I would’ve gotten there eventually, but it’s been a long night.
Wait. Fuck. “Grigori Rostov, the Russian kingpin that makes your dad seem like the Gingerbread Man? That Rostov?”
“Turned one of my guys into roadkill outside the penthouse. The other barely survived.”
“Kruschev is his first lieutenant.” He’s a mean bastard, too, but I don’t bother stating the obvious. “What’s our play? He’s going to be close. Let’s?—”
“We don’t have a play. There’s no ‘we.’ You’re my hostage.” He grabs my arm and drags me toward the exit.
I almost scoff. I can’t believe these idiots lost the accountant. “When Finn hears that Rostov snatched Doyle out from under Declan’s nose, he’s gonna drop a nuclear bomb on that Spanish villa your daddy calls home sweet home. He will fucking end him.”
Brody huffs. I know he’s considering my words though.
Good. He should be worried.
I jump out in front of the guy to lead the way. “And then you’ll wish we were a ‘we.’” Granted, I’m not sure how I plan to fire a gun and stop the Russian mob with both hands tied behind my back.
Bad enough when Declan, the black sheep, stole the man with all the Irish Kings intel, but Grigori Rostov? This special situation requires immediate action and reinforcements. Lots of them. If Brody will just listen, he’ll realize we’re on the same team. But to convince him in a matter of minutes…
“I need to use your phone.”
Brody jogs to keep up with my long strides. “Fuck you, Kellin.” He speaks to my back, keeping his voice low.
I push through the emergency exit to the back of the building.
A few dozen people hover out here, and I can hear the fire trucks out front. All kinds of commotion. No one notices my beat-up face or the fact that my hands are…unavailable to me.
People amaze me with their inability to see beyond their own noses.
I slow down so I’m walking beside Brody. “Finn needs to know about Rostov. Now.”
“We’ll handle it.”
“I don’t think so. You haven’t convinced me of much in the last twelve hours. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Declan’s not a ‘big picture’ guy. He’s an impulsive, egotistical, irrational live wire. And that’s why his empire isn’t where it should be. No. Other. Reason.”
Brody stops to stare at me. While he could never voice the truth out loud, his agreement shows in the pinching around his eyes and mouth.
He realizes his dad is a hotheaded, emotional shit show of a boss.
“Where’s your ride?” We need to get this party started if we hope to prevent Rostov from leaving LA with Doyle.
Brody points across the way, and we weave through the crowd.
I halt halfway across the back lot. “Do you think we should drive around front, just to get eyes on Maeve?”
Brody’s neck flushes with anger. “Your dick is really manning the machine, isn’t it? Un-fucking-believable. My sister can take care of?—”
His phone rings. He answers as he continues striding toward his car.
I itch to know who’s on the other end of the line. What’s being said.
Brody gives me nothing to go on until his face pales, leeching so much color that his skin almost develops a green hue.
He clutches his chest in the universal symbol for “I can’t breathe.” Not good. I wouldn’t be surprised if this twentysomething mobster drops at my feet.
If he does, I’m not giving him mouth-to-mouth. I don’t care if he’s Maeve’s brother. He needs to pull his shit together. “What now? Who’s on the phone?”
He meets my gaze, his eyes warning me toshut the hell up.
