19. Killian
NINETEEN
Killian
The fight against Sharapova is only a month away, which means I’m deep in training to prepare for it.
Sharapova’s a machine—six foot six, two hundred and fifty pounds of Russian muscle with a knockout record that makes most fighters piss themselves before even stepping into the ring.
He’s been lurking in the wings this entire time, waiting it out to see who fought their way up for the championship. He’s the prized fighter backed by the Bratva and their stranglehold on the gambling rings in the boxing world.
I’m going to enjoy wiping that smug fucking look off his face.
Malone’s been pushing me harder than he ever has before. My training sessions have doubled. Things like morning runs, afternoon sparring, evening conditioning.
By the time I collapse into bed each night, I’m so damn exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.
But it’s worth it. Every aching muscle and bruised rib—even the drops of sweat that pour from me every training session—brings me closer to that championship belt.
Dez shows up to Malone’s thinking he’s about to ride off the back of my success.
“There you are, Kill baby!” he cries out with his arms spread open. He flashes a wide grin of gold teeth. “Just how I like to see you—training your ass off.”’
The last thing he’s expecting is the feral growl that rumbles out of me as I round on him and slam him against the wall.
“Killian!” he croaks as my hand clenches shut on his throat and I lift him off the ground with one arm. He scrabbles helplessly at it like a fucking kitten with a ball of yarn. “My man, what’re you—”
“You’ve been cheating me,” I growl between gritted teeth. “Taking double, triple the fucking profit while I got only a quarter. You think I wouldn’t ever notice?”
I squeeze tighter on his larynx, and he chokes and kicks his feet. “Wait… Kill… I… I can explain.”
“Better do it fast before I decide you’ve taken your last breath.”
“The money—you’ve said it isn’t important to you!” he hacks. “I thought… I figured… I needed it more than you do!”
“You figured wrong. Tell me why I shouldn’t pummel your face like that punching bag right now.”
“I’ll give the money back. Every extra profit I took. You can have it!”
I step back and let him drop to the floor. He crawls toward me right away, locking his arms around my ankles, damn near kissing my feet.
For the next minute, he grovels. Tears mist his eyes and snot bubbles from his nose as he promises he’ll swap the cuts and won’t try shit like that ever again.
“You’ve gotta believe me, Kill baby. I’m on your side.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say coldly. “Or maybe it’s time to look for a new manager. Get the fuck out my face and don’t show up here again unless you’re told to.”
He scrambles to his feet, uncaring that his precious snakeskin suit has touched the filthy ground of Malone’s Gym. He scurries for the door without a look back, ignoring how other fighters in the vicinity watch on and laugh.
Serves him right.
Money doesn’t mean shit to me.
But Jhene’s right that it’s the principle. That’s money I’ve earned and have claim to.
Elsewhere, Ronan’s got us on high alert. We’re still in the war planning phase, conducting meetings and reconnaissance and the occasional strike against the Bratva.
It’s exhausting and deadly, but it’s necessary. We’re at war now, which means there’s only more bloodshed to come.
The one bright spot in everything is Jhene.
We’ve made it official—as official as two people in our situation can be anyway.
We’re dating, no longer pretending we can even somewhat resist each other.
She sleeps in my bed every night, steals my shirts when hers are in the wash, and gives me shit about leaving my dirty protein bottles in the sink.
It’s domestic and routine, and I fucking love it.
I never thought I’d be the type for a real relationship. Few women have interested me enough to ever want one, and the select ones who have didn’t work out. I was too clueless to know how to read their emotions and usually wound up sticking my foot in my mouth one way or another.
But Jhene’s different.
We’re both grumpy assholes. Both introverts who prefer solitude and keeping things simple.
We get each other unlike how most people tend to struggle getting us.
It doesn’t mean things are perfect—she’s still such a fucking smartass sometimes, and I’m sure my scowling ways get on her nerves too—but we make it work.
She’s been under tight protection every hour of every day. Buttonmen always stationed outside the apartment. Buttonmen always walking her to and from work (on days I’m unable to). If no one else is available, then she’s my shadow, coming with me to places like Malone’s.
I’m able to get Sean to watch her the day I’m meeting up with Lochlan and the excommunicated Russian enforcer, Aleksei Mashkov.
He demands we meet him not at Gossier’s, the usual neutral ground for criminals in the New York Underworld, but at some dingy dive bar in Brownsville.
