Mihai seems to sense the shift in the room. He chuckles softly. “Ah,” he murmurs. “So you have heard of us.”
“We have,” Wolf says coolly. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here. Frankly, we expected your sister.” His voice is steady. Controlled. Extremely unlike the circumstances.
Mihai shrugs like the whole thing bores him. He starts pacing slowly across the hall, polished shoes whispering overthe floor as he whips out another cigarette, lighting it. He pulls an agonizingly slow drag from it, taking his sweet time. “I just find…” He snaps his ring-studded fingers, eyes closing briefly as if searching for the right word. “Ah. What is that word…ciudat…”
His eyes open again, bright with amusement. “Ah! Peculiar.” Smoke curls from his lips as he exhales. “I find itpeculiarthat my sister is suddenly interested in a twenty-something club princess of a tiny motorcycle gang. She does not deal with anyone over seventeen.”
He grins again. “Strange, no?” His gaze drifts back to Wolf. “Don’t you think that’s… peculiar?”
The room tilts on its axis. Because he’s right, it is peculiar.
Mihai’s smile never wavers as he slowly surveys the room. His eyes pass over every brother, measuring the tension coiled in the air.
He lifts a hand and casually gestures toward the front windows. “Relax,” he says almost kindly, a faux warmth in his tone. “If I wanted your clubhouse burned to the ground, it would already be happening. I’m just here to talk.”
A slow, cold dread creeps up my spine. The bastard isn’t bluffing. Men like Mihai Rosca don’t bluff.
His gaze drifts past us again, straight to Charlotte. Something in my chest goes ice-cold. The look in his eyes isn’t simple curiosity.
Ownership? No. Something else. Something I can’t read and that scares me more.
“What’s so special about you, Charlotte?” Mihai murmurs softly, almost to himself.
She stiffens behind Spike. My body moves before my brain catches up.
One step forward.
My gun comes up again and Mihai’s head snaps toward me. Instead of reacting, he studies me with mild interest. Like I’m an errant yet entertaining animal.
He exhales slowly through his nose. “You really should lower that weapon, Ruin,” he says conversationally, almost placating. “You’re making my men… trigger happy.”
The room freezes. So do I.
Wolf exhales heavily beside me, his patience clearly wearing thin. “We still don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Rosca,” he says firmly. “And you’re running out of time to make your point.”
“Oh, I have time,” Mihai chirps lightly. He snatches a half-filled bottle of whiskey from one of the nearby tables and turns it slowly in his hand, studying the label with casual interest.
As he strolls toward the bar, he keeps talking. “You, on the other hand, do not.” His gaze flicks up to Wolf, amused. “Reapers left you, yes?”
The question hangs in the air like a blade. He reaches the counter and slides the bottle across toward our prospect. “Pour me a glass, would you,prietene?” he says pleasantly, not even bothering to look at him.
Every muscle in my body screams to move. To grab him. To slam his face into the counter until that smug smile disappears. But I stay where I am.
Crack!
The sound explodes through the room. Glass shatters across the counter. Everyone’s head snaps to the bar counter.
Chase—the prospect—stares down at the mess with wide eyes. What used to be a bottle of whiskey is now nothing but glittering shards and amber liquid spreading across the wood. His hand still hovers above the counter like he was about to pour Mihai a drink.
“Bag pula,” Mihai hisses under his breath, no flinch in sight. He shakes his hand slightly, flicking droplets of whiskey off his fingers.
Then he lifts his head and raises his voice toward the window like he’s scolding a misbehaving dog. “Why would you do that, Tudor?” he calls out irritably. “It is unlikely they would poison me with their own stock.”
My stomach drops. He was talking to someone else, someone we still can’t see.
Mihai sighs dramatically and looks back at us, shaking his head. “Snipers,” he says with an apologetic shrug. “Very dedicated. Very… dramatic.” He gestures lazily toward the ruined bottle. “See? Now no one gets a drink.”
Fuck. We’re not just dealing with one Romanian mafia boss standing in our clubhouse.
