2. Killian
2
KILLIAN
H umor bubbles up in my chest as I consider the subject of my plan tonight.
By now, Boris Sokolov is likely wishing I were never born. But how else am I supposed to get his attention?
Lance Knight, my foster brother and right-hand man, sits beside me, in the driver’s seat. His permanent scowl remains etched across his brow as we wait outside the lively Sokolov nightclub.
Music floods St. Mark’s Place every time the doors open, despite the fact that the sun has only just dipped below the horizon. But that’s not entirely surprising.
Notorious as one of New York’s finest VIP clubs, Nebo is always busy as soon as it opens. The club utilizes plenty of chic lighting and tiered areas for clubbers to sit and watch if they don’t want to join the pulsing mob on the dance floor below.
Despite my current feud with the club’s owner, I do qualify as one of the city’s elite, so usually, it’s not hard for me to get inside. With enough money, a man can buy their way through any door in New York.
But I suspect that, after tonight, I might receive a lifelong ban from Nebo.
The thought brings a smile to my lips.
My phone buzzes, alerting me to the fact that my men are in place inside. Enough men that we’ll be able to crash Boris’s private party without a problem.
“Let’s go,” I state, slipping my phone back into my pocket and opening the passenger door of my blue carbon Bugatti.
Lance follows, sliding out from behind the steering wheel with impressive ease for a man his size.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I say, buttoning my suit jacket as we reach the bouncers that block the long line of waiting clubbers from going in before they’re admitted.
“Mr. King,” Liam says, eyeing me suspiciously. The head bouncer and I have gone multiple rounds concerning my admittance into Nebo. But somehow, I still managed to get in every time.
“I’ve already booked a suite,” I assure him, flashing my reservation code on my phone before he can turn me away.
Liam scowls almost as convincingly as Lance, then he gives a sharp jerk of his head to signal that Igor can let us inside.
“A pleasure, as always,” I say cooly, striding past them as Igor swings the club door wide.
Lance follows me inside. A dark hallway serves as a guide to the main event. It’s lit by a soft ribbon of blue-white light flowing straight through the walls on either side, filling the space with an ethereal glow.
Then the dim hallway opens up onto an overlook, two stories above a massive dance floor made up of glass. And beneath it are bright squares of light that shift colors every few seconds.
The atmosphere is filled with humming energy, the clubbers drunk on alcohol and adrenaline as the salty smell of sweat lingers on the well-conditioned air.
Their energy bill must be astronomical to keep it at such a reasonable temperature despite the apparent body heat.
My eyes find Kieran in the crowd, then Scotch, and they slowly weave through the mass of writhing bodies to join me from the opposite end of the room.
Our movement is like a dance in and of itself as my men join me from various platforms and directions. All converging on the mirrored wall set deep within the back of the club.
“Sorry, this area’s restricted,” one of Boris Sokolov’s cronies states, crossing his bulging arms over his hulking chest as he plants his feet in front of the hidden door.
“Oh, come on,” I tease. “We heard there’s a party going on tonight. I thought we could join the fun.”
“Think again,” the second man guarding the door says, and he stands shoulder to shoulder with his Bratva brother as they bar our entrance with their bodies.
“Look, boys, we’re not here to cause any trouble. Just want to have a little chat with your boss. And word on the street is he has a very special guest in there with him tonight.”
Not that I would consider Don Lucian Agosti a cut above the rest. Sure, he’s charming and suave. He looks slicker than a drum of oil in all his fine Italian suits and Florentine leather shoes, but if Boris is in the mood for negotiating alliances, it won’t be with the Camorra. It’ll be with me or no one.
“The boss said no one’s allowed inside,” the first man growls.
After weeks of provoking the Sokolov pakhan into giving me the attention I demand, I’m used to fighting for every inch of airtime. And honestly, I don’t mind.
I get a kick out of winding people up. And the Russians are far too easy in that regard.
“Come on, lad,” I tease, stepping into the first guard’s personal space so I can straighten the collar around his thick neck that doesn’t need straightening. “Lighten up. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we drop in for a friendly visit. It’s just me and a few friends.”
The guard’s eyes shift to the men accumulating behind me, and he seems to register the fact that not only do I have Lance—who’s considerably larger than either of them—but I’ve got seven other able-bodied Irishmen ready to help me force our way in.
“A quick chat,” I promise. “I’ll even leave my gun with you as a show of good faith.”
The man immediately bristles, and his partner’s hand goes to the small of his belt as I draw my revolver from inside the breast of my suit and pass it to him, handle first.
Lance doesn’t have to say a word. I sense his silent disagreement by the subtle shift of his weight. But he won’t argue with me.
My foster brother is a man of action—and very few words.
Still, I’m aware of the fact that he believes I take unnecessary personal risks, considering I’m the head of the Irish Kings.
