This was a mistake. Taking her home, getting involved, increasing the tensions between the clan and the Bratva will rise.
I should’ve left her at the Banshee and let her figure out her own shit.
But no… I had to play the fucking hero, and now I’m stuck with a girl who refuses to help herself.
“Fine,” I grit out. “You’re not going to the cops. But you’re not staying here either. Not during the day.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “Then where?—”
“I’m dropping you off at the Banshee. You can help Tom clean up the mess from last night. I’ve got business to handleand can’t babysit you all day. You stay there ’til I come back. You behave ’til we come up with a plan for what to do with you.”
“Who’s we?” she asks.
I ignore her, stalking over to the closet to pull out my uniform for the day. The same one I wear almost every day when I’m stepping out as the Callahan’s boneman: a plain T-shirt, some jeans, heavy boots, and my weapons of choice.
Today I go with a couple blades and my Colt 1911.
“What’s it like?” she goes on. She’s openly watching me now, eyes larger and more innocent than usual.
I shoot her another disgruntled glare. “What’s what like?”
“You know, what you do.” She gestures vaguely at me. “Everybody knows what you are.”
“I’m a boxer.”
“I meant your other profession. Breaking bones for a living.”
“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart. But as a boxer, Idobreak bones for a living.”
She rolls her eyes, irritated I’ve refused any real information. Serves her right for being such a little pain in the ass.
I change and snatch my keys off the table, beckoning for her to come. For once she listens without any push back as she follows me out the door.
Small victories.
After dropping the girl off at the Banshee where Tom’ll have to babysit her for the day, I head a couple blocks down to a diner.
It’s another establishment the clan frequents when we need to act like somewhat normal men and meet at a location in the neighborhood.
The owners are an elderly couple who don’t give a fuck if the Irish mob meet at their restaurant so long as we’re well-mannered and don’t get blood on the floor.
The menu hasn’t been updated since 1985, and the TV hanging off the wall is analog.
I find the person I’m meeting already waiting for me in one of the booths. He’s enjoying a plate of eggs and hash while the older waitress, Doris, chats away. She has a pot of coffee in her hand, oblivious to the fact that she’s overstayed her welcome as she blabs about her grandkids.
Funny that Lochlan Callahan, of all people, would be too polite to tell her to leave him to eat his damn meal in peace.
The eldest Callahan brother isn’t somebody I’ve been close with. Though I grew up as his younger brother’s best pal, we’ve never formed our own bond.
But wehaveheld a mutual respect for each other—at least ’til a few months ago when Lochlan was after the clan for revenge.
Things still aren’t rosy between him and the rest of the family, but it’s what you’d call a work in progress.
He’s not officially back in the mix, but you don’t ever really leave mob life once you’re in it. He was born part of New York’s Underworld—he’ll die by it too.
Doris finally gets the hint when I drop down in the booth opposite him, and she asks me for my order. I wave her off and say I’m still deciding.
“You look like shit,” Lochlan says the moment we’re alone. He shoves another forkful of egg and hash into his mouth and reaches for his black coffee. “Stress from being Clan Chief getting to you?”
