Chapter Four
“TELL ME MORE about what the connection to Surry is,” Juniper presses, arms crossed, her tone sharp enough to cut through the wreckage as we step deeper into what used to be Tattoos On The Bay.
Joshua drifts closer to her side, a silent wall ready to grab and run if shit hits the fan. He’s coiled tight, like he’s waiting for the first crack of thunder. My gut agrees. This isn’t a shop break-in anymore. It’s war walking in the front door.
I’ve heard the name Surry before—Hazel mentioned her, and I’d seen one picture at Sam’s house years back.
Pretty girl. Sister. Protected. That was all I knew.
I never bothered asking more, because Sam O’Brien’s family was Sam’s business.
Now, standing here in the ruins of June’s shop, her name’s the only one on anyone’s lips.
The Irishman clears his throat. Broad shoulders, a suit that actually fits, and a look in his eye that says he’s used to walking into blood and walking back out of it.
“Aye, Ms. Hall. First off, de name’s Kegan. I work fer Mr. O’Brien. Dere was a threat made agains’ Miss Surry dis mornin’ as well. We believe de incidents are connected.” This guy, Kellan or whatever, is confirming what Joshua heard from Sam.
“We knew that already, man,” Joshua cuts in, his voice tight. “Sam O’Brien’s already brought me into the loop with the basics. What we want is more detail.”
His eyes don’t leave Juniper. The second K—Kirian?
That’s not right. When whatever his name is said threat, she’d pulled out her phone, scrolling like she wasn’t even in the room anymore.
I know that look—June’s not ignoring him, she’s building a wall.
She does that when something cuts too close, when she doesn’t want anyone to see the crack.
“No wonder Hazel texted me saying she couldn’t come in,” Juniper mutters.
“What’d she say?” Josh asks.
“That Surry’s car was demolished in her guarded underground garage,” June answers, flat, like she doesn’t want to let the weight of that land in the room.
I take over. “Josh, take Juniper home. Full lockdown. I’ll stay here with Corver in the truck. June, we’ll get this place back on its feet. Just hold tight.”
She nods, reluctant. She puts her phone down and looks around the space.
A single tear falls over her lashes, spilling down to her cheek.
Josh reaches out and wipes it before it can go any farther, and then leads her out toward the Lotus.
Corver slides up next to me, arms crossed, his eyes scanning, calculating.
He’s already halfway inside the data by the time he reaches me.
That’s how Corver is though: Quiet, lethal, always two steps ahead.
I follow the Irish guy through the shop.
My boots crunch on glass that used to be neon signs of tattoo supply brands, windows that lined the walls to the outside, and mirrors that leaned in corners.
Two days ago, this place buzzed not just from the sound of the tattoo gun, but with life and loyalty.
. June’s personality on full display in the most artistic way possible.
Now it looks like a bomb went off in a thrift store.
I stop in the middle of it all. My chest tightens.
I’ve been in plenty of wrecked places. Bars after brawls, houses after hits, back alleys after we left bodies cooling.
But this? This was a home for June. Her dream.
I can see her laughter in the now ruined paint, her fingerprints on every displaced shelf.
Now it’s not where her heart resides, it’s just, ash.
We step over the busted mahogany door that used to guard June’s office. I paid for that door myself, heavy as a coffin lid. Now it’s on the floor, hinges torn clean.
“Would ye like ta go first, Mr. Slater?”
“How do you know my name?” My voice is sharp before I can stop it.
He smirks, not in arrogance but in confidence.
“’Tis our business ta know. Anyone who’s close to the O’Brien’s, we keep watch on. She’s had a dangerous past, Miss Surry, an’ it ain’t finished wit’ her yet.”
“Close to the O’Brien’s? But I’m not? We’re not?”
“Ah, now, but ye are. Yer brother, Joshua Slater, he speaks wit’ the young Mr. O’Brien on da regular.
An’ Ms. Hall, she’s close t’ Ms. Surry. So by connection, lads, ye’re close t’ de family.
We know who ye are, what ye do. An’ truth be told—we’re impressed.
