That could be why Seamus Callahan doesn’t like me. He sees right through me…
FIFTEEN
Ronan
The momentour first shipment from LDS comes in, I’m at our supply warehouse in Red Hook.
It’s where we stash all our so-called contraband. Stuff like weapons, drugs, and other important items to keep our operation running smoothly. The industrial neighborhood’s discreet and out of the way enough that it makes for the perfect place to stockpile our shit.
As promised, Malcolm Langston’s delivered—we’ve been sent the small shipment in December we agreed upon.
I walk among the three pallets of inventory, Teagan and Eddie shadowing me as I assess what we’ve got. The warehouse is cavernous and cold, with overhead lights that wash out any color or warmth. The place stinks of oil and dust, serving as a reminder that it’s nothing fancy.
Our warehouse is purely functional.
Eddie’s explaining that apparently there are some crates missing in the shipment, and some of the inventory logs don’t match the actual product. It seems LDS fudged the numbers to make it seem like there was more product than there is.
So much for Papa Malcolm keeping his word after all.
“How many crates short are we?” I ask, tension clenched in my jaw.
“At least seven,” Teagan answers, consulting a clipboard. “Maybe more in actual product. The manifest says thirty-two, but we’ve only got twenty-five.”
Each crate is the size of a coffin, made of reinforced wood and metal, and bears red-stenciled numbers and shipping codes on the side. I stop in front of one and gesture to Teagan.
“Open it.”
He grabs a crowbar and wedges it under the lid, prying it open with a screech of nails pulling free. I step closer and glance inside.
Military-grade rifles. M4 carbines, by the look of them. Sleek, black, deadly. Neatly arranged in foam padding.
But it’s true. There’s less than agreed upon.
Malcolmdidmention the December shipment would be small, but this is even smaller than expected. We were promised enough weapons and ammunition to arm at least fifty men. This? Maybe thirty. If we’re lucky.
Irritation prickles through me, my mind already working through how to address the situation, when the rumble of a car engine interrupts.
A Rolls-Royce pulls up to the large, garage-sized overhead door that’s ajar. I recognize it immediately as Dad’s car, thanks to the family insignia on the front license plate.
Shit.
His driver, Brian, rushes to get out and open the back door. Dad steps out, looking as unimpressed and dissatisfied as ever in his woolly sweater and slacks. He’s got a cigar clenched between his teeth, his white hair neatly combed back.
He approaches, flanked by two of his personal security guards—two new guys I don’t even know the fucking names of. Dad keeps a rotation of them, and they never last very long. But they always bear a resemblance: muscly, mean mugs, mirrored sunglasses, and a false sense of toughness.
I’m admittedly surprised to see him show up so suddenly, but I play it cool, sticking my hands in my pockets as he gets closer.
“Dropping in unannounced, dear Dad,” I say, my tone light and sarcastic. “Should I be concerned?”
He barely spares me a glance. Instead he starts walking around the pallets full of weapons, his features twisting in deeper distaste the more he sees.
I watch him with narrowing eyes. “There a problem?”
He takes his time answering. All intentional on his part. My father’s never been one to cut anybody slack. If he’s got a problem, he wants to make it known. He wants to drag it the fuck out. He finally stops and looks at me, his emerald eyes cold. “There is obviously an issue. We’re being shortchanged by the Langstons. What are you going to do about it, Ronan?”
I grind down on my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’ll handle it.”
“Will you? Because so far, I’ve been letting you handle it, and all that’s happened is Malcolm Langston tried to swindle us into a March shipment. Now we’ve found ourselves warring with the Albanians on his behalf.”