The buttonmen standat 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 comingfor 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—theirblood 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 continuethe 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.