Once he walks out of the room, I’m left with Ronan, aware of the sudden tension between us.
“I get you care about her,” he says. “Everybody in the clan’s noticed. But we’re running out of options. We’ve got to take care of our own interests first.”
I don’t address what he’s said. I stand up from the chair across from his desk and follow Lochlan out of the room.
We bury Seamus Callahan a week after the Bratva assassinated him. The morning’s bright and humid, the opposite of the grim mood the funeral brings.
Blood relatives and clan members alike show up to the cathedral to pay their last respects.
Every pew’s filled, the aisle crowded with people who traveled from outside of New York for the send-off.
I’m seated toward the front with Jhene beside me, her slender hand clasped in mine. She’s wearing a simple black dress Chantal lent her, her curls pulled back from her face, and she hasn’t said a word since we walked through the doors.
Events like these tend to make her uncomfortable. Being around the Callahan family does.
But we’re each other’s anchors today.
She’s anchoring me from the guilt and rage and frustration this war with the Bratva has brought me. I’m anchoring her against the tide of social anxiety she tends to have.
The priest drones on about eternal rest and God’s mercy and all the other shit they say at funerals. Truthfully, I’m hardly listening.
My gaze drifts to the polished mahogany casket with its brass handles, draped in white flowers and the American and Irish flags.
His body lies inside, embalmed and made presentable by the mortician.
The service was put together by Oona and a few other staff members considering Mrs. Callahan was in no shape for handling any of his affairs.
She’s in the front row, first seat, quietly sobbing into a handkerchief. Oona’s beside her with an arm around her shoulders.
Ronan and Simone are a few seats down from them, both composed in the dutiful way that’s expected of the clan’s new chief and his wife.
It’s up to them to set the tone going forward.
Lochlan and Chantal have come from upstate for the service. Seamus’s death is even more complicated for the eldest Callahan son, who never fully repaired his relationship with his father. It’s hard to tell how he feels about the situation.
I had the same impression days ago at our war planning meeting.
Others like Cian, Brady, and Sean are in rows behind us. Sean’s brought Cara, Lochlan’s ex-wife. Probably one of the most puzzling things about today’s guest list.
Next to the fact that Tom’s come with Bridget. The pub owner’s on the mend from his burn injuries, and the busty redhead seems eager to be included in anything clan related.
As my gaze drifts vaguely in their direction, she catches my eye and aims the smallest, faintest smile at me.
Minutes later, it’s no surprise the first chance she gets, she wanders over. The service is over, and it’s time for everybody to bid last goodbyes to the casket. The room’s full of movement as people get up and make their way to the front.
Bridget comes straight over to me.
“Hey, tough guy,” she says, tone light and sympathetic. “Sorry for your loss. Seamus Callahan was a great man. If there’s anything I can do?—”
“Thanks.”
I’ve risen from the pew with Jhene’s hand in mine and pull her along with me as we maneuver away from the redhead.
Rude? Without question. Do I give a damn? Not even a little bit.
I can’t bring myself to care about petty shit like Bridget’s feelings when I’m battling the complexities of everything that’s happened.
Seamus was dying anyway. The cancer was going to take him out sooner rather than later.
