"So?" I explode, "Our kidnappers—those bastards—made sure you have enough PTSD in connection to fighting rings, that the moment you enter one of them you are going to lose it, and knowing that, you still agreed?
"I...uh..." he swallows, “I'll be fine."
"You don't look fine," I growl. "In fact, you look like you are about to puke, you douche."
Damian squares his shoulders. "I'll... I'll think of something." Sweat beads his upper lip.
"What the hell, D?" I glare at him. "You're out of touch with underground fighting... In fact, with fighting of any kind, and now you want to take on the Mafia?"
"The Bratva," Nikolai interjects.
"What bloody ever."
"That’s not all, is it?" Edward remarks, his gaze fixed on Damian. "What are you not telling us?"
Damian shifts his feet, rolls his shoulders, then tips his chin up and meets my gaze, "He's got a lead."
My throat closes. "A lead." I swallow. "On what?" You know what, don’t you? That’s why your stomach is all tied up in knots like the pussy you are.
I drag my fingers through my hair. "Out with it, D, or else, seriously, I am going to hand your ass to you right now."
"On the bastards behind the incident."
There’s silence for a beat, then another.
Then Saint explodes, "The hell you talking about?" He takes a step in Nikolai’s direction. "You’re the one behind our kidnapping, aren’t you, asshole? That’s why you approached D in the first place. Clearly, you have a death wish. That’s why you came here today." He lunges forward and I grab his shoulders, try to haul him back. Fail.
Arpad and Weston grab him around his chest, and together, we manage to stop him.
Saint growls low in his throat. "Let me go," he says in a tight voice. "Release me, mofos. Right now."
"Only if you promise not to attack anyone. Get your temper in hand, pisstard."
He blows out a breath, "Shit, your vocabulary needs better variety, Sinner."
I release him. "You need better control over your anger, you wanker." I step back; so do Arpad and Weston.
Saint rights his sweatshirt, then turns and head butts Damian, who cries out, "What the hell?" Blood spurts from his nose. Damian lurches back. Arpad groans.
Weston glances around, then grabs hold of Damian’s shirt from the back of a chair. He races to Damian, presses it to his nose, while tilting his head back. "Hold this here," he commands.
"Why did you do that?" Damian sputters, head still tipped up toward the ceiling. "What’s wrong with you?"
"That,” Saint growls, "is for not coming to us in the first place."
I huff out a breath, "Much as it pains me to admit it, I agree with Saint." I glower at Damian. "You wanted to perform at the Roundhouse, you simply had to take our help. Between us, we have enough money to buy the fucking building, if that’s what was needed."
"But he had a lead?—"
I raise my hand, "As for the lead he promised, you should have brought it to us first, so we could have decided as a team, whether it was worth coming to an agreement with him. Instead, you made a deal with this piece-of-shit, here."
"Watch it, now," Nikolai snaps.
"Sorry, this hot pile of turd here." I bare my teeth at him.
Nikolai reaches inside his jacket pocket and I freeze. Shit, he has a gun. Of course, he has a gun. Bloody hell. I narrow my gaze on him, watch as he pauses.
"Enough of this bullshit." He jerks his chin toward Damian, "Your friend owes us. Either he fights for us, or we kill him."
