He not only grabbed her—he fuckingbruisedher.
“He’ll never come near you again,” I say simply. “I’ll make sure of it.”
She can hardly contain her relief. “You mean that?”
“I swear it. I’ll handle it, alright?”
What I do next, I don’t give any thought. It’s natural instincts and urges taking shape. My hand reaches out and pushes her hair behind her ear. Then I lean forward and press my lips to her brow. She goes still as soon as I do, clearly thrown by the gesture.
I am too—I’ve never done anything like that before. Never kissed her so softly and tenderly, damn sure not on her forehead.
She’s startled by it as I pull back and clear my throat.
“Get some rest.”
I turn and walk toward the door, my heart beating harder than it should.
We waste no time acting on what’s happened. As soon as I head downstairs, Killian and Sean are waiting in the foyer. Eddie’s joined them, the last to find out what’s going on. The three look up as I come down, their expressions tense but ready.
“Time for some payback? I’m in the mood to crack skulls,” Killian says. He juts his chin in Sean’s direction. “Teagan called Sean a minute ago. He’s tracked Amar’s location. He’s in Morris Park doing business on Dren’s behalf and having lunch. If we roll now, we’ll catch him in time.”
I nod. “Let’s go.”
We pile into the Escalade—me, Killian, Eddie, Sean, along with Cian. The engine roars to life, and we head to the Bronx, specifically Morris Park where the Albanians rule.
The drive is tense. Nobody speaks much. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of Killian’s knuckles as he flexes his hands.
Eddie breaks the silence, his tone uncertain. “Look, I’m just gonna say it. Are we overreacting? I mean, it’s not like they seriously hurt her.”
“Jesus Christ. Shut the fuck up, Eddie,” Killian snaps. “But thanks for the reminder why you’re still pissing in the kiddie pool while the rest of us swim with sharks.”
Eddie scowls, sinking back into his seat.
I keep my eyes on the road, my jaw clenched. “Nobody threatens my wife and gets away with it. That’s the bottom fucking line.”
The silence that follows is thick. It’s final.
We arrive in Morris Park and head to the block where the Albanians usually hang out.
The neighborhood is their territory—narrow streets lined with brick buildings, Albanian flags hanging from storefronts, old men sitting outside cafés smoking cigarettes and playing dominoes while the women hang their laundry out to dry.
We earn stares from locals who know we’re the Callahans and don’t belong here. Conversations stop. People back away.
But I lead the pack, flanked by my men, my long black coat billowing in the cold November wind.
I don’t give a fuck if we’re not supposed to be here. If we’re encroaching on their territory.
The time for respect and civilized discourse is over. If there was ever a time for it in the first place.
We approach the Albanian restaurant called Arbëria. It’s a small, unassuming place with faded red awnings and a hand-painted sign in Albanian script. Through the window, Amar Kosovo sits at a corner table, shoveling lamb and rice into his mouth like he’s got no care in the world.
That’s about to change.
I shove the door open. The bell above it chimes, absurdly cheerful for what’s about to go down.
Amar looks up, his fork pausing mid-air. His thick eyebrows knit together. Then his eyes narrow with recognition.
Killian locks the door behind us.