22. Chapter 22
Ten minutes. Ten minutes for him to get to Sam before that fuckin’ mouth of his popped off. He couldn’t risk Sam getting into trouble with these men. Men who also knew how to sever limbs.
Frankie peeled off the highway and down the exit toward the bar, his heart in his throat and pulse racing.
He had no fuckin’ clue why Richie and Sal were back.
He paid them off last week. His father’s debt, including interest, was paid.
Their business was done. They had no right to show up at his bar without announcing themselves.
Unless… unless they liked having Frankie and his bar on the hook.
Which meant they wanted it to be a drop bar, and they were there to make him an offer.
Fuck.
Fists clenching over the steering wheel and leather cracking under his grip, Frankie accelerated down the road, less than a minute from the bar.
If something happened to Sam…
If they hurt a single hair on his curly, beautiful head—he would kill them.
He wouldn’t hesitate. He would beat them to a bloody pulp with his bare damned fists and spend the rest of his life in prison without any remorse.
Sam was his, and he wouldn’t lose him again.
He scraped the undercarriage of his Chevy on the curb, recklessly hauling ass into the parking lot and recognizing the all-black SUV parked out front.
Pulse roaring in his ears, Frankie popped the trunk and grabbed the only weapon he had: a heavy steel tire wrench.
He slammed the trunk closed and raced to the door, flinging it open.
Broken glass crunched under his boot, and the breath in his lungs evaporated at the sight of the wet, crimson blood soaking the floor of the bar.
Sal, the shorter of the two brutes, was sprawled out on the floor, unconscious, with a broken wooden barstool lying shattered around him. The music was still playing and the lights were on, but it felt eerily still.
“Sam!” He called out, voice cracking with fear.
No answer.
No!
Frankie raced forward, eyes frantically sweeping the bar for signs of Sam.
He saw a pair of boots and legs that lead up to Richie, who was also unconscious and lying on his stomach, blood smearing the side of his face.
The old register his dad had had since the 80’s lay broken in plastic bits around him.
“Check…” he heard a whispered grunt. He whirled and saw Sam, hand on his chest, legs sprawled out in front of him, sitting on the floor behind the bar, glass everywhere. “His… pulse…”
He quickly reached down and felt the steady beat of the pulse at his neck. He jerked up and ran to Sam, tire wrench clattering to a thud beside him. He framed his face with his hands, shaking uncontrollably.
“Where are you hurt?” He asked, searching his body for signs of blood or injury.
“I’m… okay…” Sam huffed out, trying to catch his breath, and Frankie suddenly realized he was having a panic attack.
“Fuck,” he hissed, and without thinking, grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him to his feet, clutching him against him, their hearts beating together, their bellies sucking in air.
“Breathe, baby. I’m here. I’m here.” He murmured, kissing his neck, his cheek, his hair, anywhere and everywhere his lips could touch. “That’s it.”
Sam hummed, taking deep, gulping breaths, his tense body seeming to loosen one limb at a time.
“Keep breathing like that, baby.” He kissed his parted lips, down his chin, on his neck.
“Frank…”
He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop kissing, holding him, loving him. He was safe. He was okay.
“I was so fuckin’ scared.”
“I—”
“I kept thinkin’ the worst. I couldn’t stop,” he whispered frantically, tears building. “I should’ve fuckin’ been here. I should’ve protected you. I should’ve…”
“I love you,” Sam gasped out, his breathing finally calming.
Frankie’s jaw clenched, and the tears fell. He grabbed him roughly by the jaw, fingers digging into his hair, emotion flooding him. “I fuckin’ love you, too.”
Sam let out a weak sigh and smiled beautifully at him, and nothing else mattered.
“What happened?” he asked quietly, leading Sam to one of the booths in the corner of the bar.
“They wouldn’t fucking stop,” Sam hissed through gritted teeth. “That word. Calling me a…”
Frankie knew exactly what discriminatory word they used, and cursed under his breath. “Fuckin’ assholes.”
He led Sam into the booth and sat him on the edge, squatting between his legs and looking at him. “What happened next?”
“I…” he sighed, raking a hand over his stubbled jawline. “I shouldn’t have let them get to me. But they did. Fuck. I’m sorry, Frankie. This is a fucking mess.”
“Tell me what happened,” He urged, needing to keep Sam focused.
He exhaled and inhaled. “I hit the big one first with a bottle of Jameson.”
That explained the broken glass, Frankie thought.
