That Thing Between Eli and Gwen(99)

“Nothing. Sorry, go back to bed,” I whispered, lifting the sheets up and sliding my feet out to the side.

I could still feel his eyes as I walked to the bathroom.

Closing the door behind me, I dropped the gun by the sink before reaching over and turned on the faucet.

“Breathe. Just breathe,” I whispered to my reflection as I tried to shake the images from my mind.

Liam dead.

Ethan dead.

Wyatt dead.

Dona dead.

Just me. Always just me…the thought scared me. Me who had spent almost all of my life being alone was scared of being alone. Just when I was feeling…like a Callahan…of course my father would pop up in my mind to remind me I was Giovanni before everything else.

“Damn Orlando. You’ve really fucked me up.” I smiled even though it wasn’t at all funny.

Washing my face, I stepped back out expecting to see Liam in bed. Instead he leaned against the wall to the bathroom, his eyes shut and his arms crossed over his bare chest. Lazily, he opened his eyes and looked over to me, the corners of his mouth turned up.

“You okay?” he asked.

This. This was the reason why I was afraid to be alone…since we got married, since I came into his house, he never looked away from me, he never let me be alone. He always had my back and so I leaned on him.

I was weak for him.

“Mel?”

“Yeah.” I took his hand. “Let’s go to bed, tomorrow we’ve got so much to do.”

He groaned and followed me towards our bed before jumping on top of me forcing us both to fall.

“Love you.” He snickered when I tried to wiggle out of his arms, but he held me tighter.

Sighing, I gave up. “Love you too.”

Like always, he fell asleep with ease. I, on the other hand, just lay there brushing my hands through his hair, wide awake and remembering the number one rule my father had always cautioned me to.

Never get comfortable because I will only know peace the day I die.





ONE

“I am an American, Chicago born – Chicago, that somber city – first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent."

~ Saul Bellow





LIAM

He was somewhere in the crossroads of being scared fucking shitless and desperately anxious. I had seen a lot throughout my life, and I say that knowing damn well I was only thirty-six years old. But thirty-six in mafia years had to be the equivalent to at least sixty years for normal people, give or take a year. Nevertheless, glancing at my son, sitting quietly beside me, his hands reaching up to fix the tie around his neck every few minutes, was still strange as fuck.

“Ethan.” I didn’t bother facing him, scrolling through the email Declan had sent me, but I heard as his whole body shifted towards me.

“Yes, dad?”

“Is something wrong with your bow tie?”

He paused before speaking “Uhh…I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” I glanced over to him and he quickly answered.

“No. There is nothing wrong with my bow tie.”

“Then stop fidgeting.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I wasn’t sure which part confused me more—the fact that I was the father of a nine and half year old or the fact that I was the father of nine and half year old who looked completely identical to me, the same unruly brown hair, sharp green eyes, even my damn nose and ears, Ethan had them all. My mother sometimes would even call him my name by accident; even Neal and Declan had started to call him Liam Jr.

Each time they did, he stood a little prouder and in return that made me proud. However, if I wanted him to be named after me, he would have fucking been named after me. There was only one Liam Callahan, now and forever. I did not think this out of jealously or pride—I earned my name, my Melody earned her name, so he would have to do the same…starting now.

“Sir,” Fedel nodded to me as I stepped out of the Rolls Royce. Fedel had changed over the years; the death of Monte had really gotten to him. His black hair was cut in a buzz, his olive skin tone had gotten only a little lighter in all the years he had been here, but that nothing in comparison to his behavior now. He took no chances with anyone, he hardly spoke unless necessary and there was darkness in his eyes I was familiar with. Where I went, he went. He was now my right-hand man; Italian, Irish, it didn’t matter anymore; we were beyond that.

“Glass Emperor Hotel,” Ethan read when he stepped out beside me. He craned his neck up and stared at the silver skyscraper in front of us.

Without a word, I walked ahead with Fedel and three other bodyguards surrounding us. No one spoke to us as we entered, not the hostess or the valets, only offering a short nod before moving on to whatever they did for a living. Those in the marble lobby were confused but moved out of our way as if they were water and I was Moses.