European football.NotAmerican.
We claim our usual table in the back corner. A cute server with freckles and bright orange-red hair comes over, her accent thick as syrup.
“Afternoon, lads. What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey,” I say. “The good stuff.”
She nods, pausing half a second to sneak a shy smile at Killian, and then disappears toward the bar.
Killian leans back in his chair, cocking a brow. “You see the way she looked at me?”
I snort. “She looked at you like the trouble you are.”
“So she’s a quick learner. Just how I like it.”
I’m about to respond when the door swings open.
A huge, angry, ogre-looking motherfucker walks in.
That’s the only way to describe him. He’s gone overboard on working out his trap muscles—his neck is practically nonexistent, his shoulders hunched up like he’s wearing permanent shoulder pads.
Thick hairy eyebrows. Dead eyes. Thin lips pressed into a tight line. Then there’s the way he carries himself, like he’s storming the stage at some fucking WrestleMania match.
I know right away he’s from the Albanian syndicate.
He stops at our table, looming over us like a mountain. “You Ronan Callahan?”
I lean back in my chair, peering up at him unconcernedly. “What do you think?”
“I am here on behalf of Dren,” he says in broken English, his accent harsh. He crosses his massive arms. “He knows you are working with Malcolm Langston. We do not like this. We do not appreciate the secret alliances.”
I grin up at him, taunting him the same way I had Karter earlier. “Well, my marriage to Malcolm Langston’s daughter was featured in theNew York Times. Not exactly a secret, is it?”
Killian chuckles beside me.
His brow furrows like he’s trying to make sense of the question. I help him along in condescending fashion.
“Simone and I fell in love. Tell your Master Dren I don’t appreciate him insinuating our love isn’t real. I find that highly offensive, and it’s never good when I’m offended.”
The henchman clenches his jaw and barks out, “This is not a game. But you are free to play like it is. Dren will have much to say about this.”
“Send him my regards. But first do something about that fucking unibrow.”
He glares like he’s about to smash shit with his large fists, then storms out of the pub, letting the door slam behind him.
The server returns with our drinks, eyeing the door nervously. “Friend of yours?”
“Not quite,” I say, accepting the glass. “But I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him again.”
The Albanians definitely won’t be going down without a fight. Since we’re now aligned with the Langstons, their fight has become a Callahan problem.
Let the games begin.
The rest of the day is spent making rounds to different neighborhoods that are part of Callahan territory. We check in with all the businesses we have a stake in—some clubs, a few local small shops, a waste management company that pays us twenty percent of their profits for protection against other crime families.
We’re walking across the lot with dump trucks rumbling past and piles of garbage stacked high when my phone pings.
It’s an alert from the cameras at Callahan House.