He was always the loyal and obedient heir to Dad’s empire. He did everything he was ever groomed to do, following in our father’s footsteps as required, only to be the sole fall guy.
The one who wound up behind bars while the rest of us enjoy our freedoms.
If it was me, I’d be pretty fucking bitter too.
“Word from the outside travels inside,” he goes on a moment later. “In case you couldn’t guess why I’d call, little brother, I’ve heard about the latest. The conflict between you and the Albanians. And so have the Albanians at Sing Sing. Which has made things very... interesting for me in here.”
My gut clenches. “I’m getting to the bottom of it.”
“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re floundering. Seems like you and Dad aren’t up to snuff to handle the situation.”
“What the fuck did I just say?” I growl. “I’m on it. It could be the Albanians… or it could be a red herring. Somebody taking advantage while we’re distracted fighting them. But rest assured, big brother, somebody’s gonna pay.”
“Then you better figure it out fast. You’re not the only one suffering consequences.”
The line goes dead, the drone of the dial tone incessant.
I stare at the phone in my hand, jaw tight and pulsing.
When I turn back to the table, Killian’s watching me with a knowing look. “Lochlan?”
“Who else but my cheery fucking brother?” I ask in answer. “We need to figure out who’s behind this. Now.”
The afternoon’s piss poor weather only gets worse into the evening, with drizzle coming down and a frosty draft blowing through the city.
I wind up in Midtown at Gossier’s Cigar Club. Killian and Sean are backing me as we cross the slick sidewalks and slip through the nondescript entrance that’s for club members only.
Gossier’s has long been a place for syndicates like ours and other unsavory—but wealthy as shit—characters to meet under the guise of drinks and a smoke.
The inside is made up of black lacquered walls, padded leather, and low lighting from brass fixtures. The place reeks of aged tobacco, a permanent haze clouding every corner.
Men in tailored suits are gathered at different tables, wrapped up in private discussions about whatever business they’re conducting. A few glance up as we enter but then go right back to their own talks.
That’s the thing about Gossier’s—everybody’s here for not-so-legal reasons, which means everybody minds their fucking business.
I lead Killian and Sean toward the back. The same group of armchairs where only weeks ago, Dad and I sat across from Malcolm Langston and arranged my marriage to Simone.
Funny how things come full circle.
Tonight, the man waiting for us isn’t Malcolm Langston.
It’s Rurik Raguzin, brigadier in the Bratva, otherwise known as the Russian mob.
He’s half obscured by a thick plume of cigar smoke, his gaze dark and apathetic as he watches us approach.
Rurik is big—most of the Raguzins are. He’s got a wide frame, every part of him naturally broader than most people.
But for being a guy that must tap in at somewhere around six foot five, probably two thirty or two forty, he’s got a sophistication to him.
He doesn’t have the sprawling tattoos most Bratva soldiers wear like badges of honor. He’s clean cut with a thick but well-groomed beard and a charcoal suit that must be specially tailored for his titan size.
His expression is flat, his eyes small and emotionless, never truly giving anything away.
He’s brought his back up like I’ve brought mine. Two stony blonds flank him like statues, hands clasped in front of them as they wait out this meeting between our syndicates.
I stop in front of his armchair and extend my hand. Rurik takes it, his grip firm and brief before he lets go and gestures to the seat across his.
“Callahan,” he grunts in his Russian-accented baritone. “Sit. Tell me what business you want with me.”
