He shrugs. “You take cash?”
I laugh. “No. I don’t.”
He smirks. “I’m joking. Let me make some calls. My penthouse needs that.”
His eyes flick to my necklace before he turns and walks away.
Conan watches him like prey. “You seem jumpy, Lily.”
“Russian accents make me like that. Family history.” I rush the words out.
Even without thinking, I try to protect my father. I don’t know who his allies are or how the Quinns fit into the role he plays in Russia.
“You knew him?” Conan asks, and then turns his head to make sure the creep is leaving.
“No. I didn’t.”
“I’ll check with the twins. I’m sure it’s fine. Claude probably has an extensive guest list.”
“Yeah…” I lick my lips. The room feels tighter. Smaller. “Maybe I just made a shit ton of cash though,” I joke.
Conan cracks a smile. “That’s the spirit, Lily.”
CHAPTER SIX
Drago
Song: Suffocate - Kayzo, Bad Omens
I’m pissed I couldn’t make it to Lily’s gallery. I haven’t had time as Enzo, and I have been planning this take-down all evening over a secure phone line. And now it’s two a.m., and everyone is exhausted, but we're ready.
“Enzo, are we good to move?” I ask through the headset.
My eyes lock on the club. My pulse steadies. My world narrows.
“Thermo is showing at least thirty men inside,” Enzo tells me.
Conan Quinn claps his hands together beside me, adrenaline filling the Bentley like smoke. I inhale once, letting everything sharpen. I have to watch him. He’s a champion MMA fighter with a very short fuse.
“Security feeds are down. Go!” Enzo orders.
“Two on the door. The twins can take them now,” I order.
Declan Quinn, the oldest brother and boss, put me in charge of the Preacher takedown. My connections, my language, my methods. No one can hunt Russians like I can.
“Got it,” Rowan chimes in.
I watch the twins take position. Reggie moves first, Rowan shadows him.
“It’s go time,” I tell Conan and Finn as I open my door, flicking the safety off my pistol.
The guard drops with a thud as we approach. Rowan must have nailed the bastard in the neck. He’s twitching, gulping for air. Pathetic.
I pause, crouching beside the enemy. “Need some help on your way to hell?” I ask.
Tears streak down his face. I grip his hair, pull the blade from my boot, and drive it deep into his throat. I slice clean, end-to-end, until he goes slack.
I wipe my hand, slide the blade back, and stand.
