“Mira,” Clyde greets when Dorian and I come to a stop a few steps behind Sergei. When I don’t respond, he gives a mock pout. “No hello for your old man?”
“You’re not my father,” I say tersely. “I owe you nothing.”
Anger sparks in his eyes at my dismissal. “Thought I raised you better than that.”
“You didn’t raise me at all,” I correct. “I raised myself inspiteof having to live with you.”
“You ungrateful littlewhore—”
“Enough,” Carver cuts in, sounding bored. “We’re here for business, not for a family reunion.” He looks me up and down, vague disinterest stamped on his expression. “You’ve grown up, Mira. I remember you when you were just a little girl.” He gives me another, slower look, one that makes goosebumps break out over my arms. I feel like a prize show horse he’s perusing, deciding if I'm worth a purchase or not.
“As touching as this reunion is, I haven’t traveled all this way to hear you reunite with my soldier’s woman,” Sergei says flatly. “We have business to discuss. You want to join the operation I’m expanding in the states. Your offer and production lineup is interesting enough to garner a few moments of my time. Don’t put it to waste.”
“Of course not,” Carver says promptly. “Come on in—we can talk inside, where it’s safe.”
The bar is abandoned, shut down for the night. Shitty wooden tables accompanied by bar stools are scattered around the space. Posters of old rock bands hang on the walls. Bare lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling, illuminating the shoddy interior.
Carver leads us through the bar and into the brewery, where metal machinery holds court, accompanied by wooden oak barrels lining the walls, holding aging liquor. He takes us down a wooden staircase andinto a basement used as additional storage. The light in the basement is dim, coming from more bare lightbulbs. The walls are cement stained with moisture, the floors covered with a thin film of dust.
Furniture is laid out around the center of the room—three couches, several armchairs, and even a few tables with accompanying stools. It’s clear that Carver uses this place often enough to merit furnishing it, even if his choice of décor is abhorrent.
Dorian stands at the bottom of the staircase, keeping hold of my hand, his gaze glued to Sergei. Igor and two other men Sergei brought with him walk around the room, looking for any weapons or traps. Carver’s men idle near the walls, postures alert and expressions menacing. Every person here is armed up to the gills, and nobody bothers asking anyone to hand over their weapons. Sergei doesn’t trust Carver, and Carver doesn’t trust Sergei.
Clyde is the last to descend the staircase. He stops right beside me, turning to gaze down at me, his lips curled into a sneer and eyes darkened with rage. “Are you enjoying being home?” he taunts. “Back where you belong?”
Dorian and I both ignore him. I long to pull out my pistol and shoot him in the forehead, but I can’t. Not yet. I’ll know the time has come when Seamus, Asher, and Connor make their appearance.
“You really want to ignore me, girl?” he hisses furiously under his breath. “Just because you’ve turned into an uppity cunt at your hoity-toity school don’t mean that I won’t teach you a fuckin’ lesson.”
“Speak to my woman like that again, and your brains will decorate these barrels,” Dorian says with eerie calm.
“Clyde,” Carver calls out. “Come join us.” It seems that Clyde is Carver’s right hand—or that Carver wants to keep an eye on Clyde, worried that he’s a loose cannon.He is.
Clyde stalks away after shooting me one last glare. Dorian and I remain by the staircase since Sergei didn’t give us the invite to sit down. He probably wants us vigilant and ready for shots to be fired at any moment.God, I wish I didn’t have to be here. I wish I was in Vermont, back at Greywood with Dorian.
As if he can read my mind, he strokes his thumb over the small of my back. “Soon,” he murmurs in my ear. “Soon, baby. Trust me.”
The next half hour passes at an agonizing snail’s pace. Sergei and Carver talk about the drug operation Carver runs. Apparently, Carverdoeshave an impressive production of illegal substances going on in this town, and he has lots of product he’d like to peddle into Central and South America, where Sergei has many connections. Carver has a chemist in his crew that makes cocktails of meth, heroin, ketamine… you name it, he cooks it. Sergei doesn’t give any indication that he doesn’t want to go into business with Carver. In fact, he’s so genuine, I almost start to believe he’s truly considering making a deal here tonight.
Another twenty minutes pass. I start shifting my weight and growing worried. I don’t know how long it’s supposed to take Connor, Seamus, and Asher to exterminate Carver’s men—maybe something went wrong. One of them could’ve gotten hurt, evenkilled—
“They’re fine, baby,” Dorian murmurs, covering his words with a kiss on my cheek. “You’re doing so well. I’m so fucking proud that you’re mine.”
A great deal of my concern flees. Warmth at his praise bathes my chest, almost making me forget about our current predicament.
That is, until Dorian backs away, and I lock eyes with Clyde, who’s glaring at me from across the room. When Dorian’s hand cups my hip, Clyde’s jaw flexes, and his glare deepens. I force myself to hold hiseyes for several infinitely long moments, until he finally looks away as Sergei addresses him.
“What will your role be if I do business with your boss?” Sergei asks Clyde.
Clyde sits up a bit straighter. “I cook the books and keep the men in line.”
A thin smile spreads on Sergei’s lips. “Anyone with a fifth-grade education and some muscle can do those jobs.”
“Not like me,” Clyde promises. “I specialize in sending messages to enemies of our operation.”
“He’s an excellent enforcer,” Carver endorses.
“I see. You gentlemen are, of course, aware of my policies when it comes to business. I have lines that I do not cross, and that I strongly discourage my associates from crossing. Enforce all you like, but women and children are to be kept out of it at all costs.”
