Ronan
The Banshee isa welcomed respite from the dreary, drizzly day outside.
I push through the heavy wooden door to the warmth from the crackling hearth and the spice of whiskey hanging in the air. It’s mid-afternoon, which means the place is mostly empty. Just a few regulars nurse pints at the bar as they watch the latest rugby game on the mounted TVs.
“Well, would you look at that—still alive!”
The usual cute server wanders over from behind the bar counter, flaming orange hair swishing about her shoulders and freckled cheeks rounded due to her smile. Her Irish lilt is thick and teasing, a knowing glint in her eye as she reveals word has spread about the shooting.
But I can’t say I’m surprised. Nothing stays a secret for long. Damn sure not in circles at The Banshee.
I give her a nod but don’t stop to chat, making my way toward the back where Killian’s already seated, downing a whiskey like it’s water.
He looks up as I approach, his dark eyes scanning me in his usual assessing manner. I would expect no less from my boneman.
“How’re you holding up?” he asks.
“Hurts like a bitch,” I reply bluntly. I settle into the chair across from his, my thigh throbbing as I do. “But still breathing, so what the fuck do I got to complain about?”
It’s been three days since the assassination attempt on the promenade, and I’m popping pain killers every few hours and powering through any other discomforts.
The truth is, I’m healing up well enough.
The bullet wound in my shoulder is closing thanks to Dr. Hino’s expert stitching, and the graze on my thigh has started to scab and itch… which means it’s slowly mending.
Still doesn’t change the fact that heads are about to roll once I find out what the hell is going on.
“I heard back from our copper friend about the CCTV footage of the promenade. He’ll be turning it over to us tomorrow,” Killian explains. He swishes the last of the whiskey in his glass then gulps it down. “Should at least have some plate numbers to track down.”
“It was a man—long and lean on what looked like a Kawasaki Ninja. I’m no sports bike expert, but I caught that much. He sped off too fast to see what model.”
“Means some asshat out there’s been keeping tabs on you.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. “That much is obvious. They knew exactly where and when to find me—and my wife. That’s a real problem.”
“Putting it ever fucking mildly,” Killian agrees crassly.
“If I hadn’t pushed her down when I did,shewould’ve taken the bullets.”
“More of Dren’s targeting? Bold as hell, even for the Albanians.”
“More like retaliation for Amar. My special package was delivered to his doorstep,” I say. “Probably loved seeing his cousin’s severed hand wrapped in a pretty bow.”
Killian and I pause as the ginger server walks up with my usual order. She sets down the whiskey on the rocks and mentions she’ll be around if we need anything else. I let her wander off again before continuing.
“My father’s got other theories—or at least that’s what he implied.”
“Like who? The fucking Italians? The Bratva? The government finishing off the last Callahan son now that they’ve locked the elder up?”
“Take another guess. The same family I call in-laws.”
Killian’s heavy brow furrows. “What sense does that make? You said yourself she was in the crossfire.”
“My father’s not known for considering facts once he gets an idea in his head,” I answer, tossing back my whiskey whole. “In his mind, the Langstons are still very much our enemies.”
The pub door swings open, Eddie and Sean barging through. They’re fresh off collections from the associates we do business with in the area.
Eddie slides into the chair beside Killian while Sean grabs the one on my side and straddles it backward, folding his arms over the top with his usual restless energy.