“You mean Vitus,” I say flatly. “Vitus Cintoli. He’s been running Brooklyn for the Ferreras for six years. You met with him and you don’t even remember his fucking name?”
Eddie winces, flushing scarlet. “I knew it started with a V.”
“Jesus Christ.” I set the glass down with a hard thud, whiskey sloshing over the rim. “Now I get why Killian’s always busting your balls and giving you shit. I’d expect my brother’s son to be better than this, Eddie. Sharper. More fucking prepared.”
“You’re right, Uncle Ronan. Sorry.”
“You’re his firstborn,” I snap. “It’s up to you to carry on your father’s name.”
The whiskey has made me even more agitated than I was before I started drinking. Which is why, distantly, I recognize I’m being a little hard on my nephew.
I’ve just lost my brother. But he’s just lost his father and he’s trying. He’s only twenty. Practically a fucking kid. Is it any wonder he’s not as adequate as my other buttonmen?
His face briefly flickers with offense, and there’s a flash of hurt in his eyes. Then he stamps it out with a nod of his head and a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’ll… I’ll do better.”
I’m still debating whether I want to let him know it’s not personal that I’m chewing him out when he pivots on his heel and marches from the room.
The door clicks shut, and once again a heavy silence I find unbearable commences. It presses down on me, leaving space to obsess over the loud thoughts in my head.
Fuck.
I’m pissed at myself. Pissed at this entire goddamn situation.
Lochlan called me from prison. Warned me the Albanians inside had heard about our conflict. Told me things were getting “interesting” for him. And what did I do? Told him I was handling it. Told him to sit tight.
Now he’s dead.
My brother was unprotected inside those walls. No Callahan muscle to watch his back or real enforcers to keep the wolves at bay.
Just him, alone, surrounded by enemies the feds locked up.
The information we’ve been given on how the situation went down is minimal. There was a riot that spiraled into a brawl among the prisoners. Some skinhead stuck a shiv in Lochlan’s gut and left him bleeding out on the ground. By the time the guards got to him, it was too late.
I’m not so sure said skinhead was acting of his own accord. That he wasn’t carrying out directions from the Albanians—or whoever is really trying to fuck us up.
Callahan House feels darker than usual. It’s not just blood relatives or syndicate members grieving. Even the staff are in mourning, their faces somber and moods subdued.
Oona’s no exception, her usual sharp tongue on pause.
They all loved Lochlan. For so many years, he was the heir. The golden son.
He was groomed to take over when Dad finally stepped down. He was supposed to lead this family into the future.
Now he’s gone. And somebody’s about to pay for it.
I push myself up from the chair and head over to the minibar, less composed than I usually am. I’ve got a high tolerance for alcohol, but even I’m halfway drunk at this point.
I don’t give a fuck. The mourning justifies it.
I pour another glass, watching the golden liquid swirl in the tumbler. Then I raise it toward the window, where the vast night sky is visible.
“To you, brother,” I mutter. “I’ll burn down the whole fucking Big Apple in your memory if it comes to that. Every last fucking block.”
I drink it down in one long swallow.
My phone buzzes on the desk. I set the glass down and pick it up, squinting at the screen.