“Not a chan?—”
Before he can finish his sentence, I use the barrel of my gun to sucker punch his throat. The guy stumbles back, releasing a choking sound as he grips his neck, and my men are on his partner in a flash, restraining him.
A moment later, Lance swings the doors wide, allowing me to walk in.
“Boris, Lucian, sorry I’m late,” I quip, taking my double-door entrance like it was meant for me.
The well-lit room looks more like a lounge than an office, with plush white couches surrounding a coffee table to one side and a top-of-the-line pool table behind it. Eloquent lighting hangs from the ceiling over it, creating a chic modern vibe.
But the two heads of the mafia families don’t bother taking advantage of the comfortable arrangement.
They sit at the glass-top table nearer the door, the high-back wooden chairs making their apparent meeting seem more formal.
Two guards stand protectively behind Boris, their eyes intent on the men across the table.
A single man stands guard behind the younger Italian don.
And somehow, he manages to look no less lethal. Even if he’s slighter and outnumbered.
Lucian stops short midsentence at my blatant interruption, his eyes snapping to my face, but he keeps a calm posture. Boris, on the other hand, bristles immediately, his cheeks flushing over his full red beard as his lips press into a thin line.
“This is a private meeting,” he growls, hands fisting on the table as he throws daggers with his gaze.
“Of course,” I appease him without giving an inch. “I only think it’s fair if you hear out both proposals if we’re talking about partnerships. Don’t you?” I pull out a chair, unbuttoning my suit jacket as I settle into the one next to Don Lucian, and the guard to his right stiffens, reaching for his side.
Lance does the same, both men silently squaring off as they size each other up.
Lucian raises a hand to signal his guard to stand down, and I quirk an eyebrow at the suave Italian don.
He’s right around my age, creeping closer to forty maybe, but his perfectly styled, close-cropped black hair isn’t yet marred by a single gray. And his fine Roman features give him a kind of timeless face—one I imagine the ladies will only come to appreciate more with age.
“Who said we’re discussing a partnership?” Boris demands, his gray eyes flashing.
“Come on, Boris. Don’t play coy. I’m not an idiot.” Scraping my chair back across the floor until it releases a horrible squeal, I reposition to prop my feet up on the table. “And we both know I would make a better business partner than the Camorra. I’m better established. I have more resources. More ports of entry. Not to mention, I’m up for negotiating how exactly to seal the deal on this alliance.”
“Yes, you made your offer abundantly clear at my charity event,” Boris snarls.
“I think I’ve also proven what a pain in the arse I can be if you keep ignoring me,” I state, lacing my fingers behind my head so I can recline nonchalantly.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Lucian’s expression—a combination of amusement and irritation.
I don’t mind if he catches a glimpse of how I operate. And it’s better that he get it in his head now that I’m the one who will take over the Sokolov territory when the time comes.
In the meantime, I wouldn’t say no to forming a collaborative reign with Old Man Sokolov.
After all, I can respect the empire Boris has built.
I would hate to have to take it down to rubble.
Or bring his beautiful daughters to ruin.
But the pakhan is a stubborn mule, who’s been unwilling to hear any form of negotiation or deal. So, for the past few weeks since his charity ball, my syndicate’s enacted a string of petty violence against his clan to capture his attention.
It quickly escalated on both sides, and now tensions are at an all-time high. Just like I intended.
I will use it to provoke Boris into making a move—rash or otherwise. I just need one opening to claim Manhattan as King territory.
Because what I said at the ball wasn’t entirely out of place. Boris Sokolov is in the back nine of his reign. And he has no son to carry on his family business.
Archaic and misogynistic as it might sound, our world of criminals and mobsters doesn’t have the capacity to allow daughters into our ruling ranks.
So, if Boris doesn’t choose while he’s still strong, he and his daughters will watch as the entire thing crumbles.
“Get out,” Boris states flatly, his expression livid. “Both of you. This meeting is over. Never in my life have I witnessed the depravity a bottom feeder will go to.”
Surprised that he’s kicking Lucian out as well when I was under the impression their meeting was an amicable one, I cast a sidelong glance in his direction.
And this time, the Italian don looks icily displeased.
“My empire belongs to me and the Sokolov family. And my daughters will never marry if you’re the best this world has to offer. You’re both scheming, conniving vultures!”
A swarm of Sokolov men burst into the room from a door at the back of the lounge area—opposite the one my men helped me break in through. And I can tell it’s time to go.
Kicking my feet to the floor, I give Lance the signal to move out and rise from my chair. Then I offer Boris one last parting smile. “Until next time, then, old man.”
I dip through the door, confident that even if I didn’t make progress in negotiations, I at least got under the pakhan ’s skin. Still, I’m burning with curiosity to know what his meeting with Lucian was about. Suddenly, I’m less sure that their alliance is any more of a reality than the one I offered.
I’m determined to gain control of Manhattan, one way or another, but now, I wonder if Lucian’s aims might be more on par with mine than I’d bargained for.