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Then he focused back on the real issue. A funeral. For him.
He actually glanced down at himself, patting his chest as if checking for bullet holes. He barked out a laugh. No, he hadn’t drunk that much. Not yet. But the idea of someone writing him off, burying him alive even if only in rumor, set his blood boiling.
“I’m not dead!” he roared at the screen, whiskey sloshing over the rim of the glass.
He threw back the rest of the drink, poured another, and kept watching, but the news program had already moved on. Didn’t matter now, because he was no longer listening.
A funeral? For him? Who the hell thought they could erase Ronan Keane with a news broadcast?
His phone buzzed. It was a text message from Morty, his second-in-command.
“Boss, people are saying you’re dead. What’s going on?”
Ronan’s laughter came out low and ugly, bubbling like acid. He stabbed the call button. “Morty, I ain’t dead,” he growled.
On the other end, Morty didn’t sound like himself. There was something in his voice Ronan had never heard before. Unease. “Good to know. What’s going on, boss?”
“Dunno yet,” Ronan replied, though his tone promised retribution. “But I’ll make some calls and find out who’s spreading this crap.”
They talked shop, mostly about the shipment of weapons due that night, also about a new street drug might be available in the near future, but nothing worth his time, and there was a new shipment of women coming in over the weekend. Ronan’s mood lifted slightly at that. The new girls would be sent to the brothels, but first they’d need to be broken, taught to submit and obey, their spirits shattered until they were nothing but pliant moneymakers. Some of them would fight, cry, maybe even beg. He didn’t care. A little “medicine” could fix the stubborn ones. He chuckled into his glass. Broken or whole, they’d earn for him.
By the time he ended the call, he felt steadier. His people knew he was alive. That was something. But his fury simmered.
For a moment, he toyed with the idea of letting the rumor run its course. If people thought he was dead, maybe the cops would pull back, shift their focus. But the thought curdled fast.
If he was dead, then so was his reputation.
If he was dead, the scavengers picking at the edges of his empire would rush in, thinking he wasn’t around to remind them who was in control. The Crooked Sons already thought they could push him out. This would be the nail in the coffin, figuratively and literally.
No. Being dead wasn’t acceptable.
The longer he thought about it, the hotter his rage became. Who was behind this ridiculous rumor? Who thought they could bury him with lies? Whoever it was, he’d make sure their screams lasted for hours. He’d burn them down, piece by piece, until the world understood that Ronan Keane didn’t vanish. He didn’t die. He killed.
His phone rang again. The caller ID made his stomach twist. Krylov.
For a moment, Ronan considered letting it ring out. But Krylov didn’t tolerate silence. By the third ring, Ronan knew he had to answer.
“Krylov,” Ronan greeted, forcing cheer into his tone. “You old bastard.”
“Are you dead?” the Russian demanded without preamble, his voice thick with contempt.
“Not even close,” Ronan replied. And then, like lightning, a plan came to him. He let out a chuckle, dark and cruel. “All part of my plan, old man. I’m pretending to be dead so my daughter will come to my funeral. My loyal daughter, in my grasp, will be on a plane to you in seventy-two hours.”
There was silence on the line, stretching taut. Ronan waited, pulse pounding. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded.
He could scope out the funeral, watch the players gathering, and if Madelaine appeared, he’d snatch her before Paulo Ruffino or anyone else even realized he was there. The trap would snap shut, and she’d be under his control again.
Hell, maybe he’d even turn the damn funeral into a massacre. Show up, alive and laughing, watch the color drain from their faces as bullets sprayed. They thought they could write his obituary? He’d make them choke on their own blood.
No one killed Ronan Keane. And anyone who tried would wish they’d died instead.
Chapter 37
Leonid Krylov ended the call and watched the rest of the news report about Ronan’s death as fury ignited in his chest. Ronan had always been infuriatingly incompetent. But this…!
Leonid’s thoughts drifted to the lovely Madelaine. Her luminous skin. Her dark curls. Those startling blue eyes. His body tried to stir at the image, but without pharmaceutical help he doubted it would happen, but even that flicker of interest was more than any other woman had roused in him in decades.
That, more than anything, was why he wanted her. Not just as a wife, but as the mother of his son, the legacy he had thus far failed to produce.
