“He cornered her. Grabbed her and told her Dren’s decided to send a message through her. Then maybe you and Langston’ll listen. She’s real shaken up.”
A long moment passes where I say nothing. Heavy silence falls between us as Killian awaits my response, but I’m too busy processing what I’ve been told.
Someone put their hands onmywife. Someone threatened her. Fucking used her to send me a message.
To say I’m pissed would be the understatement of a century. A line was crossed, and there’s no going back.
“Ronan?” Killian pipes up eventually. “You there?”
“Time to send our own message. It seems Dren thinks he’s a bigger deal than he is. Where is she now?”
“Home resting. She wanted to be alone.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll be there shortly.”
I hang up on him and shove my phone into my pocket. I’m eerily calm despite the fact my insides are clenched with fury. If anybody were to look at me the wrong way right now, they’d probably be on the receiving end of a knife to the throat.
That’s how fucking livid I am.
Calm on the outside, nothing but pure rage on the inside.
I stride back over to the table where Dale’s cutting into his chicken fried steak, gravy and grease pooling on the plate. He sops it up with a rock-hard biscuit and looks up as I approach, his bushy brows lifting.
“Everything okay, partner?”
“I have to go,” I say curtly. “There’s been an emergency.”
A toothy grin lights up his face, revealing uneven, nicotine-stained teeth. “Sure hope that doesn’t mean somebody’s about to have their kneecaps busted.”
“Something like that,” I say vaguely, my dark expression speaking volumes.
“Well… count me as thankful it’s not me this time!” he laughs.
I turn and stride out of the restaurant. The men accompanying me today immediately flank me. Sean, Fionn, and Cian fall in line with me, picking up on my angry energy.
“Where we headed, boss? What’s going on?” Sean asks, coming up on my right. He’s got orange hair and freckles and tends to be my righthand when Killian’s not around.
“Home,” I answer. “We’re headed home… for now.”
We arrive at Callahan House no less than half an hour later. I’m out of the Escalade before it’s fully stopped, my boots hitting the pavement hard as I march through the front doors. The staff that are in the foyer scurry to tend to me, asking if there’s anything I need, but they go ignored.
I pass Oona on the second-floor landing. She’s carrying a basket of fresh linens, and when she sees me, her expression tightens.
“Ya shouldn’t go disturb the poor girl if you’re just gonna upset her more,” she says, her Irish accent thick with disapproval.
She gets ignored too. I press on, taking the stairs two at a time. Nobody’s about to tell me how to handle this situation; nobody’s about to calm me down or censor the moment.
I burst into the bedroom, the door swinging open in a wide arc. I pause footsteps in at what I find.
Simone’s curled up on the bed, her body tucked into itself like she’s trying to disappear. Her face is tilted downward into her pillow, her dark hair spilling across the white thousand-thread-count sheets.
She’s still wearing the clothes she left in this morning—a maroon sweater and gray skirt—but she looks small and fragile.
Vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen her before.
My wife, who’s had so much fire from the moment I met her. Who’s been nothing but a mouthy thorn in my side, constantly challenging me, defying me, refusing to bend.
Now she’s curled up like a kitten, processing what must’ve been a traumatizing moment for her. Even as the daughter of a weapons dealer, it’s not every day she’s accosted and threatened by gangsters.