13. Killian
13
KILLIAN
“ H ow’s it going, Johnny?” I ask as I stroll through the front doors of O’Laoghaire’s a few hours before the traditional Irish pub would open for lunch.
As one of my main fronts for my less-than-legal side of the business—not to mention one of the best pubs in Brooklyn—O’Laoghaire’s serves as something of a main office for me. A convenient place to meet my men and shoot the breeze over a pint before getting down to business in the back room.
“Hey, boss. Lance,” Johnny greets us from behind the bar as he hoists a rack of glasses onto the counter. A cigarette hangs loosely between his lips, giving him that air of indifference he’s known for.
With arms the size of tree trunks and tattoos covering every inch of exposed flesh, he looks more like a bouncer than a bartender. But he makes a mean cocktail, and I feel perfectly at ease with him in charge. He knows how to make his own rules, but he sure as hell enforces the ones I put down as well. Which makes this pub one of the safest on the east side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Beside me, Lance responds to Johnny’s greeting with a curt nod. But that’s good enough for the bartender. Lance’s silence is to be expected.
“Teague here yet?” I ask Johnny as I keep walking past the pool tables toward the back room. We’re meeting with several of my captains about the deal we’re brokering with the yakuza tonight—a shipment my men will be taking charge of as soon as it arrives.
“He’s already waiting for you,” Johnny confirms, jutting his chin in the direction we’re headed.
“Perfect.” Flinging the frosted-glass-paned doors wide, I step into the poker room we use as something of a casual conference area.
Seven of my most trusted men recline about the space, some sitting, some leaned against a wall. Two have darts in their hands as they face off at the board along the far wall. But as soon as I enter, the horseplay stops.
“Fellas,” I say as Lance closes the doors behind me. “I hope you all had a nice weekend.”
“Yeah, boss.” They respond with broad grins.
“Good. Then, I’ll take it you’re chomping at the bit to get back to work,” I joke. Pulling out a chair beside the one my accountant is sitting in, I plop into it. “Teague, why don’t you inform our boys about the shipments they have to look forward to and what their roles will be?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Teague agrees, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his long nose as he opens the ledger.
The men step closer, setting their games aside to settle around the poker-made-conference table.
But before Teague can begin, the sharp crack of a door hitting a wall catches my ear. My head jerks instinctually in the direction of the main dining area, and my men do the same as the sound of elevated voices follows.
The glass-paned French doors muffle the words, but I catch the distinct rolling sound of a Russian accent followed by Johnny’s gruff, authoritative tone. Beside me, Lance tenses, his feet carrying him toward the door before anyone else has time to react.
A moment later, the sound of glass shattering has the rest of us on our feet. And the crunch of wood breaking tells me our Russian guests have decided to smash up the pub—likely because they know it belongs to me.
“Bloody bastards,” Lance growls, drawing his gun as he wrenches the door open.
Harper, Seamus, and Aaron follow suit as they stand on either side of the doorframe, maintaining partial cover.
As the frosted glass doors swing wide, they reveal a handful of Sokolov men, all hulking figures with weapons of destruction in their hands as they smash glasses and batter the tables and chairs.
Two have Johnny restrained, his cheek pinned to the bar counter, his massive arms forced behind him as they struggle to keep him under control. Aside from a split lip and torn shirt, he looks no worse for wear. They must have had to gang up on him in order to subdue him.
Neither of his bearded captors look like he took it sitting down. In fact, one seems to be missing several teeth, while the other has a bloody nose and a good-sized welt over his left ear.
“Alright, mates, go ahead and release my bartender unless you want trouble,” I state casually, though I raise my voice to carry over the noise of barstools breaking.
Several Russians glance in my direction, and one gives a sneer before taking his bat to the light suspended over a pool table. Sparks fly as the glass shatters, and the chord whips wildly across the open space.
“I don’t think we will,” one of Johnny’s captors says, giving the bartender’s arm a good crank.
Johnny grimaces, biting back a grunt of pain.
With a shrug, I swing my gun into position and pull the trigger, blasting a hole in the Russian’s shoulder. He howls, his hand releasing Johnny to cover the wound instinctually. That’s all the bartender needs to gain the upper hand, and he straightens, bringing the back of his head into the second Russian’s nose as he breaks free of his confinement.
“Can we kill ’em, boss?” Scotch demands, taking aim at a man who stands frozen as he stares at his companion with a bullet in his shoulder.
