I just nod my head, and we walk to where the men stand discussing what to do going forward. They stop talking when they see me approaching. A rush of fury comes over me. I’m sick of being kept in the dark.
“No need to stop the conversation on my account, gentlemen. I am an equal part of this now, and I need to be in the know to be able to help,” I say, my voice cold. I step forward, releasing Callum's hand, and stand in the middle of them all. Callum's body is close to my left side. I turn to see him watching me, his eyes narrowed and deadly serious, his jaw flexing as he tries to control himself. But he doesn’t interrupt me.
“I am just as much a part of all of this as they are. I am my father's only child, and I will be taking over when he decides to step down, so I will say one more time, don’t stop on my account. You will report the same information to me as you do him.” They know who I am referring to. They look toward Callum, then immediately begin to tell us what they know. Callum’s hand makes contact with my lower back, and I can feel my anger start to recede.
“It has to be the Costas,” one of Callum’s men insists.
“We agree. Who else could it be?” another footman responds.
“Any whispers in the grapevine?” Orin asks as he turns to one of the younger guys, an Egan employee.
“Last time Cory checked in, he tailed Deluca to a cigar shop off 8th Ave.” This guy is barely an adult, but he seems confident in himself as he speaks. “He hasn’t told us of any further movement. I’ll call him and get an update.” He pulls his phone from his pocket as he steps away while the others continue talking in hushed tones, cursing the Costas and speculating about their motives.
“Cory isn’t answering his phone,” the younger footman exclaims from the hallway. His jaw is clenched, and he is gripping his phone tightly, knuckles white.
“Send some men over to his last known location. We need to meet my father and Cormac. Keep me updated, please.” Callum’s fury is apparent in his tone. He scratches the scruff along his jaw with his left hand as he looks up to the ceiling. “And from this point forward, no one is to go anywhere without at least one other person with them. No solo missions.” He looks around at the men, and they all mumble their agreement.
And in the midst of all this insanity, I can’t help but wonder. Where is Nessa? And who helped her escape?
Chapter 25
Callum
Nemesism (n) frustration, anger, or aggression directed inward, toward oneself and one’s way of living
We’re driving through the city far faster than we should be. Ronan is swerving and weaving in and out of traffic as horns blare left and right. Maeve is beside me in the backseat, her posture straight and rigid. She’s trying hard to hide it, but she’s clearly nervous. I place a hand on her bobbing knee, and she takes in a long breath, uncrossing her arms and leaning into my side. I angle myself toward her and lift her chin with a fingertip. She’s slow to meet my gaze, but when she does, I can see the fear there.
On any normal day, this drive feels like it takes no time at all, but even the driveway feels mundane and pressing. I lean over and look at the speedometer. Ronan is really pushing the limits. The gate to my father's estate is three-quarters of the way open as we turn in. Ronan doesn’t let up as he squeezes the truck through the tight space. As soon as the truck comes to a stop in front of the looming ebony and brass doors, Maeve pulls in a deep breath as she squeezes my hand before unbuckling. There are more men than usual roaming the property. The two men at the doors step aside, and we walk in without skipping a beat.
The four of us come to a stop in front of Lorcan. He’s standing in the middle of the foyer, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense and face serious, as always. He pulls his hand from his pocket and extends it, reaching for mine. I shake his hand and give him a slight nod, our normal greeting during tense situations. He’s a big reason I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere. Orin, Ronan, and Lorcan had an intervention of sorts years ago to pull me out of the bottomless pit I had drunk myself into. It ended in a few black eyes and busted lips, mine included. Nonetheless, Lorcan had, over the years, become someone I trusted implicitly. He’s rock steady, and his presence here helps calm my nerves a bit.
17 Years Old
Thwack!
My head felt like it was on the brink of exploding.
Pop!
Lorcan’s glove made contact with my cheek, and it pulled me back to the present. Every time I had a night of heavy drinking, Lorcan would wake me early and make me pay for every drink one by one.
I didn’t care.
I liked the pain.
I liked being able to feel anything but numb.
Drinking either made me forget or made me violent. Last night, I was violent. Ronan was sporting a busted lip, and based on the look he gaveme this morning, I knew it was my fault. I didn’t know if it was by my fist or by another after I provoked another. I felt bad, but not enough to keep me from picking up the next drink.
“Keep your hands up, gobshite!” Lorcan was getting more agitated with every hit. I kept my hands up, but I was slow.
“I AM!” I yelled back at him, the anger causing me to drop my hands.
Pow!
He popped me on the jaw, and I hit the floor.
I gasped when the ice water made contact with my skin. As I was wiping my face to clear the moisture, a towel flew into my chest with surprising force. So, he’s still angry, I thought to myself as I wiped my face. I was sitting in the middle of the floor, resting my elbows on my bent knees, my head hung low. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the sudden emotion to dissipate. I refused to cry in the gym.
