What we’re interested in is what happens beneath all of this drunken chaos.
I lead the way to the bar where we find a spot on one end. The bartender is a tall blonde with clear blue eyes and deep red lips. She saunters toward us, and I order two double shots of Stolichnaya vodka on the rocks.
Patrick grins at her and I roll my eyes once she walks away. “Dude, we’re not picking up tonight.”
“Sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Couldn’t help myself.”
“Well, try,” I grumble, rubbing the back of my neck. “Now let’s go through it all one more time.”
“Like I told you, he didn’t tell me anything direct. Shit, he barely talks to me at all anymore because he knows I report everything back to Heaven, and that pisses him off to no end.”
“So who knows?”
“Quinn,” he says, nodding at the bartender when she places our shot glasses on the bar.
“He overheard Conor on the phone in his office, talking about a new business opportunity in this area. He’d just gotten there for a meeting, so he hung around outside the office to catch any bits of information since Conor never mentioned Brooklyn, or the Russians, to any of them. He heard the names Tatiana and Vigo and today’s date. Then when the call ended, he waited a few minutes and went inside. He asked some vague questions, just to see if Conor would give anything. He didn’t, so Quinn got suspicious and came to me.”
“He was smart to do that. The last thing he should have done was to tip Conor off.” I rub the back of my neck. “Vigo Kosolov is the right hand to Ivan Volkov. I’d bet my left nut that’s the Vigo he was talking to. Conor is too much of an egotistical prick to talk to anyone low level.” But that connection has warning bells going off in my mind. I’d heard that the Russian bratva is trying to edge into Manhattan, and Matteo doesn’t want them closing in on our territory, especially since there’s some bad blood between us. My brother Roman and I had an altercation with some soldiers from the Volkov Bratva months ago, and while we haven’t gotten caught in each others’ crosshairs since then, this hits a little too close to home.
It could just be Conor building himself up, looking for quick cash opportunities with new partners whom he hasn’t yet fucked over.
Or it could be something else.
Either way, I don’t want any of his dealings to touch my family.
I’ll fucking kill him if his poison seeps into anything of ours.
That’s why I’m here, to make sure that doesn’t happen.
And by that, I mean presenting Vigo with a very clear picture of what will happen to him if he tries to invade the empire we’ve built. A little charge zips through me when I think of pulling the trigger of my Glock 19…
It’s been too fucking long.
“Yeah, but then why not tell us? Why hide it?” Patrick asks.
“Well, that’s what we’re gonna find out, yeah?” I toss back my shot and slam the glass on the table. The bartender catches my eye and walks back over, with a seductive swing of her hips. She leans over onto the bar, her tits practically spilling out of her tiny top. “What else can I get you gentlemen tonight?”
I run a hand through my longish hair and lean toward her. “We’re looking for a seat at the chef’s table,” I murmur. “Can you get us in?”
Her eyes sweep over us both, and a slow smile lifts her lips. “Let me see if there’s space.” She backs away and picks up a phone hidden behind the alcohol bottles, speaking into it as her eyes travel back toward us.
“I didn’t think we were gonna eat, Dante,” Patrick mutters. “I figured we were gonna do a little recon.”
“Relax,” I mumble. “And finish your shot.”
The bartender comes back. “They’re holding a spot for you downstairs.” She nods toward the far right corner of the place. “There is a staircase beyond a black and gold door down that hallway. It will lead you to the private dining area.”
I flash a grin and drop a hundred-dollar bill onto the bar. “Thanks.”
“If you want to come back for a nightcap…” She grins at me. “I get off at two.”
Ah, fuck it. Who needs sleep?
I wink at her and give a small nod.
Patrick grumbles the entire way to the back of the restaurant. “I thought you said no hooking up tonight. And what the hell are we doing at the chef’s table? I didn’t come here to eat! I came here for fucking answers!”
I grab his arm and pull him toward me once we’re out of sight. “There is no goddamn chef’s table,” I hiss at him. “It’s an underground casino, for fuck’s sake. You have to ask for the chef’s table to get entrance.” I shake my head. “Jesus, Patty.”
He lets out a snort. “Look, I don’t do all of the business-y shit for my family. I’m a fixer, not a fucking secretary.”
“Well, if you wanna save your ass and your family’s livelihood from one of Conor’s fuck-ups, you’d better start paying attention. Take some notes, bro.” I pull open the black and gold door and step onto the landing, the din of voices drifting up from the lower level.
I usually work alone, so having Patrick dragging behind me is like having a ball and chain clanging against the floor announcing my arrival.
It’s hard to be invisible when you have a six-foot-six, blue-eyed blond guy who looks like a young Brad Pitt bringing up the rear.
I square my shoulders and walk down the stairs. Wall sconces line the hallway, giving off a golden glow to the surrounding deep burgundy décor. The floors are black marble, our shoes clicking along the shiny polished surface as we approach the main room.
“I was able to get my hands on a floor plan of the place,” I hiss over my shoulder at Patrick. “Vigo should be here tonight. He only shows up one night a week, usually Wednesdays. But my sources tell me he switched things up tonight.”
“So that means he might have switched things up to meet with Conor,” Patrick mutters as we enter the large space. There are dice tables lining the perimeter of the room, blackjack tables in the center. Ornate bars are set up at each corner, and scantily-clad cocktail waitresses are carrying trays of drinks to the crowds of men in their midst.
“Exactly.” My eyes sweep the entire room, from the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, to every possible exit I can make out. I’m not planning on having to make a fast getaway, but in my line of work, you have to be prepared for anything.
“Hey, did Conor say anything about a—?”
I don’t even get a chance to finish my question before the barrel of a gun presses into my back, accompanied by a voice that slithers over my skin like a snake. “Don’t fucking move. Don’t fucking speak. Just fucking walk.”
A quick glance to my right confirms that Patrick is also being discreetly shoved toward a darkened doorway just outside of the main gaming room. I don’t know who these guys are or what they want with us, but I don’t argue.
I never argue.
I only ever annihilate.
Once we’re out of the view of gamblers, the short, stout guy who stuck his gun into my spine shoves me against a wall, and the other guy throws Patrick right next to me. “So, Mulligan,” one of them says in a thick Russian accent. “Vigo will be very happy to see you here. He expects full repayment on the debt your brother Conor owes.”
“I don’t know anything about a fucking debt,” Patrick grunts, struggling against the guy who has his gun pointed right at his throat. “We came here to play.”
“Nobody just comes here to play,” the guy in front of me hisses. “You’re here with an agenda, just like everyone else. You know what’s on our agenda? Taking your money and then leaving you for dead.” He narrows his watery blue eyes, his fat face twisted into a grimace. “Nobody fucks with Vigo, do you understand?”
I can’t even start to process all of this shit, but one thing is clear. Conor Mulligan is on Vigo’s hit list. He’s not looking to partner with them. I should have known he’d have never been able to pull off a business arrangement with the Russians. He’s probably up to his eyeballs in debt because he’s a gambling addict.