Brody
The Callaghan Mafia #2
Savannah Rylan
Copyright © 2020 by Savannah Rylan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
1. Abby:
2. Brody:
3. Abby:
4. Brody:
5. Abby:
6. Brody:
7. Abby:
8. Brody
9. Abby
10. Brody
11. Abby
12. Brody
13. Abby
14. Brody
15. Abby
16. Brody
17. Abby
18. Brody
19. Abby
20. Brody
About the Author
More Books by Savannah Rylan
1
Abby:
“Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before only better, infinitely happier and forever we will all be one together with Christ.”
It was hard to catch my breath. That poem had been my father’s favorite. And now, a priest recited it over his dead body. It made me sick to look at. I stared down into my lap as the words caressed my ear. Like a broken dirge, reminding me of what I had lost. Of what I’d never have again.
I wanted Daddy back.
The funeral was beautiful. My stepmother did a fantastic job with it. But I didn’t want to be home. I wanted to be back in Switzerland, waiting for my father’s weekly phone call. We talked every week on Sunday nights. No matter what. But these last few weeks had been sparse. He had canceled a lot. Rescheduled for other nights. We hadn’t been on our routine for three or four months now. Flying by the seat of our pants to scramble and find time for one another.
I figured things were just busy with his work.
But now?
What were you dealing with, Daddy?
“Richard Callaghan was the head of his family. A staunch, strong, proud man with more love in this world than anything else. He contributed to his community. Donated his time and his money to places that needed it most. He contributed a great deal to the restoration of the historical brownstones that sit on our lakeside, and he made sure our homeless shelters never ran low on supplies for our homeless. Richard Callaghan was a great factor in this community. A man many other men looked up to. And he will be greatly missed.”
I mindlessly listened as I leaned heavily into my chair. I felt isolated. Alone. Sitting with a family I didn’t know a damn thing about. I only saw Fiona the few times she came with my father to Switzerland. And my stepbrothers? Her sons? I hadn’t seen any of them since I was seven or so years old.
Maybe eight.
“Richard was there for the birth of our daughter. And when things went south with my wife’s c-section, he stepped in and did whatever he could to comfort me. He made sure we ate. Made sure we slept. He came with tips and tricks on how to get our newborn daughter to eat and sleep. And he made the hospital recovery room feel more like home. I’ll never forget that. How eager he was to help. When Richard Callaghan interjected himself, it was never in a pompous manner. But a helpful one. This world has lost a great man; and may God usher him through the gates of heaven with honor.”
A snicker rose from the crowd and I wanted to wring their neck. I whipped my head around, searching the crowd for the culprit. How dare they smear my father’s name? Just because what he did for work was less than an honest job didn’t mean my father wasn’t a good man.
Make that sound again. I dare you.
Someone patted my knee and my eyes panned to Fiona. She stared at me and shook her head softly, then motioned for me to turn around. Part of me wanted to slap her and another part of me wanted to cry on her shoulder. I barely knew the woman. Where did she get the right to tell me what to do?
Then again, my father had loved her greatly. The stories he told about her and the way his voice sounded whenever he spoke of her was proof enough as to how he felt about her. And how she felt about him. Even though I didn't know her or her boys well, that didn’t stop them from being family.
And right now, I needed family.
“Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there… I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow…
I am the diamond glints on snow…
I am the sunlight on ripened grain…
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you waken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of gentle birds in circling flight…
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry—
I am not there… I did not die.”
My lips parted in shock. Tears rushed my eyes. My favorite poem. One I always kept tacked up on my bathroom mirror wherever I went. That poem held a special place in my heart. My father used to always recite it to me before bed. When I was younger, before he sent me off to boarding school to keep me safe, he’d whisper it in my ear. After reading me a book.
Forever to remind me that the soul was greater than the body itself.
Something warm wrapped around my hand and I looked down. Tears fell from my eyes as I saw Fiona’s nimble fingers holding my hand. I sniffled. How did she know about the poem?
I slowly looked over at her and she smiled sadly for me.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She leaned over and kissed the side of my head.
“Your father loved you so much,” she whispered back.
I wanted to break down. I wanted to cry. I wanted to shriek and run out of there and pretend like this wasn’t happening. But there were more pressing issues at stake. I needed protection, and quickly. I mean, I wasn’t stupid. I knew what my father did for a living. The empire he ran. The things he had his hands stuck in. The exact reason why he sent me off to boarding school was to keep me safe from all this. To make sure I was never made a target by an angry enemy. Or even ally.
