"You threaten one of us, you threaten all of the Seven," I growl.
"Hear, hear." Saint straightens, stands shoulder to shoulder with me. Arpad, Weston, Edward, and Baron line up on my other side.
Damian lowers the now bloody sweatshirt from his face. He, glances between us. "Didn’t mean to involve you guys inmy mess," he mumbles. "I made a mistake. I thought I could handle this on my own."
"Later," I state, not taking my gaze off of that motherfucker who dared to threaten one of my own. "Damian won’t fight," I state.
Nikolai’s eyebrow rise, "You dare challenge the Bratva?" He lowers his hand. All of my muscles tense, then relax as he pulls out a cigarette pack and offers it to me.
I shake my head.
He raises his shoulders, offers it to the others.
Arpad steps forward, pulls out a cigarette and places it between his lips. Nikolai lights Arpad’s cigarette, then his own.
"So, you were saying—" he blows out a cloud of smoke, "that your friend is not gonna fight?"
Damian steps forward, "It was my word and I intend to keep to it?—"
"Shut up," I snap.
"But honest, guys. It’s my trash. I’ll clean it and?—"
"Will you shut your trap?" I growl. "Do you want to die, D, is that it? You have a death wish?" I growl. "It’s not only you who’s suffering from the aftermath of the bloody incident, you twat. We’re all in the same boat. Doesn’t mean we’re trying to off ourselves willfully."
"No, of course not." His lips twist. "You guys are finding other ways to escape. Like Edward, here, who’s turning his back on life, and Baron who?—"
Baron freezes. "Who?" he prompts. "What is it you’re going to say, you douchebag?"
"Hey!" I bark. "Can we get it together and stop hanging our balls out for the world and their dogs to walk all over, or what?"
Baron’s shoulders bunch. He cracks his knuckles, glares at Damian, then back at me. "So how do we resolve the mess this mofo’s created?"
I turn my gaze on Nikolai, "Damian won’t fight but one of us Seven will take his place."
"Oh?" Nikolai stares back. "Doesn’t matter to me who does it, as long as one of you turns up to pay your dues. Tomorrow night. Kings of the Alley showdown."
6
Sinclair
"Kings of the bloody Alley," Saint rages. "It’s only the most lethal street fighting club in all of Europe."
"And you had to do a deal with them?" I glare at Damian, who’s sprawled out on the couch in the dressing room of the Roundhouse.
After the Russians left, we’d stayed on, to try and make a plan. Not that there’s anything to be done to extricate ourselves from this mess that this asshole has gotten us into. The same idiot who now has tissues wadded and thrust up his nostrils, which should make him look like a fucktard, but instead he looks exactly like what he is: a man on his way to becoming famous who encountered a bump along the way.
"Hey, I wanted to do it on my own steam, all right?" hedrawls. "Didn’t want to rely on anyone else’s money. Not my parents’ or any of yours."
I stalk over to him. "Firstly, fuck that. The money we have access to is precisely to help in situations like this. Besides, as you’re well aware, I don’t have a trust fund, or any of the privileges the rest of you twats do. Any money I’ve made thus far is on my own merit, and it’s there precisely to stop idiots like you from getting into the kind of fucked-up situation you are in right now."
I glare at him, and he folds his arms across his chest.
"Jeez, don’t get your panties in a twist."
I swoop down, grab his collar. "You…you utterly useless piece of shit, I am trying to save your arse here."
"You don’t have to."
