Page 205 of Callan

He pushes upright and rests his elbows on the table while scrolling down the list of names on his phone.

“Let me do this…” he murmurs, tapping a number and making a call.

The line rings when he snatches his phone and brings it to his ear.

“I have a name for you,” he says and a few moments pass.“Yeah,” he goes on. “Somewhere in New York.” He looks at me. “As soon as you can.”

He ends the call and sets his phone down, a frown forming on his forehead.

“No one survived that day as far as I know,” he says. “No one of significance.”

He’s talking about the night we put out all the people responsible for the deaths, and we got our revenge.

“I don’t think so.”

I resume eating when his phone rings on the table, and I put my fork down and drink some water, waiting for him to pick it up.

Hudson checks it and answers right away.

“Yeah…” he says, looking at me. “Okay.”

His gaze pulls away, which is not a good sign.

More so, a dark cloud creeps over his face, carving his features in surprise.

“Are you sure?”

The person at the other end of the phone line must say yes because without saying another word, Hudson taps his phone to end the call and places it on the table, face down.

His eyes stay trained on the table as if he can’t find his words, which is so not like him.

“Bad news, son,” he says in a stoic voice, lifting his gaze to me. “Your instincts were right. This is much more than a thug taking a jab at you. And more than that…” He searches my eyes before he continues, the same dark expression on his face. “This is an old story. Something your father never thought would make it to your ears. Or your brothers’ ears. Or even your mother’s.”

Clasping my hands together and resting my elbows on the table, I wait for him to elaborate.

“I’m listening.”

He takes in a long breath before speaking again.

“This doesn’t have to do with your father. This is about your grandfather.”

A pause ensues as I listen to him, not knowing what to expect.

“Your grandfather had a stepbrother.”

My eyebrows go up as I look at him incredulously.

“What?” I murmur, grappling with disbelief.

This is the first time I’m hearing about this.

He nods softly.

“Yes. Rory was his name. He moved to Italy and worked for Cosa Nostra after he got cut out of his father’s will at your great grandmother's insistence. And that would be your great grandfather’s will.”

My mouth falls open.

“What are you talking about? There was no one else in our family as far as I know.”

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