Jhene
TWELVE
I’ve seen a lot of terrible things in my twenty-three years. Teagan’s battered body on the sidewalk is now on that list.
It’s been a couple hours since we found him crumpled outside Killian’s building, and I still can’t shake the image no matter how hard I try.
Violence isn’t exactly new to me—I did spend ten years in Fedorov’s custody, witnessing the atrocities he committed against my family and others.
He once dug a man’s eye out of its socket with a soup spoon.
But that doesn’t make what’s happened to Teagan any less jarring. He’s been transported to Brooklyn General, and I’ve been dragged by Killian to the charred remains of the Banshee.
…can’t exactly leave the target alone after they’ve dumped a body in front of your building with a warning about what they want.
Return what belongs to us.
I know exactly what that means, and so does everyone else gathered in this burned-out husk of a pub.
The Banshee is still in shambles.
It looks about as good as I feel, which is obviously not so great. The fire gutted most of the interior, leaving behind charred beams and blackened walls and the persistent smell of smoke. It’s inescapable, embedded into every crack and crevice of broken furniture.
I’m tucked into what was once a booth on the far side of the room. The pleather’s now melted and deformed, and the table wobbles any time I rest my elbows on it.
Across the barroom, Killian and his men huddle together.
They’re gathered like generals planning a war. Close enough considering they’re Irish mobsters beefing with Russian mobsters.
If I had any ounce of delusional hope that this conflict would taper off, that’s squashed now.
It’s obvious this is only the beginning; this is about to spiral…
I heave a sigh and place my elbow on the wobbly booth table. Though I’m across the room, I’m still close enough where I can pick up almost every word spoken.
Sean’s the loudest of the bunch. He’s even more outraged about Teagan’s attack than he was about Tom and the Banshee. Cian’s beside him with arms folded and a grim expression on his face. A handful of others fill out the circle, angry but obedient as they take Killian’s orders.
“This is fucking bullshit,” Sean spits. “First they burned down our pub and almost got Tom killed. Now they beat Teagan and dropped him off like a goddamn package from . We’re supposed to just take it?”
“Nobody’s taking anything,” Killian replies. “We’re done with the back-and-forth. The tit-for-tat shit. We’re taking it to their doorstep. Straight to fucking Fedorov.”
My stomach twists itself into a knot at the sound of his name.
I try to avert my eyes, keeping them on the singed walls around me, but I’m sure the look on my face gives me away anyway.
Fedorov Raguzin is more than the stuff of nightmares.
He’s a living, breathing man in reality, and that’s scarier than any bad dream. He has no limits and no feelings. No ounce of mercy or sympathy to be found.
I’ve honestly questioned if he’s even human at all.
I’m not sure how much longer I can sit by and let this war escalate, knowing I’ve started it. While a lot of other factors have contributed to the recent tensions between the Callahan clan and the Raguzins, I was the spark that lit the match.
I’m the possession they’re fighting over, even if it’s more so symbolic.
The smart thing would be to leave. Slip out in the middle of the night and disappear. Take myself out of the equation and figure out another way to save Eva.
But how can I do that when she’s in Fedorov’s clutches? When this seems to be the only way to get my baby sister back?
Fedorov’s not going to let his precious ptichka go.
I can’t save her if I run. That’s the bottom line.
“What about intel?” one of the buttonmen asks. “If we’re gonna breach their compounds, we need more info. Security, building layout, Fedorov’s routine. We can’t just go in swinging and hoping for the best.”
“The fuck we can’t,” Sean growls.
“We won’t have to,” Killian answers. His gaze cuts across the room and lands squarely on me.
Several heads turn in my direction. Suddenly I’m the center of attention in a way that makes my skin prickle.
Sean’s red brows quirk toward his hairline. “The stray? She’s your intel?”
“She spent years with the Bratva. She knows their operation better than anybody else in this room.”
“How do we know we can trust…” Sean cuts himself off, clamping shut his jaw as if it’s been wired.
Killian seems to pick up on where he was going. His deep blue eyes harden and he grits out, “Because I say so. You don’t worry about the fucking details. I’ll iron it out, and then we’ll strike. Remember what we’ve gone over and get the hell outta my face.”
The meeting wraps up with men breaking away from the group. They filter out of the pub, talking among themselves. The door swings shut, and I find myself alone with Killian in the burned down bar.
He crosses the room, his boots crunching over debris, and slides into the booth seat across from me.
