I grab the bottle out of his hand and toss it behind me. I’m not sure where or who it lands on and I don’t care. Then I put my hands on the table, elbows locked, and lean in close enough that I can see the sorry attempt of growing facial hair on Yury’s skin.
“I’m going to give you the opportunity to answer my question one more time. After that, you won’t have enough fingers left to stroke your own dick.”
“You might not even have a dick,” Mav adds.
Daniil swallows hard and opens his mouth, but Yury talks instead.
“He told us he had business. He didn’t say what. And if you just start hacking up Chadovichs in a Chadovich bar, it won’t end well for you.”
My attention turns to him. Yury is cockier. Bolder. While his younger brother sweats bullets, he doesn’t even blink. Honestly, he’d be the better choice forpakhanthan Tristan. He’s level.
But by the time I ampakhan,the Chadovichs won’t need one.
“The place is teeming, Ransome,” Barons warns me, and I know. Security has already clocked us and we are outnumbered by a lot.
I stand up straight, my eyes still locked on Yury. Then I grab his glass, take a sip, and slide it back to him before we turn and walk out, through the front door this time.
“What the fuck?” Mav goes off as soon as we are outside. “Why didn’t you do anything?”
“I did do something,” I state coolly as I get back in the car.
“You could have fooled me,” Mav huffs.
“He made a statement,” Baron says. He gets it.
“A statement?” Mav laughs. “Looked more like you backed down to me.”
“We went into a Chadovich bar and threatened the youngest Chadovich. Tristan, wherever he is hiding, will hear about it. And when he does, he will come to us. We won’t even have to do anything.”
“Feels pussy whipped to me,” Mav mumbles.
But Mav and I hunt differently. He goes into the woods guns blazing.
I set up traps and wait.
54
AMARA
I don’t know what has me more wound up: the fact that I just got shot at or the fact that Ransome just sent me away without so much as batting an eye.
As if this kind of shit happens all the time. As if he doesn’t care.
As if I mean nothing to him.
Ivan wordlessly drives me back to the penthouse. The whole time, my heart is racing. I’m afraid, but I’m also seething.
“I suppose this is a normal day for you,” I sulk, looking at his sunglasses and emotionless face in the rearview. “Going to expensive lunches. Getting shot at.”
He waits long enough to respond that I assume he’s not going to. Then, “Not the fancy lunch part. I’m usually not invited to those.”
Because of his shades, I don’t know if he looked back at me at all or kept his eyes on the road.
“I had a hoagie from the deli for lunch,” he adds.
He’s trying to make jokes. I was nearly killed by the Russian fucking mob today, and Ivan the Driver is making jokes about sandwiches.
“The getting shot at part, though? Pretty average day for me.”