But with him dead, that certainly made me a target.
I gazed past Fiona and let my eyes linger on her sons. They were the ones I had to turn to now. The ones I had to talk to about where I went from here. I wasn’t in boarding school any longer. I had already gotten my col
lege degree. And my father had been funding a middle-class lifestyle for me in one of the most expensive countries in the world to live. I knew Declan by his suit. Finely tailored to his body with a beautiful young woman sitting at his side. I knew enough to know he was the one I needed to speak with.
The one I needed to talk to about where my life went from here.
On either side of him were Brody and Gael. Or was that Flynn? Wait, was his name Flynn? Or was it Glenn?
No, no. It was Flynn.
But was that Flynn?
While Declan looked capable, he also had a woman on his arm. A woman who had a massive sapphire engagement ring on her finger. No doubt, she wouldn't be okay with Declan heading up my protective services. So, my eyes fell to the brother at his left. I was pretty sure that was Gael. His dead stare looked straight ahead. I mean, he practically looked vacant. Slender, too. And not the lean kind, but the pathetic kind. Not to be mean or anything, but he definitely didn't look like the protective type.
Then, my eyes took in Brody.
Thick brown hair. Icy blue eyes. Seemed to be a trademark feature for Fiona’s boys. He was a bit shorter than the other two by at least three inches. But he had broad shoulders that boasted of muscles trickling down his arms. The swell of his chest tapered into a thin waist before his legs came into view. And while I tried not to stare, the bulging of his thighs against his pants made me grin.
The fabric of his suit looked as if it were screaming for mercy.
He’d be a decent-enough protector.
I sighed as the funeral came to a close. The priest lifted his hands and offered up a traditional Irish blessing. One spoken in my father’s native tongue as we all stood. I held my palms up to the sky, listening as everyone murmured it around me. I said it with pride, though. I said it with a heavy heart and a filled soul. I knew my father was finally at peace. Even though I was almost certain his job is what killed him, I knew he could rest in peace now.
At least, I hoped so.
The brothers wouldn't tell me how Daddy died. And I didn’t know why. Did they not know? Or did they not want me to know? Either way, I’d figure it out. He was my father, for fuck’s sake. I deserved to know what happened to him. I wouldn’t tolerate secrets like this. Not while I was in Chicago.
Am I going to have to move back to Chicago?
I didn’t want to. I hadn’t been in this city for sixteen years. It wasn’t home. It was where my father called “home.” My home was back in Switzerland. With my friends, and my job, and the safety and security of my condo with a view. I had many things to speak with Declan about. My protection, for one. And my fortune, for another. I know my father had it written into his will. We talked about it a great deal before he had it finalized. I just didn’t know what the will detailed to be done with my fortune once my father passed.
Did it simply outline what I was to be given when I turned thirty?
Did it outline that I was to be given it earlier in the event of his passing before I turned thirty?
Would Declan find a way to usurp it for the family business?
I definitely wouldn’t let that happen.
The funeral concluded and I peeked back over at the brothers. People came up to them and hugged their necks. Gave their condolences. Patted Fiona on the back. But hardly anyone came up to me. I got shuffled off into the corner. A stranger among strangers as my father’s real family were hugged. Comforted. Given gifts, flowers, and foods for them to take home.
I was my father’s biological daughter. His first true love.
And people didn’t even recognize me.
I just want my money and I want to go home.
I turned away from the crowd and gazed out the window of the Catholic church. I couldn’t imagine how much convincing it took on Fiona’s part to get a priest around here to give my father a decent-enough funeral. I mean, everyone knew what my father did. Well, rumored to do for a living. None of it was provable, of course. But people in Chicago weren’t stupid.
“Abigail, right?”
I slowly turned my head toward the sound of my name.
“Yes?”
The woman gasped. “Richard’s daughter. Right?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, my dear. You’re—you’re so grown up.”
She wrapped me up in her arms and my eyes widened. I wasn’t much for human touch. Never had been. She patted me on the back, and I managed to rub my hand up and down hers. But really, I just wanted her to let me go. She released me and cupped my cheeks. Tears flowed down her face before she kissed my forehead. I tried not to grimace or pull away from her. And as people flooded around me, hugs came from every which direction.
Until a voice hit my ear.
“All right, you guys. Let’s give her some space. She’s grieving and a bit in shock. She just got in a couple days ago.”