“The shorter one grabbed me and dragged me over the counter, the strong fuck, and we fought. I grabbed a barstool and hit him over the head. Then the tall one got back up. I jumped back over the bar, trying to get the bat, but he grabbed my shirt and slammed me into the counter. Broke a couple of bottles and pint glasses. I managed to slip free, he came around the bar, and I grabbed the first thing I could.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” he murmured. “That register weighs like twenty fuckin’ pounds.”
Sam snorted, “He dropped like a sack of bricks. The adrenaline hit and my heart couldn’t stop racing, and then you found me.”
Frankie grazed his lips over his knuckles, his own heart pounding at the story. He should’ve been here. And now he had two unconscious Zakone members in his fuckin’ bar. He closed his eyes, grateful that Sam was okay.
Now, he just had to make sure he stayed safe, he thought, pulling his phone from his back pocket and dialing Kozlov.
He had spoken to him only once, and Frankie had no intention of starting a war with a gang that would make them both disappear overnight.
He’d do what he had to do to make this go away.
He would protect Sam and their future together.
And he’d do what he had to do to ensure that there was a future.
What a fuckin’ mess.
Frankie sat at the bar, hand resting lightly on the glass of whiskey he had poured himself but hadn’t drunk from yet. The bar was quiet. He had closed it early and sent everyone home. He had to do this meeting alone.
It had only been 24 hours since Sam had put two members of the Zakone gang in the hospital.
Sam was currently watching the security camera feed, sitting in the former gambling lounge, his phone at the ready and bat in hand, listening.
The second Frankie said the code word, Superman, Sam would call the police.
And Joel, Ryan, and Brendon, who were also sitting in the back parking lot, would come in charging.
Frankie had fought Sam tooth and nail about being here.
He didn’t want Sam putting himself in any more danger than he already had.
They wasted an entire evening arguing about it and had their first ever angry sex, which Frankie rather enjoyed, and absolutely planned on pissing Sam off again soon, because fuck, his asshole was still sore.
Tonight, Frankie was finally about to meet Thaddeus Kozlov, one of the top-ranking members of the Zakone gang, known for his brutality and willingness to negotiate.
He just hoped Kozlov was willing to negotiate tonight.
The door to the bar opened, and a single man entered.
He was surprised by how striking he looked, with high cheekbones, dark brown hair sprinkled with gray, and penetrating Arctic blue eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe he thought this Russian gangster would be dressed in all black like a funeral director, covered in tattoos symbolizing power.
Instead, Thaddeus Kozlov looked like a regular guy.
Well, that wasn’t fully true, he thought.
Kozlov wore a three-piece olive-green wool suit, with a blue dress shirt beneath, giving him the appearance of both old money and new.
His wrist glinted with a vintage watch and slick brown Italian dress shoes.
And he was Frankie’s age, maybe a little older.
He clocked the cut on his lip, which was swollen and angry, surrounded by brown stubble.
He briefly wondered who had sucker punched him, and decided that if he ever got the chance, he would shake that man’s hand.
“Frankie Casavani,” Kozlov spoke in a dark drawl that sounded somewhere between a whisper and a purr with no Russian accent.
Frankie frowned, scrutinizing the man before him. “Yeah. You Kozlov?”
He nodded smoothly and gestured to the seat beside Frankie at the bar.
“Drink?” Frankie asked as politely as he could muster.
Kozlov pursed his lips, “Maybe later.”
Frankie took a sip of his whiskey, anything to cut the nerves. “You’re not exactly what I was expecting.”
The faintest trace of a smile tugged at Kozlov’s lips. “And what were you expecting?”
“I dunno. Not you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said politely, his frosty blue eyes shining with amusement behind his glasses. If Frankie had met this man at the bar, he would’ve thought he was just a normal guy, wanting a beer after a long day at the office.
“I am impressed, Mr. Casavani. Two of my men are currently hospitalized after visiting your bar. Though I am told that their fates were not done by your hand,” Kozlov stated.
He took a sip of whiskey. “They insulted my partner.”
Kozlov surveyed him curiously. “Partner? I wasn’t aware you had dual ownership of this establishment.”
He clenched his jaw. “I don’t.”
Kozlov simply nodded, understanding quickly dawning. “I am in the market for another bar. That is why I had my men visit you.”
“Yeah,” Frankie bit out, holding back his irritation. “I could’ve used a warning that they were comin’ by.”
“I apologize for that. That was not fair on my part. I have been…” Kozlov hesitated, tonguing his lower lip, “distracted the last few days.”
Surprised, he wondered if the apology was genuine or just more bullshit. “Well, we ain’t sorry for sendin’ your boys to the hospital.”