“No,” I say, a wicked grin curling my lips. Because this is clearly in retaliation for me interrupting Boris’s poker night—and taking his cocaine. Natasha might not have killed me yet, but her father’s not taking my provocation lightly.
Which is exactly what I was hoping for.
Scotch casts me a curious look. I’m not usually one to show mercy. But I think Boris has unwittingly just offered up my next opportunity for a little fun.
“I think it’s only fair that we give them a taste of their own medicine,” I say and signal my men forward.
Lance leads the charge, slipping his gun into its holster before snatching a pool stick from the wall and snapping it in half over his knee. The Russian he targets pauses, his sledgehammer midswing, and turns to face my right-hand man. And his smile starts to fade as he realizes who he’s about to fight.
My foster brother has made quite the name for himself. Around Brooklyn, he’s known as the Mad Knight—a nickname he earned for his berserker fighting style and the way he fearlessly charges his enemies. When it comes to brawls both in the bare-knuckle fighting rings and whenever someone pisses him off, he’s not just deadly. He’s brutal. A force to be reckoned with.
He’s both the sword and shield that protects my family.
And no one wants to mess with him.
Not unless they have a death wish.
I love watching him at work.
My hands itch to join the fray. And as my men clash with Boris’s, I have half a mind to do so. But as Lance has pointed out more than once, with my father’s passing, I’m the only King left to keep the family business alive. None of my brothers want it, and Quinn’s not made for this kind of world.
So it’s probably best not to get myself killed in a stupid fist fight.
Besides, I’m getting too old for pub brawls.
Not that I’ve minded my wrestling matches with Natasha one bit.
My cock twitches just thinking about her.
And I wonder if I can’t manage to provoke another late-night visit from her with this new development. Mirth bubbles up in my chest as an idea comes to mind. I love getting under Boris’s skin. And my deal with Natasha has only motivated me in that regard. Because the more I provoke him, the more likely I am to see her.
I watch as my men subdue the situation within minutes. Using makeshift weapons or just their fists, they beat the Russians into submission. And soon, they have Boris’s men bloody, battered, and on their knees in the middle of the trashed bar.
It didn’t take much because we outnumber them easily.
I wager Boris sent just a handful of men when he thought no one would be here—so they could cause the most destruction without hurting innocent civilians. That’s something I can respect about the old pakhan . He doesn’t revel in unnecessary violence. But clearly, he wanted to make a statement.
And he would have succeeded, too, if I hadn’t, by chance, called an impromptu meeting today. We wouldn’t typically be here at this time. But thankfully, we are. So, once again, we have the upper hand.
I eye our new prisoners as I stand above them, stalking slowly along their ragged-looking lineup. Their smirks are long gone by now—along with several of their teeth. And they kneel complacently before me, watching me with defiantly suspicious eyes.
“What shall we do with them?” Lance asks, gripping the hair of his Russian prisoner and jerking the man’s head back to expose his throat.
Typically, now would be about the time when I’d bring their numbers down to one. And I would send the last man running back to his pakhan with a message to make it clear that no one messes with the Kings.
I’m known for being ruthless, for killing anyone who dares to get on my bad side.
But knowing these men are connected to Natasha, even remotely, makes it harder to be cutthroat.
I don’t know which ones she might have a special attachment to—if any. They might be her cousin, her godfather, a friend. And while I don’t relish the idea of her having male friends, I also feel less inclined to hurt her by hurting someone she cares about.
“I don’t know. I think you guys have made a work of art,” I say, grinning as I look from one bloody lip to the next black eye.
Boris’s men glare up at me through swollen lids. But none say a word as they wait for my verdict.
“I say we release them with a message for their pakhan ,” I state, my smile widening.
Lance frowns as his blue gaze snaps in my direction. Though he doesn’t say a word. Still, the look says it all. It takes a lot to surprise my right-hand man, and he seems floored by my act of mercy—certainly confused at the very least.
I can’t say I blame him. This game of cat and mouse I’ve begun with Boris’s enticingly beautiful daughter is quickly escalating into something more meaningful than I intended. It’s dictating my actions outside my interactions with Natasha. And impacting the larger chess match I’ve set in motion.
But I can’t seem to stop myself.
Not when my actions now could very well lead to another late-night visit from a certain lethal assassin.
So, I lower into a crouch before our middle prisoner and meet his one good eye. “Tell your pakhan that I will stop harassing him if he gives me what I want,” I state cooly, bracing my elbows on my knees in a casual stance.
“And what do you want?” the man asks, his thick Russian accent somehow making him sound all the more skeptical.
“His daughter’s hand in marriage.”