply starts stitching a gash on my arm with quick, practiced movements. The needle pricks into my flesh, and I grit my teeth against the sting, focusing on the far wall to keep from flinching.
“How’s your son?” I ask out of distraction more than curiosity. “Haven’t heard you mention him in a while.”
Hino’s hands pause for a fraction of a second. So briefly I almost miss it. Then he continues stitching, his expression unchanged.
“He walks his own path. Sometimes it’s one of danger,” he says ambiguously. “A path I know too well.”
I don’t push further.
Another rumor about Hino is his son has followed in his criminal footsteps; he’s joined the Yakuza and is currently wreaking havoc and rising up the ranks.
I wouldn’t know personally—I’ve never had a direct run-in with the Yakuza. They’re usually respectful enough to stick to their territory, and we stick to ours.
Hino finishes the stitches and wraps my arm up in bandages, then moves on to examine my ribs. He prods and pokes, ignoring my hisses of pain, before finally stepping back with a curt nod.
“Nothing life threatening. Rest. Ice. Don’t get into any more fights for at least a week.” He packs up the supplies in his medical bag. “But you won’t listen to that advice.”
“Probably not.”
The look he gives me is a cross between dry humor and resignation, then he’s tending to the next wounded soldier without another word.
I push myself to my feet, wincing as my battered body protests, and make my way out of the den.
The halls of Callahan House are quieter than the makeshift hospital room, the sounds of groaning men and Hino’s murmured instructions fading behind me as I walk.
My mind churns through the events of the night, trying to make sense of how we got here.
I didn’t expect Dad to show up at Dren’s warehouse. When I walked through those doors, I was fully prepared to die. Even if it meant going down taking him out so long as Simone survived.
It was a suicide mission and I knew it, but I didn’t give a fuck. Not when she was the one with a gun to her head.
Turns out, the old man had other plans.
His meeting at Gossier’s wasn’t just business as usual. It was a last-minute scramble to form an alliance after Rurik Raguzin came to him with some very interesting intel.
Word on the street was that Eddie was a traitor—he’d been shopping around crime families for months looking to ally himself with somebody and the Albanians took the bait—and Dren was abandoning his compound to get ahead of my planned attack.
The Russians knew and decided to give us a helping hand.
So long as we agreed to help them out in their underground gambling ring for professional boxing.
Seamus took the information and ran with it. He got Malcolm Langston on board, convincing him his daughter’s life was on the line and the only way to save her was to work together.
The two men were reluctant to strike another deal, especially after recent fraught tensions, but at the end of the day, Simone is his princess, and he was desperate to save his daughter.
Malcolm provided the weaponry, including the explosive that blew the warehouse doors off their hinges.
Rurik offered up a handful of Bratva soldiers. Enough to tip the scales in our favor.
It was kept secret because my father still wasn’t sure what the truth was. He didn’t know if the Langstons were involved in the betrayal or if he could trust anyone outside of his innermost circle.
So he played it close to the vest, waiting ’til the last possible moment to make his move.
After I went to the warehouse, Killian alerted the rest of the clan, letting them know where I was and what I was walking into. Dad decided to lead the charge himself, despite his age and illness. Despite the many disagreements and tensions between us.
The Albanians are finished now. Dren is dead. So are his sons. His crew is scattered or slaughtered.
For tonight at least, the underworld has reached a fragile point of peace.
Tomorrow’s another story altogether. But right now, I don’t give a fuck about tomorrow.
Right now, I just want to see my wife.
I find her in our bedroom, sitting on the foot of the bed, looking as if she’s still processing the night.
She’s still wearing the dress from the gallery, though it’s torn and stained with blood and dirt.
Her hair has come loose from its elegant updo, dark strands falling messily in tangled waves. And her face...
Fuck. Her face.
Bruises spread across her cheekbone and jaw, black and blue against her bronze skin. Her lip is split in the corner and crusted with dried blood. The same for her nostrils where she apparently took a fucking punch to the face.
There’re angry red marks around her throat where Eddie’s hands squeezed the life out of her.
Rage flares hot in my chest remembering the sight of her squirming on the ground and him crouched over her, choking as hard as he could.
It’s a murderous kind of fury that’s white hot as I think about his audacity—and Dren’s—to put their hands on my wife.
