ONE
Ronan
My brother got the crown.I got the curse.
I knew when Dad asked me to accompany him to Gossier’s Cigar Club in Midtown that something was up.
But little did I know we were about to strike a deal that would change our lives. Mine most of all.
The Cadillac Escalade pulls up to the curb just after nine, the city lights reflecting off the shiny paint job. Dad doesn’t wait for the driver to open his door—he never does.
Seamus Callahan may be in his sixties and recovering from colon cancer, but he moves like a man who still owns every room he walks into.
I follow him out, adjusting my shirt collar as we head toward the entrance.
Gossier’s is the kind of place that doesn’t advertise. No neon signs or velvet ropes. Just a brass plaque beside an unmarked door and a doorman who knows exactly who belongs inside.
The interior is made up of lacquered black walls and padded leather—chairs, booths, even the bar. Low lighting from brass fixtures provides a subtle warm glow to the space.
It smells like aged tobacco, expensive cologne, and money. Lots of money. Legal and otherwise.
Men in tailored suits occupy the club in clusters, their voices low, their faces often clouded in smoke.
This is where deals get made. The kind the public never learns about. The kind that change territories, shift power, end lives.
Dad leads the way through the main lounge, past the bar where a few familiar faces nod in acknowledgment. We don’t stop to chat. We’re here for business.
Malcolm Langston is waiting for us in a private corner near the back, his posture relaxed but confident.
CEO of Langston Defense Solutions, one of the country’s leading weapon manufacturers, he’s got reason to be.
He’s in his late sixties, like Dad, but where Dad is all Irish fire and bravado, Malcolm is controlled and refined. His tightly coiled gray hair is trimmed close, his beard neat, his suit immaculate. He’s nursing what looks like a gin and tonic, the glass sweating in his hand.
He stands as we approach, extending a hand to Dad first. “Seamus.”
“Malcolm.” They shake hands like two men who respect each other rather than tense business associates about to conduct a potentially disastrous deal.
Then Malcolm turns to me, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. “Ronan.”
I nod and shake his hand. His grip is solid and firm.
But they’re the hands of a businessman who rarely gets them dirty.
Not by grime. Not by blood.
A man like Malcolm Langston leads. He doesn’t lower himself to do the dirty work.
We settle into the armchairs in the corner, Dad and I on one side, Malcolm across from us. A server appears almost instantly, an attractive blonde in a black slip dress that resembles lingerie.
Dad orders a whiskey. Neat, like he always takes it. I ask for the same.
Malcolm waves off the offer of a refill.
Once the server’s gone, Dad produces a cigar case from his jacket and flicks it open. He offers one to Malcolm, who shakes his head.
“I don’t smoke,” he says simply. He gestures to his glass. “Or drink, for that matter. Virgin.”
Dad chuckles, lighting his own cigar with a gold-plated lighter. “I’d’ve cracked years ago without some liquor.”