Chapter 4 - THE GHOST OF TOMMY CALLAWAY
The kitchen doors shuddered violently as Declan’s men threw their weight against the metal.
"Tommy died seven years ago in a car crash," Cian said, his voice stripped of all its usual calm. "He was twenty. He never mentioned a girl."
"Because your father didn't want him with a waitress from the South End!" Maeve shouted over the banging. "Tommy was going to leave the family. He was going to take me to California. The night he died... he didn't crash, Cian. Someone ran him off the road. I was already pregnant."
Cian’s jaw tightened. For seven years, he had believed his reckless younger brother had died by accident. Now, looking at the fierce, terrified woman in front of him, the lies of his empire were crumbling.
CRASH.
The deadbolt splintered. The metal doors bent inward.
"Back door. Now," Cian ordered.
They sprinted through the narrow kitchen alley, bursting out into the freezing Boston rain. The fog rolling off the harbor was thick, swallowing the streetlights. Cian grabbed Maeve’s wrist, pulling her toward a sleek black sedan parked in the VIP alley.
He smashed the driver’s side window with his elbow, not even flinching as the glass cut his jacket. He reached in, unlocked the door, and hotwired the engine in less than ten seconds.
"Get in!" he barked.
Maeve threw herself into the passenger seat just as the alley doors kicked open. Gunfire lit up the fog. A bullet shattered the side mirror, sending shards of glass across Maeve’s lap.
Cian slammed the gas. The tires shrieked against the wet pavement as the car tore into the Boston night.
"Where is the babysitter’s apartment?" Cian asked, keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror.
"Southie. Fourth Street. Apartment 3B," Maeve said, her hands shaking so badly she could barely buckle her seatbelt. "Please, God, let us be in time."
The drive was a blur of neon lights and heavy rain. Cian drove with terrifying precision, running red lights and swerving around city buses. His mind was racing. Tommy had a son. He had a nephew. The Callaway bloodline wasn't dead.
Ten minutes later, Cian slammed the brakes in front of a rundown brick apartment building.
Maeve didn't wait for the car to stop completely. She threw her door open and sprinted up the concrete steps, the freezing rain soaking her cheap uniform. Cian was right behind her, his hand resting inside his jacket where he kept a spare weapon.
They reached the third floor.
Maeve let out a gut-wrenching scream.
The door to Apartment 3B was wide open. The wood frame was splintered.
Maeve rushed inside. The living room was completely trashed. The babysitter, a teenage girl from down the hall, was tied to a kitchen chair, crying hysterically.
"They took him!" the girl sobbed through her gag. "Two men! They took Leo!"
Maeve collapsed to her knees on the cheap linoleum floor, covering her face as a raw, animal sob tore from her throat.
Cian stepped into the apartment. His face was a mask of cold fury. He walked past Maeve and crouched near the overturned sofa.
Lying on the floor was a child’s drawing. It was a picture of a blue car.
But sitting right on top of the drawing was a silver pocket watch, its chain broken.
May you like
Cian picked it up. His blood ran cold.
"This isn't Julian Russo," Cian whispered, his voice trembling for the first time in his life. "This watch belonged to my father."
