Malcolm’s lips quirk slightly—not exactly a smile, but close. “I find life colorful enough sober.”
Dad takes a long drag, letting the smoke curl up toward the dim lighting. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. These men know how to wait each other out.
Finally, he exhales and leans back. “Yes… well… I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now.”
“I have. My condolences.”
The words hang between us.
Lochlan. My older brother.
The golden child, the heir, the one who was supposed to carry the Callahan name into the next generation.
Eight years in federal prison for weapons trafficking. The trial was quick, the sentence harsh, and the fallout immediate.
Without Lochlan, we’re vulnerable. He was the face of our operations, the one with the charm and the connections.
I’m the strategist, the enforcer, the one who plans in the shadows. I’m not built for diplomacy.
Malcolm sets his glass down. “Sharks smell blood in the water.”
“They do,” Dad agrees, blowing another plume of smoke.
“The Albanians have been circling,” Malcolm continues. “They’ve been trying to move in on my clientele. Undercut prices and make promises they can’t keep. I don’t have the kind of muscle to ward them off for long.” He pauses, his gaze steady. “Being alegitimatecompany comes with advantages. But also disadvantages.”
Dad taps ash into the crystal tray between us. “That’s what’s pained me having to call this meeting tonight.”
The air shifts, subtle but unmistakable. Whatever Dad’s about to say, I wasn’t briefed on it.
…which tells me all I need to know.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” Dad says. “And there’s only one real solution to both our problems. Something that’s mutually beneficial. Ensures both your family and mine have our interests aligned and protected.”
Malcolm tilts his head, curious to hear more. Dad leans forward, the cigar smoldering between his fingers.
“It’s in our best interest to join forces. Become linked through a union. My spare son,” he says, gesturing to me without looking in my direction, “and your only daughter.”
I go still. My whiskey sits untouched on the table.
“It’ll allow the Callahans to have protections for our weapons dealing under the cover of your manufacturing company. And you’ll receive protection from us. All the muscle you’ll ever need to fend off the Albanians. Greedy fucks.”
“And the Bratva,” Malcolm adds.
Dad nods. “And the Bratva.”
Malcolm doesn’t answer right away. He picks up his glass, swirls the clear liquid, then takes a couple sips. When he sets it back down, his expression’s still unreadable.
“My daughter is highly sought after, you understand. Beautiful, educated, classy. Raised well. Most men are eager to have a woman like her.”
Dad gestures toward me with his cigar, the ember glowing in the dim light. “Ronan is fine enough for her. He’s good-looking, smart, and he’ll never raise a hand to her in anger. He’ll treat her well. Ensure she’s taken care of.” He pauses, taking another puff. “He has traditional Irish values. She’ll be expected to bear his children, of course. Even if his children’ll never be heirs to the crown. That honor belongs to my grandson, Eddie. Lochlan's boy,” he adds as an afterthought. “But the children they have’ll be valuable in their own way. Involved in the clan like they all are.”
Malcolm gives an uninterested clear of his throat. “Yes, well. That’s not my objective, Seamus. I don’t care if my grandchildren are heirs to the Irish Mob. I’m sure you understand. I have my nephew to take over my legacy. This union interests me because of how it advantages LDS as a whole.”
“Of course,” Dad says with a chuckle. “Business first. Always.”
“Business first,” Malcolm repeats. He shifts his gaze to me, studying me with the same level of appraisal he reserves for the weapons he manufactures. “Your son understands what’s expected of him?”
Dad doesn’t answer. He just looks at me, waiting for a response.