The lighting’s shit, the place reeks of beer and piss, and there’s only a handful of men inside, all of whom look like they couldn’t recite the alphabet if asked by a cop.
In other words, it’s perfect.
The right kind of place for three mafia-affiliated men to meet and talk shop.
I’ve never been a fan of fancy establishments like Gossier’s and the Banshee is off the table for the time being, so this dive bar is as good as it gets.
“He’s in the back,” Lochlan says. He juts his chin. “The large Russian with one eye.”
We’ve walked through the door and paused long enough to survey the barroom.
Aleksei sticks out like a sore thumb, even though he’s the type to be moody and disgruntled, camped out in a corner. He’s doing just that now as he tosses back shots of vodka and scowls at anybody who comes remotely near his table.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say.
We head over, skipping the introductions.
Aleksei worked for Lochlan when he was on his quest for revenge against the clan. I’m familiar with him too—we shot at each other a few times during that period, as Aleksei was Lochlan’s righthand and I was Ronan’s.
It’s true that in the underworld sometimes you make strange bed fellows. Enemies become allies at the drop of a hat and vice versa.
“You save any vodka for us?” Lochlan asks. He claims the seat directly across from the Russian. I take the chair on the side. “You knew we were coming.”
“You know I am greedy with my vodka,” Aleksei answers plainly. “You will have to get your own.”
A crooked grin comes to Lochlan’s face. “Wouldn’t expect anything less. Anyway, you know why we’re here. We need resources to take down Fedorov. Turns out, you’re a gold mine for that.”
“Help is not free,” he says flatly, curling thick fingers around a small glass and tossing back the clear liquid. “You have my respect, Loch. We are allies. But I learned not to get involved with Irish affairs.”
“This is different from the beef between me and my brother. This is a matter of control for the underworld,” Lochlan explains.
He leans forward businesslike, arms folded on the table, calling back to his days as the Callahan heir.
“The Raguzins have gotten out of pocket. They’ve sought this war with us. ”
“I’m sure Fedorov would see it differently. The reneged deal at the Vodka Room soured relations.”
“True,” Lochlan admits. “But they’ve more than gotten payback for that. Killing Seamus—my father—takes it to a new level.”
“Are you helping us or not?” I interject moodily. “I was under the impression you hated the Bratva’s guts.”
Aleksei pins me with a cold blank slate of a glare. The kind of glare where his features are neutral yet the coldness in his good eye speaks volumes.
The patch covering the other only adds to the effect.
“Fedorov Raguzin took everything from me,” he says slowly. “He not only stripped me of my position, but my honor. He took my eye. If I am to risk revenge, it will need to be worth it.”
“We can ensure it will be,” Lochlan says. “We’ll cut you a hefty check and you’ll have the satisfaction of having a hand in taking him out.”
The ex-Bratva soldier nods in agreement, then pours himself more vodka.
“I assume you would like to know more about him.”
“He’s a fucking fortress,” I say. “Anything you’ve got could tip the scales.”
He swallows the vodka he poured only seconds ago, his thick throat working as he does.
“Fedorov has an estate on Long Island. One of the most impenetrable estates in the country. Cameras everywhere. Armed guards at every entrance. He rarely leaves these days—he is too paranoid and too old. He is aware he is frail and helpless without his guards. The estate is also where he keeps his pets.”
After what I’ve learned from Jhene, my stomach knots tighter. “Pets?”
“The women,” says Aleksei, then he adds, “and the girls.”
My gaze meets Lochlan’s, both of us barely keeping a lid on the instant rage that fills us up.
“Tell us more,” I grit out. “What women? What girls?”
“There are those he buys and sells—yes,” the Russian explains darkly. “But the pets are different. Those he keeps. He collects them like trophies. Keeps them locked away where no one can see what he does to them. They are at his mercy.”
My hands clench into fists under the table as my mind lands on Jhene and her baby sister. They must’ve been pets.
From what Jhene described, for years she lived inside Fedorov’s house. It wasn’t ’til much later he moved her to the cages.
“You saw what he was doing?” I ask.
“I saw many things. I stood by and watched because that was my duty. My father was a soldier for the Raguzins. His father before him. I would have gladly died for the Bratva. Would have done anything Fedorov asked.” He reaches for the bottle of vodka, foregoing the glass this time. “But even loyalty has limits.”
“This have to do with why they took your eye?” Lochlan juts his chin, a vague gesture toward the eyepatch.