Page 45 of Power of Shadow

“Alexander Connelly. I have business with him,” I say, sizing him up.

“Alexander Connelly,” he sneers. “Everyone has business of his own. You think you can just walk in off the street and have a chat?”

“Either point him out or tell him that Ryker Elliot would like to talk.”

At my name, the bartender scratches his bald head, eyeing me up and down, and snorts with displeasure. “Wait here.”

I’m not going anywhere until we talk, but that’s beside the point.

“For you, Ross,” adds the bartender, placing a glass of beer in front of the guy and leaving the counter. He disappears into the crowd.

The conversations that died down a moment ago resume, but I can still feel the regulars’ eyes on me. We’re on their territory, and we’re strangers. They have no intention of welcoming us, but at least they aren’t attacking us. Yet.

After a few minutes, a group of six guys dressed in black T-shirts and black jeans comes up to us.

My brothers and I turn toward them, assessing the situation. Nothing special, but it looks like we’re in for some fun.

They stop a few steps away. A dark-haired guy with an impressive physique steps forward. Looking down at us, he says, “I’m Alexander. You found me. What’s up?”

Mockery.

I look at Theo, then at Eli. My own thoughts are reflected in their eyes.

I turn my gaze back to the brown-haired guy. “No, you’re not. Don’t waste our time. We’re here to talk in peace, but don’t treat us like morons. We just want to talk.”

“About what?”

“Sorry, buddy, but don’t get involved in big boys’ business,” I provoke him. I hope his restlessness will be satisfied with fists.

The guy rushes toward me. He’s probably already imagining my bloody face under his boot.

Not so fast, sweetheart.

The energy flows through my fingers, begging me to grab the knife. I want to do it but force myself to stay calm. He should make the first move.

This guy stands almost nose to nose with me, too close for my taste.

From the corner of my eye, I see some guys getting up from their chairs, hoping for either a good show or active participation.

The atmosphere thickens, and you can feel the testosterone in the air.

My patience melts. Let’s forget about the first move. I’m about to punch him in the face when someone shouts, “Enough!”

The brown-haired guy takes a step back and lowers his head in respect.

Bingo!

I turn toward the voice and finally spot the one we came here for.

Alexander is about my height. His blond hair is cropped short, with a few longer strands falling over his forehead. He doesn’t have an impressive build, but I’m sure he can throw a punch.

Dressed in dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he stands out in the crowd.

“You’re Alexander Connelly,” I state.

“I am,” he confirms with a nod. “And you?”

“Ryker Elliot.”