If anybody could keep Jhene safe, it would be Lochlan and his arsenal of paranoid security measures.
“I’ll bring it up to the girl,” I say finally.
He returns to his eggs and hash. “The girl. You don’t use her name?”
“I prefer the pet names I’ve come up with. Pain in the ass being one.”
He releases a low chuckle as I leave him to his meal. I toss a twenty down for the coffee I’ve had—more than enough to cover it and a tip that’ll leave Doris happy—and head out.
There’s only so many hours in the day, and I’ve already got my hands full without spending it on the girl.
I had a meeting set up with Rurik long before Jhene Prince ever showed up at my pub. Given the confrontation that happened between me and his men last night, you’d think I’d cancel.
But I’m a man of my word, and I figure now’s as good a time as any to hash it out.
Why not meet Rurik face-to-face to see if these tensions between the clan and the Bratva are real?
Gossier’s is as upscale as bars get in Manhattan, which is exactly why I fucking hate it. Even if it’s for criminals and dirty businessmen and crooked politicians, it’s still too glitzy for my tastes.
There’s a reason I prefer the Banshee. A reason I never let Dez talk me into attending parties at the fancy clubs and lounges Manhattan has to offer.
At least Gossier’sisdiscreet—the inside is dimly lit, with cigar smoke hazing the air and lush dark leather everywhere you look.
Private meetings are always going down no matter the night.
As I stalk into the establishment, tonight’s no different.
I find Rurik Raguzin in his usual corner, a tumbler of vodka in hand. He’s a massive bastard, even bigger than I am, though without the cut-up boxer’s physique I’ve got.
He’s joined by two Russian lapdogs, both obediently flanking him. One is an icy blond I’ve seen many times before. The other is dark-haired, with a face that reminds me of a shark.
Meanwhile, I’ve come alone.
I’musually the backup. The enforcer Ronan—or sometimes even Seamus or Lochlan—would bring with them for situations like this.
Call it foolish, but the Russians don’t mean shit to me. I don’t need backup to face them.
Rurik’s small dark eyes are usually emotionless, so empty you never know what he’s thinking. But as I arrive, he peers at me with mild interest.
“Rourke,” he says simply. “This is different. It is usually one of the brothers meeting me.”
“Consider them unavailable.”
I drop into the armchair opposite his and wave off the server girl who slinks over to pour me a drink.
“You wanted to meet,” he says. “So talk.”
“You already know what’s up,” I answer bluntly. “Your boys’ve been crossing into our territory. They’ve been causing problems. Some of our smaller associates are scared. It needs to stop.”
“My boys,” he hisses, “go where they need to go.”
“Not on Irish turf, they don’t.”
He takes a slow sip of his vodka, his expression as unreadable as ever. He sits in the armchair like it’s his own personal throne and not Gossier’s property.
“You want to talk territory?” he asks. “Then let us talk about the girl.”
“What girl would that be?”
