I stand, still grinning. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mac. We’ll be in touch to arrange local transit.”
Killian and the boys follow me out. I don’t bother looking over my shoulder, but I already know Malcolm and his nephew glare at our backs the entire way out.
We leave LDS Headquarters and pile into the Escalades parked on the street. The Manhattan traffic is a nightmare as usual—taxis honking, pedestrians jaywalking, delivery trucks blocking entire lanes.
But I’m in no rush.
Killian’s in the back beside me, for once grinning. “Fuck if that wasn’t the funniest shit I’ve seen in a while. You had Langston by the balls and squeezed ’til he sang.”
I laugh, the sound rough and deep. “Who said spare sons can’t get shit done? And I do it without the fluff unlike Loch.”
“Spare, my ass,” Killian says, taking out his lighter and pack of cigarettes. “That birth order shit means fuck all. Everybody knows it.”
“Yeah, well. Tell my father that. Speaking of…”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance down at it once I reach into my coat and pull it out.
Sure enough, Dad’s calling. Checking in post-meeting with the Langstons.
I answer on speaker. “Yeah?”
“How’d it go?” he asks impatiently.
“Wheels are in motion. We’ll have a shipment next month. Then another in January.”
There’s a grunt on the other end. “That’s the least they can do.”
“I made it clear if they expect protection, they’ve gotta deliver.”
“Well, time’ll tell if they hold up their end.”
“They will. I’m on top of it.”
I wait for more—maybe a “good job” or “well done, son”—but it doesn’t come.
He hangs up without another word.
I shove my phone back into my coat pocket, my jaw tight.
Nothing’s ever good enough for him. No amount of effort is ever enough. Deep down, I know the real reason.
My name’s Ronan,notLochlan.
Killian glances at me. “Still a prick as always.”
“Figures. It’s a day ending in y.”
We drive in silence for a while, weaving through the city ’til we hit Bay Ridge. The streets narrow, the buildings get older, the accents thicker.
This is our main territory.
We pull up outside The Banshee, an Irish pub wedged between a shoe repair place and a bookmaker’s shop.
The neon sign flickers—half the letters burned out—but it’s home.
Inside it smells of smoky whiskey, stale beer, and salty fried food. The walls are covered in faded photos of Ireland, old hurling jerseys, and a massive Irish flag hung over the bar.
A few regulars are already posted up at the bar counter, nursing pints and watching a football match on the TV.