Eddie and Dren are already dead. If they weren’t, I’d kill them all over again. Slower this time, to truly savor the moment.
Simone glances up as I enter, her hazel eyes meeting mine.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. We simply look at each other, taking in the damage and processing what we’ve survived.
Then I crack a grim smile.
“Well,” I say, limping toward her. “Dren’s finally shut the fuck up. Turns out all it took was a bullet to the brain.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “A little soon, don’t you think?”
“He had it coming.” I stop in front of her, close enough to touch. “I took one hell of a beating for you tonight, princess. Just so you know.”
“I noticed. I watched from the audience.” Her eyes travel over my battered face then drop to my bandaged arm. “You look terrible.”
“You should see the other guys,” I say. “Oh wait. You did. They’re all dead.”
She allows for a small laugh this time. It’s not as melodic as her usual laughs, weighted down by exhaustion, though it’s still the best sound I’ve heard all night.
It’s real and genuine and eases up the tension in my chest.
I reach out and cup her chin, tilting her face up toward the light so I can get a better look at her injuries. My thumb traces the edge of the bruise on her cheekbone, my touch gentler than I’ve ever been with anybody else.
“I’m gonna be honest with you,” I say slowly, looking her in the eye. “I never thought I’d say this. Never thought I’d admit it out loud anyway. But I’m so damn happy to see you, Simone. I’m thanking my lucky fucking stars that tonight went the way it did.”
Her expression softens, a flicker of vulnerability in it. She’s quiet for a second, like she’s wrestling with her own confession.
“Would it surprise you if I said the feeling’s mutual?” she asks finally. She releases a breath as if still grappling with what she’s been through. “When things were getting dark… when I didn’t know if I was going to survive... I thought about you.”
I wait for her to go on, though my pulse ticks up in anticipation.
“I thought about the promise you made to protect me,” she continues, swallowing hard. “I realized... I believed you. I knew you would keep it. Then you came through for me. You really did.”
I sit down beside her and cup the back of her head, my fingers threading through her tangled hair, and draw her face close to mine. Our brows are almost touching, our breath warm in the small space between us.
It would be so easy to close the gap and capture her lips in a kiss. Lose myself in her the way I’ve been wanting to since the moment we’ve been reunited.
But it’s not the time yet. Not ’til I say what else is on my mind.
“I’ll always be there,” I confess out of earnestness. “No matter what happens, princess. No matter who comes for you or me, you’ll always be the priority. Because you’re my wife, and I...”
I trail off as the next few words catch in my throat and a storm of emotions I’m not used to feeling hits me all at once.
I’m in love with her. The same woman who was arranged to be my wife for circumstances outside my control.
After all the enemies talk and vows of hatred and never being real—I’ve fallen in love with her and have refused to realize that I have.
More startling yet, I don’t think I can pretend otherwise anymore. I’m not even sure it’d be worth it to.
But I’m still not ready to say it. It’s so damn heavy and jarring that I can’t get the words out. I’m too shocked by my own revelation.
Though from the way she’s peering back at me, her eyes shining with warmth, I suspect she already senses that I do.
“I regret how I treated you,” I say instead. “All the suspicion and accusations. Not trusting you when I should’ve. This whole ordeal taught me that I can trust you. That I should’ve trusted you from the start.”
Simone reaches up and places her hand over mine, the one still cupping her face. Her touch is soft and warm.
“You made a vow to protect me. I made some vows too. One of those was to be loyal to you. I meant it, Ronan. I will always be loyal to you.” She pauses, a small smile playing at her lips.
“We’re our own team now. You realize that, right?
That’s what being husband and wife means. I got your back, and you’ve got mine.”
Our own team.
I grin at that, the first real smile I’ve cracked in what feels like forever.
She’s right. We’re not just two people thrown together by our families anymore. We’re life partners. Allies through thick and thin and life and death. A united front against whatever the fuck the world throws at us.
“We are,” I say. “There’s no going back. We’re for life.”
I close the gap between us with a kiss to her lips.
It’s different from many of our previous kisses. The reluctant and borderline revolted kiss we shared at the altar. The many heated, angry kisses fueled by our hatred and passion mixing into one.
Instead, this kiss is about relief and acknowledgment. It’s us on the same page as we finally admit the truth.
We’re not playing husband and wife anymore nor are we pretending to hate each other. We’ve moved past that into what’s real.