Not many can do what ye three do, an’ walk away clean. ”
I let that sink in. They know who we are, who we really are.
And what dangerous past? My fists clench.
I thought this was about the shop, maybe someone had become ballsy enough running with Mikey’s old crew.
Or maybe someone had decided to get at us for something we had done, seeing us here regularly.
But no. Not even close. Not even to do with June at all by the sounds of it. June is just collateral damage.
“So this isn’t random?” I mutter the question. Not knowing what else to say to the guy.
“No, sir. Not random. ’Tis personal. An old enemy crawlin’ out o’ de grave.”
We get into the office and the desk is splintered, drawers kicked in, safe dented but intact. Atop the wreckage, one piece of paper sits dead center of the desk. Too perfect. Too intentional.
I motion to it. The haughty Irishman leans over, visually scans it, takes a photo, then bags it with tweezers like he’s done it a hundred times before. He leaves it on the table so I lean over and take a look to see what it says.
While he works, I let my eyes sweep the room.
Juniper’s crystals, gone. Hazel’s sketches, shredded.
Whoever did this wasn’t just sending a message—they were stripping away identity.
Making it clear that nothing sacred stays untouched.
It’s a good lesson never to fuck with someone who owns RPG’s or other heavy ballistics.
It’s obvious this goes deeper than simple revenge.
If they’re after Sam’s sister, Surry, then they’re clearing out her circle first—isolating her.
Kellan or whatever pulls his phone out and straightens before walking over and slides me a card with his information on it.
“Mr. Slater, I’ll leave ye now. Mr. O’Brien wants dis rebuilt. He’ll front de cost, send men, tools, whatever ye need. Credit card arrives tomorrow.”
Before I can answer, he’s gone. Efficient. Brutal. Irish to the bone.
I nearly collide with Corver coming in, his face pale, his phone glowing with red codes.
He looks like the devil himself just texted him.
“We got trouble, brother. Big trouble. Surry’s ex. Name’s Gavin Kelly.”
“Okay. What about him? Do we know him from somewhere?”
Corver’s voice is tight. “He just took over the Russians.”
He hands me the phone and the video begins to play. I assume it’s Gavin’s face that fills the screen initially, smug, sharp, alive with malice. Behind him sits Serge Romanov, bound, gagged, bloody. Natasha—his daughter—on her knees. My gut sinks into the floor at seeing her.
Serge Romanov. I’d met the man before. We’d done a few renovations for him over the years—one of those off-the-books projects where money was no object and discretion was everything.
He was Bratva, the head of the Russians in Seattle, and everyone knew it.
Didn’t hide it, didn’t flaunt it either.
For all his reputation, Serge was surprisingly laid-back.
A whiskey drinker, a card player, a guy who could sit in silence with you for an hour without it being awkward.
I respected that about him. There aren’t many men in this business you can say that about.
His daughter, though—Natasha. Christ. Just as mean as she was beautiful.
Jet-black hair, lips like sin, eyes that cut sharper than glass.
She’d walk into a room and scorch the paint off the walls with that attitude of hers.
And yet… I’d catch Corver, my quiet, level-headed brother, looking at her like she was a fire he’d willingly burn for.
He never said a word, not once. But I saw it.
The way his mouth would twitch, like he wanted to smile when she snapped at him.
The way he’d linger a second longer than he needed to when he handed her something.
My calm, calculated brother falling with a live bomb of a woman.
It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so dangerous.
The reno itself was one of the more intricate ones we’d pulled off.
Hidden panels, reinforced walls, safe rooms tucked behind bookshelves—you name it, we built it.
Serge wanted his fortress to look like a gentleman’s estate, polished wood and marble floors, but underneath it all was pure steel.
I still remember him clapping me on the back one night, whiskey in hand, while Corver and Natasha argued in the corner about whether or not velvet curtains were “tacky.”
“Brenden, you build like a Russian—solid. Strong. Won’t fall, even when the world does,” Serge had said, his laugh low and warm.
And Natasha? She’d crossed her arms, glaring at Corver with that sharp little smirk of hers. “You think you know style, techy boy? Stick to your computers. Leave the beauty to me.”
