Page 112 of Backlash

“My friends do,” I say.

“Sterling, as your friend,” she begins, planting a hand on her hip, “Not as your lawyer, can I ask you if you’re sure? I don’t want to see you make a mistake. You’d make more going through a private broker to find an accredited investor.”

“This isn’t about money,” I say to her.

“I thought everything was about money.” Her crimson lips purse into a bemused smile. “If it’s not about money, it must be about love. You’re a fool if you go through with either option.”

“Believe me, I’m a fool if I don’t.”

She checks her watch. “I need to get back to my next appointment. I’ll be in touch.” She takes a step and hesitates. “Think it over.”

I nod, knowing there’s no way she or anyone else is going to convince me to take another course of action. I bought into MacLaine Media to undermine it. It’s what Angus and Malcolm MacLaine deserved. They still deserve it, but I can’t go through with my plan without hurting Adair. So, I don’t have any other options, and I have no interest in carrying around this albatross any more.

My phone rings for the third time, and I slide it from my pocket. It’s time to face the music.

“Where have you been?” Sutton demands as soon as I answer.

“I was in a meeting.” I continue down Market Street, pinning my phone against my ear with my shoulder so I can dig out my keys.

“Tell me you didn’t just sign away millions of dollars.”

“I didn’t.” It’s the truth. I haven’t signed away anything. Yet. “Who told you I did?”

“Luca told me where you were going,” she says.

“Why are you talking to Luca?”

“Because he doesn’t avoid my calls!”

I frown. I’m going to have a chat with my best friend about my kid sister. I know Luca enjoys having her around, but it’s dangerous for her to get too close to a DeAngelo.

“You know what that family did,” she continues. “Not just to you. They’re terrible. They don’t deserve a second chance.”

I stop a few feet from my Aston Martin. “I’m not giving them a second chance.”

I can’t expect her to understand this. She’s too young to have experience with this world. Before I can tell her that, a shadow casts itself in my path. I look up and meet an unwanted, but familiar, set of eyes set into a muscular six foot three inch frame.

Nikolai Koltsov. If you’re going to happen upon a member of the Semsynovey Bratva on the street, he’s the one you want. You’re unlikely to walk away from an encounter with any of the other Koltsov brothers. Ink swirls on every exposed inch of his skin from the neck down, like the rest of his family. At least, the ones I’ve met. A lick of blond hair is slicked back from his face, the sides of his skull buzzed closely to reveal more tattoos. He crosses his arms, the seams of his blue suit jacket straining against muscles he built during his teen years when he was in and out of prison.

“Hey, I have to run,” I say to Sutton, not daring to look away from him. I hang up, ignoring her protests. “It’s been a long time.”

“And many miles.” There’s only the slightest tinge of an accent in his words. He spent nearly all his life in America, but his family business is conducted so frequently in Russian that the accent lingers.

“To think we both wound up here,” I say. “Unless this isn’t a coincidence.” It’s best to play dumb to give myself time to think. The worst thing I can do is draw the small 9mm I carry under my arm. There’s no way Nikolai isn’t armed, and he’s likely as fast as I am.

“Not a coincidence,” he says, “as I think you already know.”

Trust a Koltsov to see through my bullshit. My index finger twitches. “What is it then?”

“A courtesy call,” he says.

This, I’m not expecting. I blink. Noah seemed pretty sure the Koltsovs planned to kill me. Knowing what I do about the Bratva, I was inclined to agree.

“You’ve been named by an informant.” He picks a piece of lint off his cuff, displaying four different crosses etched into his knuckles. “Normally, we would kill you.”

I raise my eyebrows. This is definitely not going like I expected. “But it’s my lucky day?”

“We’re in your debt,” he says.