Page 14 of Callum

“You don’t.”

“We fucking do, and it’s time you grow the fuck up and join us again.”

My hand pulls the next stitch slightly too hard, but he doesn’t flinch. “Who died and made you the voice of reason?”

“You did, asshole.” He holds up his left hand, the silver ring of bones glinting in the light from the kitchen. My eyes flick from the ring to his face, noting how serious he is about this. “I was given the chance to step up, and I took it. It’s your turn to do the same.”

“I can’t work for him, Lachlan.”

Lachlan’s eyes bore into mine, willing me to see what he isn’t saying. “You need to talk to Grant.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s time.”

We’re both quiet as I carefully resume my task of sewing his arm shut. If I take MacAlister Business to Grant, he will make me rejoin the Family. A month ago, a week ago, hell, an hour ago, that prospect would have seemed unbearable, but now? Now that I’ve seen that scar on Rosalind’s stomach? Now that I know she has a kid out there somewhere, one that might be in trouble? I know I don’t have a choice.

It’s time I take my place at the Table.

Four: In the Family

CALLUM

Consigliere (Con-See-gLee-Air-Ay): a member of a Mafia family who servesas an adviser to the leader and resolves disputes

within the Family.

“Bit early for a social call, don’t you think?”

Grant’s house is the definition of secluded, the sprawling driveway cutting through nearly a mile of dense forest before you get to the front gate. The gate is a formality, though; Grant knows someone is on his property long before they get that far.

The updated mini-mansion in the heart of Bray Creek is undeniably bright and airy. From the fresh white paint on the clapboard siding to the soft blue shutters around each window, every inch of his house screams, “Nothing to see here”.

It’s a perfect opposite to the house we grew up in. The Father was so deep into his head about Family Business that he allowed it to take over every corner of MacAlister Manor until the darkness choked out the light. Grant’s home is a giant “fuck you” to everything the Manor represents, and it shows.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“That depends,” Grant leans against the door frame, both arms crossing over his chest as he looks down at me. He’s dressed in a button-down and dress pants, each pressed within an inch of their life. “Are you here to catch up with your oldest brother, or is this Family Business?”

“Business.”

“Then, by all means,” he steps aside, indicating for me to enter his home. “Come in.”

We move silently through the large living room, darting around oversized furniture pieces and treading on soft rugs as we head toward the far side of the house. Bookcases line three of the four walls, and the dark wood furniture pieces dotted around the room are all heirlooms from our great-grandfather.

Grant walks toward his desk, carefully assessing me in that way he does. It’s unnerving how much he reminds me of the Father when he does that, and the need to fidget under his gaze becomes almost unbearable. Grant finally rests against the desk’s edge, his long legs stretching out in front of him. One ankle crosses over the other just before he speaks, and I know he’s settling in for a long conversation. “Why are you here, Callum?”

Standing in the early morning light, surrounded by old books and the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looks over the ominous Bray Forest, I carefully relay every detail of Rosalind’s story. Everything I know to be true and adding in my speculations about the GiGi’s and their involvement with the Roman Mafia Family.

I don’t mention fucking Rosalind or the C-section.

Grant listens to it all, his head nodding at some parts, dark brows pulling together at others.

“She wants out of the Underworld?”

“Yes, but I don’t think we should let her out.”

A frown mars his brow as he assesses me across the room. “Why not?”

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