“Don’t admit a damn thing,”orders Mace, like there’s anything about the law he didn’t learn from me.
I ignore my brother. I’m still reeling from how Quinn described her new boss. “You actually think Barrett is a good man?” I scoff. “Ilya hasn’t prepared you very well, has he?”
Quinn visibly pales. Shit. That wasn’t the response I was expecting. I was hoping she’d look confused so we could dismiss the theory that she’s working for the Russians, but her reaction all but confirms it. She’s definitely heard of Ilya.
We all have associations we’re not proud of. For the Griffins, it’s our history with John McConkey, head of the Irish mafia in Nevada. For the most part, we’ve only been involved in their legitimate activities, and we certainly weren’t aware of the distribution hub they operated from a warehouse on this very site. Coincidentally, neither did Barrett when he bought the food processing factory. That’s why he’d panicked.
He'd shut down all operations immediately, then panicked some more when the McConkeys started threatening him. Barrett being Barrett, he’d doubled down and burned the place to the ground. I could make some crass comment about him jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, but it’s no joking matter. A security guard on duty that night was trapped in the inferno and lost his life.
Despite everything, there was still a chance for Barrett to rectify the situation. He could have brokered a deal with the McConkeys, or begged us for help, but no, Barrett went to Ilya Barkov for protection instead. Ilya is a commander in a powerful Russian Bratva headed by his uncle, Vasili Barkov. The price tag for Barrett’s protection is turning a blind eye while the Russians set up their own little operation on the outskirts of his estate. Not only did he agree tothe deal, the bastard is constructing a series of buildings to the Bratva’s very particular specifications.
Quinn blanches. “You think I’d work for that monster?”
I pray her horrified expression is genuine. “I don’t know anything about you,” I answer truthfully. “Because Quinn Jamieson doesn’t exist.”
“Wrong. She’s standing right in front of you with a twitchy finger,” she reminds me, tilting her gun to draw my attention back to it.
“Isn’t your arm getting tired?” I ask. I have the core strength to hold my briefcase aloft for a good while yet, but it’s getting tedious standing here like a scarecrow. “We could carry on this discussion like two grown adults.” I’m tempted to ask her out to dinner, but that might be a bit too soon in our relationship. “If you were any kind of host, you’d offer me a coffee.”
“And give you the chance to switch the narrative?”
“If it gets us to the truth. Yes.”
“You mean if it gets you what you want,” she fires back. “Which for the most part seems to be deriving pleasure from destroying people’s lives.”
My jaw clenches. “You’ve been misinformed. The person you’re describing is Barrett. Although it could be applied equally to your real boss,” I say, pushing her buttons again. “Or are you going to argue that the Russian Bratva don’t destroy lives?”
“Ido notwork for Ilya Barkov,” she says through gritted teeth, her cheeks turning crimson with fury.
“And yet you know his full name,” I note, trying not to let the disappointment get to me. I really wanted to believe she had a soul to match her beauty.
“If anyone’s in league with organized crime, it’s you. Your entire empire was founded on dirty money.”
I purse my lips. We might have a questionable past, but we do what we do for the right reasons. We’re not the monsters. “We’ve never taken Russian money.”
“That’s the kind of answer a lawyer would give. Whose money have you taken?”
“Do not enter into this discussion,”Mace warns.“Ignore the gun and walk the fuck away, Reid. Test the bitch. She won’t shoot with a house full of witnesses.”
I bristle at the term Mace uses to describe Quinn. I’m not ready to walk away from her yet.
“So tell me, are the Irish mafia still mad that Barrett closed down their operations?” Quinn asks, continuing to goad me. “Is that why you’re back here? Wasn’t it enough that you burnt the place down to get back at Barrett? Are you looking to reclaim your friend’s territory?”
“Seriously? She thinks it was us?”Mace hisses in my ear.
I don’t know who’s been feeding her this nonsense, but I refuse to stand by and have my family’s history rewritten. It matters what people think of us. More to the point, it matters what Quinn thinks of me.
“Fuck this,” I say, my patience snapping.
I don’t give Quinn time to react as I swing my briefcase to knock the gun from her hand. Her eyes widen a fraction of a second too late, and her finger jerks. Gunfire cracks, and splinters of wood fly from the bookshelves.
As the gun clatters to the floor, I drop my briefcase and make a grab for Quinn. I pin her body to mine, trapping her arms to her sides and lifting her off her feet. She’s almost a foot shorter, and it’s a small mercy that my chest absorbs her scream rather than my eardrum.
“Reid!”Mace shouts.“Are you hit?”
“No. I’ve got this.”
I push Quinn up against the nearest wall, and as I set her down, I grip her upper arms. The amber flecks in her eyes are on fire as she glares at me. I could stare into those eyes all day, but I shouldn’t let my guard down. I’m willing to bet she’s been trained to fight back.
