Scar
I accept the cigar from Orin Callahan, clip the end, and light it with my own torch. “Very nice,” I say, nodding with satisfaction as I take a deep puff. “Cuban?”
“Of course,” Orin says, grinning. He sips a whiskey, ice clinking in the glass. The room is dim and smoky, dominated by a large table and surrounded by storage shelves. We’re deep in a back room, hidden behind racks of dry goods. The door is lost in shadows somewhere behind me. Orin dominates the space, though his four sons take up plenty of room on their own. I’m at the far end, closest to the door. “You know, Cubans aren’t even all that much better these days.”
“Status symbol,” his son Nolan says, a tall boy with dark hair and light eyes.
“Like you know a fucking thing about status,” Carson says, another Callahan son, this one broader with freckles and a loud laugh.
Nolan’s about to rip into his brother but Orin waves them off. “Enough, boys.” He glares at his children, all four of them. Finley, the youngest, sits back typing away on his phone, while Gregory, the quiet one of the group, only stares at me with that disconcerting frown of his. He’d be creepy enough, but he also has a particular reputation for instability and violence. Vicious little monster.
The Callahan family, all together for this one meeting. I’d feel special if I didn’t also think they’re about as likely to cut my throat as they are to hire me.
Orin turned back, hands spread apologetically. “You’ll have to forgive my sons. They don’t take meetings like this often.”
“We’re more into the hands-on approach,” Nolan says, grinning broadly.
“So I hear,” I murmur, smiling in return. None of the Callahan boys have a good reputation-it’s all various shades of fucked-up. “Fortunately, that’s why I’m here. To make sure your hands-on approach doesn’t land you in prison.”
Nolan laughs, head thrown back. I can tell the others like that too.
These are the sort of young, violent men that enjoy a dangerous reputation, and they like it when other people are impressed by them.
Or at least willing to do their bidding.
Orin’s different. He’s an old-school Irish boss. His frown only deepens, thickening the age lines across his forehead and around his small eyes. Despite looking like an average Irish dockworker, and dressing like one too, Orin’s the head of the oldest, richest, most powerful organized crime family in all the northeast. The heart of their power is Boston, but they have affiliate families in all the major cities, from New York to Philadelphia to Baltimore.
They’re a serious group. The next level. And I want to be their lawyer.
“All right, Scar, we heard your sales pitch.” Orin puffs his cigar while his sons watch. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. We’re in need of legal counsel right now for a variety of reasons, and you come highly recommended.”
I dip my head in acknowledgment. “I’ll make sure to thank Eros for putting my name in contention.” Good old Eros. Having the head of a strong Greek crime family as a best friend comes with certain perks.
“Here’s my problem with you.” Orin’s head tilts like a bird of prey, watching me carefully. “You’re too slick. No, don’t defend it, accept who you are, boy. Only it makes me worried. How many clients do you have like us?”
My eyebrows raise. “None quite like you.”
“There he goes, buttering you up, Da,” Carson says, chuckling. “Bastard’s slippery.”
“Slick’s a good word for it,” Finley agrees.
“I like him,” Gregory says. First words he spoke the whole meeting. It honestly surprises me-I thought the guy was about to get up and shoot me in the face.
Orin studies his quiet son and shrugs. “That’s high praise, coming from him.”
“Coming from Psycho Gregory, any word’s a surprise,” Nolan says though he stops short of laughter at the look his brother shoots his way.
Orin holds up his hands. I watch their family dynamic carefully, trying to figure out the hierarchy in their group. Nolan and Carson are clearly the dominant voices-I’d bet either one of them is first in line to succeed. Finley’s on the backburner, not as clever as his brothers, and Gregory’s much too strange to take command of an organization like the Callahan Family, though his father obviously puts weight in what he says.
I’m constantly weighing, judging, trying to figure them out.
This is what I do. It started straight out of college with my two friends, Carmine and Eros. But slowly over the years, I’ve expanded my client list to include some of the most powerful, most violent criminal organizations in the country.
I am the shield standing between them and life in prison.
My morals are decidedly gray.
And in my line of work, the Callahan family is by far the best client imaginable. I only have this opportunity because their last counselor died of a heart attack three weeks ago.
He was only forty-two. It’s a bit mysterious.
But still, working for their organization would change my life.
The money, the notoriety.
They’re the last big mountain to climb.
Now I need to figure out a way to win them over.
Calculations buzz through my head along with a dozen other thoughts.
Like how tired I am after that flight. Like how my feet hurt from walking in new shoes.
