Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Eight
“I ride shotgun,” Henri says to Brielle as she pushes the seat of the truck forward so Brielle can climb in the back. Shotgun? It’s such a dated expression. I wonder if Selkie realizes how much Henri imitates her.
I wonder if Henri is?
I think about Oscar and frown. He isn’t either. I never asked if he wanted to do something outside school like baseball or hockey.
Guilt teases me about how little time I devote to my son. Have I ever actually thrown hoops with him? Or taken him to a movie or played video games with him? Maybe. Once or twice. Not enough.
Henri watches like a mother hen as Brielle buckles herself in, then turns to me and says, “We’re ready.”
As we head into Reno, I lay out the ground rules. “You’re gonna have to come in with us because it’ll be too hot to sit in the truck and we’ll probably be an hour.”
“We could stand outside the truck,” Henri suggests.
I glance at her. “I don’t trust you not to put sand in my gas tank.”
She immediately looks interested. “What happens if you put sand in a gas tank?”
Shit. Stupid of me to introduce the topic. “It damages the fuel system.”
“Interesting,” she muses. I can almost hear her tucking the fact away in her mental bag of arsenal.
“You do that to my truck, I’ll kick your ass.” It’s so easy to forget she’s a 12-year-old.
“I wasn’t gonna do it to your truck.”
I grimace. “Don’t do it to your mom’s car either.”
She throws up her hands. “If I did it to mom’s car, she’d have to get a new one.”
The kid’s right. “With what? She spends all her money keeping you in designer shoes.”
Henri looks down at her almost-new black high-top Converse sneakers. “Gramma gave me these.”
From the backseat, Brielle says, “You have a gramma?”
“Yeah,” Henri replies. “A weird one. But she has my back.”
“Could I meet her someday?”
Henri nods. “Yeah, for sure.” She’s overlooking the fact that once this bullshit is resolved, I’ll never have to see her and Selkie again.
Disappointment is tinged with panic at the idea of not having Selkie in my universe. And Henri too, because though she’s a brat, she’s also draws me out. And she’s good at her core, the way she defended Brielle against Max. Or maybe it was just an opportunity to give the gears to Oscar’s buddy.
The guys get there ahead of me and are waiting by their bikes when I pull into the parking lot. The Brother’s Circle does their business out of a top-floor suite in one of Reno’s high-end casinos. They think it makes them look important. I think it makes them look like pussies.
I grab my cut from the back seat and put it on, then lock the doors and catch up with Henri and Brielle, who have skipped ahead and are having an animated conversation with Hash.
“Over here,” I say gruffly to them. The last thing I want is for Hash to rub off on Henri. She doesn’t need a role model like that asshole.
“Let’s get this the fuck over with,” Hangman says by way of greeting.
As we enter the casino, Henri peers around with raised eyebrows. “This is the lobby?”
Fuck. We didn’t think this through. “Hangman, we can’t leave the girls here unattended.”
“Why not?” Hangman says. “Who’s gonna mess with Hell’s Jury family?”
Henri looks at me with a slight eyeball roll.
I silently tell her to keep her mouth shut with a warning glare.
Brielle speaks up. “What if they don’t know I’m your kid?”
Hangman’s eyes shift from her to Joker. “We gotta get the kids cuts.”
Joker tilts his head. “Seriously?”
“Of course I’m not fu…” He glances at Brielle. “Serious.”
“We’ll take them upstairs,” King suggests. “There’s a lobby outside the suite they can sit in.”
“Works,” I grunt.
“Let’s go,” Hangman says as he charges toward the elevator.
The two couples waiting for it step back as we approach. We’re a scary looking group of motherfuckers, which is intimidating to most people, but when Hangman opens his mouth, you can almost smell the fear.
“How the fuck’s your day going?” he says.
There’s a slight pause, and then one of the men hesitantly says, “Good.”
When the door opens, Hangman waves his hand towards the group and says, “After you.”
“Uh,” says the spokesperson. “No, you go ahead. We’ll take the next car.” He’s holding his breath as he waits for Hangman to respond.
“Thank you,” Hangman says politely then gives him a grin that would make Satan pee his pants.
In the elevator, Henri stands rigidly next to me and whispers, “Mom and I hate elevators.”
“Oscar and I hate stairs,” I reply softly.
When the elevator arrives at the penthouse suite, Henri elbows through the brothers and steps out first. “Are we gonna do this, or what?” she says to me as she looks around the lobby.
“There’s no ‘we’ kid. You and Brielle are staying here like we agreed.”
“Yeah. I know. Then ice cream after.”
Hangman glares at me. “I’m not eating ice cream.”
“You weren’t inv—”
“Jesus Christ, Henri,” I snap. “Would you shut the fuck up.”