I heave a sigh, a sense of deep dread pitted in my stomach. I already know where this is going.
“We need to talk.”
“Call me psychic, but I figured you’d say that.”
“There’s no use beating around the bush,” he goes on plainly. He scratches at the scruff that’s grown in along his jawline. “You were listening to what was said.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“It doesn’t matter either way,” he interjects. “I dragged you here with me. Of course you’d hear what we talked about. No need to pretend otherwise when you’re involved anyway. The message carved into Teagan was clear enough.”
The dread deepens, the sort of sinking sensation that makes me feel as if I’ll fall any second.
“Right…” I mutter.
“They’re not gonna stop. Which means we’ve got to use what we can.”
“You mean me?”
“I mean the intel you’ve got on them,” he says. “You spent almost half your life in Bratva custody. You could tell us more than weeks of scouring their organization for intel.”
Though I’ve seen this coming, it still makes the blood drain from my face. It sends a jittery bolt of nerves rushing through me as I remind myself to stay composed.
Keep calm and don’t lose my cool.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything you know,” he says, his gaze unwavering from mine. “Start with the Vodka Room. We need to know their shift schedules, any unknown exit points, weapons they’ve got stashed, anything you can remember.”
I hesitate, my fingers tracing a crack in the wobbly, wooden table. I’m torn between refusing to offer these things and wanting to help as much as I can.
There’re solid reasons for both.
This has already gotten out of control. I’ve already caused so much trouble and untold damage. How can I possibly justify causing more, even if it means helping out Killian and the Callahans?
“The Vodka Room has three floors,” I start glumly. My gaze drops from Killian’s, and I stare at the same crack in the table I’ve traced several times. “The main level where the barroom is. Then there’s a second level that’s VIP. That’s where Fedorov hangs out when he does come by.”
“And the third?”
“Underground. I’ve… I’ve never been down there. But I hear there’s some tunnels that lead to another part of Brooklyn.”
He nods along in approval. “What else goes on on the third floor?”
“Not totally sure,” I say. “I’ve only been up there twice. But I do know that’s where they handle the business side of things—supposedly there’s a safe where they stash money—and Fedorov’ll have his meetings up there. That’s why security’s tighter on the third than the other two floors.”
“How often does he come by?”
My throat tightens and I straighten my glasses. “Whenever he wants. But that’s not very often. He has his office up there, but the Vodka Room’s beneath him… or that’s how he used to talk about it. He’d rather let his son, Rurik, handle it. He’s usually there nightly… except Sundays.”
“Now tell me about Fedorov’s private estate.”
“Killian…”
“You’ve got to tell me everything you know,” he grunts. “That’s how this works. That’s the only way we’re able to end this once and for all and get your sister back.”
Killian knows what he’s doing—uttering those four magic words is enough to make me do as he says.
I heave another long sigh and tell him what he wants to know. He quizzes me along the way, asking plenty of questions and pressing for some details I’m not even sure if I remember. But what I am able to give him, he’s grateful for.
If I seem like I’m getting overwhelmed by his line of questioning, he backs off. He makes sure to keep his tone neutral as if not wanting to get too aggressive or push me too hard.
At the end, he reaches out and gives my shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze.
“You did great,” he says. “You gave me a lot to go off.”
“What happens now?” I press, fidgeting. “What are you going to do?”
“You heard me earlier. We’re going to end this. Make it clear who they’re really dealing with.”
Before I can grasp the severity of what he’s said, Killian rises from the booth and beckons me to follow.
“Time to go,” he grunts. “There’s a lot to sort out, but it’s getting late. Let’s get you home.”
It’s begun to feel like the walls are starting to close in on me.
The next two days pass with me unable to rest or settle my nerves. I lay awake at night agonizing over the fact that I’ve told Killian things that would enrage Fedorov.
If he found out, he’d hurt Eva. He’d take away her medications or find other cruel and demented ways to punish her.
I worry about the fact that Killian and his men might be in over their head attacking places like the Vodka Room and Fedorov’s private estate.
It feels like they’re underestimating the Bratva. They might’ve crushed them a couple decades ago when the two mafia families battled it out, but a lot has changed—there’s a lot Killian doesn’t even know about.
…but there’s also a lot hanging in the air between us too, which only makes me more confused and conflicted.
We’ve never talked about the kiss from the other night. We’ve been acting as if it never happened.