Like how my hand brushed against my new legal assistant’s tits back in the car when she was slow to buckle up, and how much I fucking liked it.
And how she clearly liked it too. How her lips fell open. Her eyes widened. Her heartbeat doubled. And the way she looked at me, for one brief second-like she wanted me to rip open her blouse and wrap a mouth around one hard, pink nipple.
I shouldn’t think about Rita like this.
Yes, she’s beautiful. Sexy, even. Long, lean legs, incredible tits, an ass like a dream. She keeps herself in shape, says she likes to do yoga and rock climbing. I believe it. But it’s not just her body.
It’s the way she bats her eyelashes at me, trying to be cute and coy just to piss me off. It’s the way she does her job, efficiently, no bullshit. It’s her laugh. The way she spins her pen.
The girl’s goddamn distracting, and if I hadn’t gone through six assistants over the last year, I’d get rid of her before I break my cardinal rule.
No dipping my dick in my employees.
Besides, she’s too young. Not serious enough for a man like me. Yes, she’s pretty, but she’s far from my type.
Better to forget about it.
“All right, Scar,” Orin says after consulting with his boys in hushed tones. “We’re thinking about giving you a chance. How about this? We’re having some issues with a couple soldiers, guys that got picked up for dealing last week. You tell me how you’d handle that.”
I tilt my head to the side, falling into game mode while pushing thoughts of Rita from my head. “Tell me about the case.”
“Two guys, Billy Grady and Jim Fats got picked up a few days back,” Nolan says.
“Jim Fats?” Carson says, interrupting him. “You mean Jim O’Sullivan. This is a fucking legal issue, idiot. Use his real name.”
“Fuck you,” Nolan says. “Anyway, Billy and Jim, the cops accused them of dealing a little methamphetamine. Problem is, they didn’t have any of the stuff on their persons at the time of the arrest, which means it’s their word against the cops, and you know how that goes.”
My mind starts spinning. If there’s no physical evidence, it’s going to be hard for the cops to make anything stick, but there’s no guarantee they don’t have other evidence. Witnesses, recorded conversations. Maybe, if I can get some documentation-
There’s a noise from behind me, someone clearing their throat in the darkness near the door, and instantly all four brothers stand up.
Gregory pulls a gun. Nolan reaches into his jacket, searching for a weapon. Carson and Finley shout for the poor interloper to get the fuck out.
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry, I’m just looking for Scar, please don’t shoot,” comes a voice, clearly terrified.
A voice I know very, very well.
Slowly, I turn around.
Only to find Rita standing behind me, her hands raised, her eyes wide, her face ashen. Pretty little Rita, facing down four big, pissed-off gangsters.
Orin sighs loudly. “Put those fucking guns away,” he snaps. “God damn it, boys, how many times do I have to tell you? Guns are the last resort, not the first one.”
Gregory makes his piece disappear. Nolan never had a chance to draw, but he doesn’t move his hand from the holster under his jacket. “Who the fuck are you?” he shouts at Rita. “This is a private meeting, what the fuck do you mean, you’re looking for Scar?”
All eyes turn to me.
God damn it.
I knew bringing her was a mistake. She’s too new, not used to this sort of thing yet. But she’s been solid, extremely helpful, and I thought maybe she was ready.
Boy, was I fucking wrong.
“Well?” Orin asks, head tilted. “Do you know this girl? Do you remember how we made you swear to come alone? Did you think I was joking, Scar?”
I turn to look at her.
She looks back. Eyes wide. Knees shaking. Practically begging.
Fuck.
I told her to stay at the fucking bar for a reason.
Orin Callahan’s notoriously paranoid, and he clearly instilled that same sense of impending doom into all four of his musclehead, violent sons.
Rita was supposed to stay far away, not only so I didn’t lose an important new client, but also for her own damn protection.
Now she’s in here, staring at me, waiting for me to say something.
They’re all waiting. And I get the sense that it’s not only my business hanging in the balance.
It’s Rita’s life.
Along with my own.
“Now’s the time to say something,” Gregory says, his voice low but sharp. Like the voice of a shark ready to eat.
A dozen ideas spring through my head.
Tell them the truth.
Pretend like I’ve never seen her before.
Jump across the table, steal Nolan’s gun, and kill them all.
But only one thing sticks in my skull.
The only way I can think of to salvage this meeting, still win this business, and keep my headstrong legal assistant alive.
I sit up straight and plaster a smooth smile on my face. I will myself not to start sweating as I gesture over my shoulder.
“Orin, this is my new wife, Rita Hunters. Rita, darling, say hello.”