My eyes fell upon the man piercing through the crowd. And it didn’t shock me one bit when I saw it was Brody. His stock figure slipped through the crowd as he pushed them back. His icy eyes found mine before he turned away from me. He gave me room to breathe. He backed the crowd away. And as he ushered them up one by one, I managed to find it in me to tolerate them touching me long enough to accept their hugs.
I kept stealing glances at Brody, though.
Easily six-feet tall. Stacked with muscles. His voice was low. Rumbling. Like tires over a gravel walkway. He let people by one by one, but not before running his eyes over them. What was he doing?
I knew what he was doing.
Searching them for weapons.
“I didn’t even recognize you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I’m sure it warms your father’s soul to have you here. Even if it is under these circumstances.”
“Do you need anything? Anything at all?”
“My gosh, you look so grown up, Abigail.”
I winced. “Abby, actually. Only my father called me by my full name.”
But people didn’t listen. They kept calling me “Abigail” as if it were nothing.
Then again, I hadn’t ever been in Chicago to correct them. They’d only heard my father say my name. It didn’t lessen the pain, though. Hearing my full name over and over. Being reminded that I’d never hear Daddy say my name again like that.
Even surrounded by all these people who loved him, I felt alone.
Isolated.
Ready to get home more than ever before.
“You okay, Abby?”
I turned my head toward Brody’s voice. “Yes. I’m fine.”
He snickered. “In my world, when a woman says ‘fine,’ it never means ‘fine.’”
“Well, I’m not a woman you have to consider. So, I’m fine.”
“I’ll be considering you until you leave. There’s still much to talk about.”
“Yes, there is. I actually have a need to speak with Declan, if his schedule is open.”
He nodded. “I’ll let him know, but I’m sure it won’t be an issue.”
And as Brody ushered me back toward the congregation of family my father left behind, I drew in a deep breath.
I couldn't get too close to them. Because eventually, I’d be leaving. Back to Switzerland, and back to my life.
Hopefully, with my protection still intact.
2
Brody:
The funeral slid by in a murky haze. Seeing Richard’s body like that… I’d never get it out of my head. Flynn flew in to help us with things. To help Mom through things. And the four of us gazing upon Richard’s dead body was something I’d never forget as long as I was alive. Whoever did this to our father would pay. Heartily. And by my hand, if I had any say in it.
I peeked over at Abigail and watched her. The way her chest jumped. The way she blinked back tears. She was the spitting image of her father, including her strength. Her back, straight. Her legs, strong. Dirty blonde hair twisted into a perfect bun at the crown of her head. Soft silver earrings dangling from
her ears, accenting the length of her neck as her dark green eyes stared forward. Had it not been for the jumping in her chest, I would’ve thought she wasn’t alive. Had it not been for her blinking back tears, I would’ve thought she was a mannequin.
A beautiful, curvy mannequin.
I shook the thought from my head. My eyes fell forward again as I watched the speakers interchange. Random people I’d seen once or twice in my life. People who thought they knew Richard. No one knew him, though. Not really. Not like we did.
Not like Mom did.
Everyone in the pews behind me were suspect. Even the families we had “good” relationships with. Someone knew something, but no one was talking. No meeting Declan scheduled came with any information. No drop-in meeting I insisted upon came with any extra information. People cried. Grieved. Forced crocodile tears to their eyes to try and sway it.
I wasn’t buying it, though.
Someone sitting in this fucking room killed our father.
I looked back over at Abigail and saw shock roll over her face. I furrowed my brow as I sat there, watching her lips part. Watching her jaw drop. I wondered why she was in such shock. And then, I saw Mom take her hand and squeeze it. Almost to reassure the girl. Abigail turned her head, so I looked away.
Trying my best not to stare.
I mean, I hadn’t seen the girl since we were small. Other than pictures Richard used to show us of her from time to time, we never laid eyes on her. And holy hell, how she had grown into a beautiful woman. I sat back in the pew. I cleared my throat and pushed all thoughts of that bullshit from my mind. I needed to focus. I needed to calm myself down.
Because once this funeral was over, the investigation began.
The funeral ended with all of us standing and our palms turned toward the sky. The priest rattled off something in traditional Irish fashion, but I didn’t know the words. I didn’t care to know the words. The only thing I wanted to know was who the hell had the balls to beat our fucking stepfather to death. My eyes slid over to Declan. He tightly held onto Ciara, but not in grief. Not in compassion.
Brody: The Callaghan Mafia #2 Page 1