Corver hadn’t flinched. Just raised a brow and fired back, calm as ever. “Velvet’s impractical. Collects dust. Not efficient.” Of course that was his argument.
The sparkle in her eyes said she’d never met a man who told her no. And the flicker in his? That was the moment I knew he’d never forget her.
A loud sound on the phone brings me back to the video. I think it was Natasha yelping. My gut clenches as Gavin takes her throat and shoves her down. I can see where this is going, and I am not sure I have the stomach to watch it all.
Gavin proceeds to rip Natalia’s dress up her body and rape her on camera, in front of her father.
She is crying, and her father is screaming, although he is fully tied to the chair with a gag in, he is putting up a valiant effort at getting free nearly knocking himself over at one point.
Gavin continues pumping into her, laughing, grabbing her hair, and pulling her head back in a way that looks like he might snap her neck.
After what feels like an eternity, he finishes, and I can see blood on her legs as he discards her on the floor.
She lies there, so still I initially think he killed her, until I see her eyes blink and her mouth scrunch up.
Corver doesn’t flinch. He’s already watched it. The anger in his eyes is something I have only witnessed from him once before. When we killed the man who murdered our mother. I force myself to keep my eyes on the screen. Every brutal second. Gavin laughing, demanding acknowledgment.
“Now, Serge, I have officially consummated my relationship with your daughter, who was a virgin until just now, solidifying our marriage in God’s eyes.
Your only child and heir. This now makes me heir apparent.
Do you agree?” He takes another knife from his pocket, his pants still undone.
The sick fuck didn’t even put away his still-hard dick.
He opens the knife and runs it over Serge’s face.
Serge makes a noise that sounds like disagreement.
Gavin laughs, reels back, and punches him as hard as he can in the face.
Serge’s head snaps back, and I am shocked.
What is Gavin trying to do? The other man with the knife taps Serge’s face until he looks back at Gavin once more.
“Again, I will ask you. Only one more time. Serge, do you agree that I am the heir now that I have consummated my marriage with your daughter? Or do I need to go get your wife as well?” Serge’s eyes go wide as Gavin speaks, and he looks to his daughter.
She nods just subtly, and Serge does the same.
He pauses, eyes closed, gathering himself.
When they open, the heat in them could scorch the earth.
He nods once. Then he pins Gavin in place with a stare sharp enough to carve bone.
Gavin laughs a bitter, evil laugh. The kind that makes your heart fall to your stomach and fills you with dread.
“You hear that, my love! I am the new heir, and I am now your husband. Which means…” At that, the other man slits Serge’s throat.
Holy Fuck. Gavin Kelly just became head of the Russian mafia.
An Irishman just took over the Russian mafia.
Gavin watches as Serge gurgles, blood sprayed down the front of his already bloodied shirt, dripping down onto the floor.
It begins to pool at his feet and form a stream toward Natalia.
To her credit, I almost forgot she was there during all the chaos because of how silent she was.
Then Gavin looks at the camera. At us. At me.
“Stefan,” Gavin said, slow and sure, “I’m head of the Russians now. Bratva runs through me. I’m your equal–but I’m not finished. I never will be until I have back what’s mine: my wife, my child. If I must, I’ll take your daughters, your wife, and your empire. I’ll get Surry back. Remember that.
He turned, address the room. “Boy’s–enjoy yourselves. Until she is pregnant, she’s up for grabs.” The men moved in around Natasha like vultures.
He laughs. The kind of laugh that stains the room as Natasha lets out a blood curdling scream.
Corver cuts the video before the rest can play. “You don’t want to see it.”
I stare at the blank screen, rage burning hot and sharp in my throat.
This isn’t just a turf war. This is personal.
It became personal the moment he decided to hurt a woman–one we know only making it one hundred times worse.
He checks every box for the kind of scum we take care of.
The kind we load into the back of our truck, and haul away with the trash.
A vendetta dressed as empire building. And now, whether I like it or not, I’m in it.
Because when men like Gavin move, they don’t stop at bloodlines.
They take friends. Families. Anyone within reach.
And I just realized we’re within reach.