Brielle sidles up to Henri. “Is that two swears, or three?”
“Definitely three. Jesus and Christ are used separately a lot.” She looks at me with innocent eyes. “Like in church.”
“They let Satan go to church?” Hangman mutters.
King says, “She’s sucking you in, Prez. Stay strong.”
Joker intervenes as he points to a backless padded bench against a wall. “Sit there. Don’t move.” He pauses. “No banging around, no talking to anyone but each other. Keep your voices low.”
“And I thought Eight was bossy,” Henri says with a smirk as she sits primly on the bench. Brielle follows suit. They cross their arms simultaneously. “We’ll be waiting right here.”
“What’s goin’ on?” the fuck who cornered Zero says from the open door.
Hangman storms up to Makorov and slams his fist into the goon’s jaw. “That’s what’s goin’ on, you fuckin’ sonofabitch.”
Makorov reels back, then hits the floor. “Fuck. Christ. Bugger,” he moans as he writhes around. “I think you broke my fucking jaw.”
“You’re gettin’ off easy. You touch one of mine again, and I’ll cut your dick off and make you eat it.” Hangman steps over him. “And quit your fucking swearing. There’re kids present.”
He storms into the main suite, the rest of us following, looking like the thugs we are.
The sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows brightens up the room like a fresh coat of paint. White leather furniture adds to the light and airy atmosphere. It contrasts weirdly with the so-called Pakhan, Denis Kozlov, and his troupe of assholes.
Kozlov is standing next to the bar, his posture relaxed, a sardonic smile on his lips.
He’s wearing a white dress shirt and jeans.
No tie and the shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off his overabundance of chest hair.
His Barretta is clearly on display, tucked into a shoulder holster and he’s got more rings on his fingers than Hangman has.
He also has more tattoos. But unlike Hangman, who has long curly hair that stretches half-way down his back, Kosloz is bald.
“The custom in Russia is to greet someone by saying, Hello,” he says dryly.
“Fuck your customs,” Hangman replies. “This is America.”
“Land of opportunities,” Kozlov murmurs as he waves towards the couch. “Please have a seat.”
Joker and Hangman are the only ones who sit. The rest of us station ourselves around the room like it’s been rehearsed. Stark and Hash move themselves behind Hangman and Joker while King leans up against the wall next to a closed door.
The three of my brothers have an air of menace. Stark is tight-lipped like me, but his hostile expression never varies. Hash is leaner and shorter than most of us and also the most unpredictable. He’ll either say something sarcastic or shove a knife into your eye.
King, older than the rest of us, is a scary-looking motherfucker even though he’s gentle as a lamb. Unless provoked.
I’m next to the entrance door, keeping my eye on Hangman and my ear on the lobby. In hindsight, I regret bringing Henri and Brielle. I think of all the shit that could happen to two unprotected girls. Anyone could come up the elevator and grab them before I could even react.
It’s too late to do anything about it and I’m snapped back to the present by Hangman’s gruff voice. “Let’s get on with it.”
Kozlov sits in an armchair opposite Hangman, crosses his legs and steeples his hands. A caricature of all the bad guys in movies. Without moving his gaze off the prez, he says, “Gleb, a round of vodka please.”
“Fuck vodka,” Hangman grunts. “I wanna beer. And none of that imported shit.”
Kozlov gives a brief nod, then looks expectantly at Joker.
“Vodka’s fine,” Joker says.
“Pussy,” Hangman mutters to him.
After Gleb distributes the vodka and beer, Hangman says, “Your goons fucked up one of my brothers.”
“Seems like your brother came out of it better than Makarov.”
“Keep that in mind for future. You fuck with us, we’ll give it back in triplicate.”
“Noted,” Kozlov replies.
That doesn’t appease Hangman, who stabs his finger at Kozlov. “And the next time you fuckin’ wanna talk, you call and set up a meeting. We’re not petty criminals you can push around.”
“Of course you’re not,” Kozlov says in an ironic tone.
Hangman takes offence and menacingly jerks towards the asshole, while everyone standing reaches for their guns. He says to Kozlov, “You want something from us, you fucker, so drop the bullshit and get to the point.”
Kozlov flicks his hands at his goons, who relax their postures. “My apologies. You’re right.”
I ease my hand off my gun with a breath of relief as I think of Henri and Brielle in the lobby. Today is not the day for a bloodbath.
“You bet your ass I’m right.” Hangman snarls as he sits back.
Joker sighs. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Yes,” Kozlov says. “Let’s.” He glances at his second, a man named Zakhar Sizov, who to this point has been silently leaning against a wall near the window. “Tell them.”
Zakhar nods. “A gang war’s brewing. The Tonapah fucks and 311 Boys have allied themselves with each other.”