Kozlov made no reaction to this. “I don’t blame you. They are rather brutish even for my taste. This is simply a business meeting now. I have no issue with you, Mr. Casavani—or your Dr. Samuels.”
Kozlov knew about Sam. Of course, he fuckin’ did, he thought, breathing hard through his nose, fingers balling into a tight fist.
“Consider it part of the deal,” Kozlov said slowly. “I will squash any retaliation on my end if you agree to loan me your bar from time to time for… certain purposes.”
“No.”
“No?” Kozlov tilted his head in an almost birdlike manner.
“I’m sellin’ this place to a friend, and we have no interest in gettin’ involved in whatever it is you do. I paid off my father’s tab. We’re through. This place deserves a fresh start.”
Kozlov’s chilly gaze blinked, seeming to contemplate his next words carefully. “Fresh start. Interesting. I heard that you are moving to LA, Mr. Casavani.”
He stiffened.
“Word travels in such a small town,” Kozlov continued smoothly. “I also make sure to know every person I consider doing business with. You would’ve been a good candidate. It’s a shame we can’t come to an agreement.”
Frankie’s hand fisted over the glass.
“It would be a shame for anything to happen to Dr. Samuels as the result of his actions against me.”
He let out a shaky breath. Fear like nothing he had ever experienced before sliced through his guts. He never resorted to violence outside the arena, but here, right now, the idea of something happening to Sam made him consider it.
Kozlov sensed this, and his smile, casual and almost flippant, returned, as if he had all the time in the world and had not threatened to hurt Sam.
“What do you want?” Frankie bit out.
“I’d like that drink now, if you don’t mind?”
He nodded and reached over the counter, pulling a glass out along with a bottle of… he hesitated.
“Whiskey, please,” Kozlov instructed. Frankie grabbed the bottle and placed it before the gangster.
He scrutinized the label and shrugged, “It will do. Thank you.”
Frankie placed a clean glass in front of the man and impatiently waited for him to take a drink so he could hear his terms. He hoped to God he could somehow fulfill it, because he would do anything to protect Sam.
“Considering I didn’t much care for those men and what happened to them—inherited from my uncle, like your bar from your father.” Kozlov fingered his cut lip, frowning as he twirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I have decided to be lenient.”
He released the breath in his chest.
“This time,” Kozlov finished.
Frankie’s back molars clenched.
“I do have a request,” Kozlov said. “One that I believe only you could accommodate.”
“Me?”
He hummed, “I heard another rumor that you were recruited to be one of Cassidy Chapel’s coaches.”
He hesitated, fingers nervously tapping on the glass, wondering how his new job as a coach would benefit a Russian mobster.
A job he worked hard to get. He spent an hour on the phone with Caz two weeks ago, telling him everything—that he loved Sam, and that was why he had acted so insanely jealous that night at Ryan’s fight.
Caz had understood, and seemed even more understanding of his reaction, and accepted his apology.
When Frankie mentioned he was moving to LA and intended to keep coaching, Caz, perceptive and eager, immediately offered him a spot on his team.
“I would like to meet him.”
“Meet Caz?” Frankie asked, confused.
“Cassidy ‘the Brawler’ Chapel. Yes. Him.”
“That’s it?”
“I would like you to formally introduce us,” Kozlov explained patiently.
He hitched his chin back, assessing the man closely, his mind whirling. “Just a meet and greet? You want nothin’ else from him?”
Kozlov nodded, thumbing his lip. “That’s all.”
“Why him?”
“Why not?”
“He’s a friend—so you tell me why, or this ain’t happenin’.”
“You are very loyal and protective of your friends, I can appreciate that.” He sighed, “We would’ve made such a great team, Mr. Casavani.
” He hummed again, taking a sip. “I can also appreciate courage. It takes incredible strength to beat a man with his bare hands, but something else entirely to come out publicly in one of the most brutal sports since the gladiator games.”
Frankie’s jaw nearly dropped, and he stared incredulously at the gangster before him.
Kozlov was impressed by Caz and interested in him because he was… gay? He wondered if he should warn Caz that he had caught the attention of a mobster, who had definitely killed a few people to get where he was.
Shit.
“I will be attending his title fight in Vegas next month. I expect an introduction then. Are we understood?”
He nodded, wondering how the hell Caz would react to being introduced to Thaddeus Kozlov of the Zokone gang.
“How would you like me to introduce you?” he asked.
Kozlov smiled, “As your friend. Because I do not wish to make you or your partner my enemy.”