Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Lochlan
The pounding headache I wake up with would probably debilitate a lesser man.
The pain throbs from behind my eyes as I open them and squint at the offensively bright light streaming into the room.
Must’ve forgotten to shut the damn curtains again.
I drag myself out of bed, running a hand through greasy, tangled hair. My mouth tastes like an ashtray soaked in whiskey, and the walls spin for the first few steps I take. I make it over to the window to see what fresh hell awaits me this morning.
Now that we’re in phase two of my plan, things are picking up pace.
I’ve got guys coming and going, heading out to set more little fires. Other guys that are doing work on the deal brokering side of things, and some men putting their ears to the streets for intel.
But as I make it to the window, it’s not the unmarked black vehicles full of my men that I’m focusing on.
The first thing that catches my attention is the garden.
It’s barely past eight, and it’s already occupied.
Sorcha’s kneeling in the dirt and pulling weeds free. Next to her—looking significantly less bubbly than usual—is Chantal.
Even at a glance, I notice the difference in her.
Her shoulders are hunched, head down and expression decidedly blank. She looks like a woman who’s had the fight beaten out of her.
Memories from yesterday come rushing back in.
The shit ton of whiskey I drank. The onslaught of grief that flooded me the drunker I got.
Eddie’s face swimming behind my eyes no matter how much I drank trying to drown it out. My boy was taken from me by my own fucking brother. He had been avenging me; the only person in the family who had my back when I was sent to Sing Sing.
He was only nineteen. He had his whole life ahead of him.
But it was cut short by my spoiled-rotten baby brother, who’s stolen what was mine.
…and Eddie’s someday.
I had drank so much I was spiraling as I wandered the estate and then came across the parlor. Chantal was in there admiring the O’Keeffe again.
It shouldn’t’ve come as a surprise—she is an art gallery owner and obviously has an affinity for it.
I lost my cool anyway. I trapped her in the corner and tried to shove my hand down her pants while she begged me to stop.
My hand comes up to my cheek where she scratched the shit out of me like some cat on the defensive. It was enough to sober me up in the moment, even as more rage pulsed through me, and for a wild moment, I had wanted to punish her.
Then I came to my senses and realized it was actually deserved.
She was right; I was wrong.
…I was out of line.
It’s ten times worse than when I had kissed her in Grandpa Finn’s office. That was impulsive but was also a culmination of the tension between us.
The girl had been soaking up the spring sunshine when she was supposed to be a prisoner. Then she had refused to let me help her when she cut herself.
We both went at it in that moment. We gave into whatever fucked up chemistry we were feeling.
Yesterday was not that. I specifically sought her out to take out my drunken frustrations.
I had let myself get out of control and some claws to the face was a consequence—looks like Robby’s no longer the only guy in my crew who’s been on the receiving end of Chantal Banks’s nails.
But the bottom line is, while my objective is to get revenge and do so by tormenting the girl, I pride myself on being controlled.
On how perceptive and strategic I am.
There’s nothing strategic about accosting the girl on a drunken whim the way I was.
My gaze remains on her as she yanks a particularly stubborn weed from the dirt. She breaks a sweat, wiping at her brow, lips moving as she says something to Sorcha.
No apologies will be offered—I don’t do them and never will. But for now the manual labor around the estate is torture enough.
I don’t need to put any further distress on the girl, regardless of how spoiled and bratty she is.
She’s still here to suffer. She’s still leverage against her father and ultimately a payday from the Bratva.
Nothing more.
What happened yesterday was just the whiskey and the grief doing the thinking for me.
I turn away from the window, scrubbing a hand over my face for one last feel of the scratch mark she gave me.
There’s no time for guilt. It’s a weakness I can’t afford when I’m out to burn everything down to the ground.
I head for the shower to wash off the whiskey, forcing my thoughts toward the day ahead.
The Bratva negotiations await, and my crew needs direction.
Whatever I did to Chantal Banks yesterday doesn’t change a goddamn thing.
An hour later, I’m showered, dressed, and seated in an armchair in the den, nursing a black coffee that’s not doing shit for my hangover.
My main crew’s assembled, each guy situated at different spots around the room.
Marco’s lounging on the sofa, one arm draped along the back, his usual slick confidence palpable in his button-down shirt and gelled hair. He’s already crunching the numbers in his head about our potential deal with the Bratva.
It’s what makes him useful, but also what makes me sometimes watch him a little closer than the others.
Aleksei opts to stand. He’s posted against the far wall with his thick arms crossed; his one good eye fixed on everybody in the room like the sentry he typically is. He’s been quietly pissed since I first mentioned the Raguzins.
Understandable considering his history with the Bratva family. I’d be pretty ticked off too if they took one of my eyes—or any body part for that matter.
Robby’s hovering like the weasel he usually comes across as, fidgeting and twitchy. He’s closest to the door and seems to be in a rush for today’s meeting to be adjourned. As an NYPD detective, he’s the one leading the biggest double life among the guys I’ve recruited.
The paranoia makes sense to a degree. But it’s also just naturally Robby.
Last but not least there’s Akio, who’s most dissociated of all as he taps away on his laptop. His expression is neutral, dark almond-shaped gaze glazed over. He’s about tasks and proficiency and little else.
Compared to the others, he sticks out like a sore thumb in that way.
I take a sip from the black coffee and let Marco lead the meeting. He explains how he’s put feelers out there with the Raguzins, and they’ve responded in interest.
“They’re offering good money,” he says, making sweeping motions with his hands in typical Italian fashion. “It’s simple. We hand over the girl. They give us the five mil. We walk away with a fat payout. Clean and nobody loses a head.”
“Nothing’s clean about the Raguzins,” Aleksei growls.
“Business is business,” Marco says.
“Some business is not worth the trouble,” the Russian replies, gritting his teeth.
Robby shrugs from his spot closest to the door. “Pretty sure we’re all in this for the green. How about we keep our eye on the prize?”
“Eye,” Aleksei grunts. “Easy for you to say. You still have both of yours.”
A second or two of silence falls over the room.
Everybody present knows the story—how the pakhan deemed Aleksei a traitor and banished him from their ranks, but not before he had a group of men restrain the beast and carve out his eye.
It’s not something he talks about, usually found with a black patch to conceal the loss. But most people are also smart enough not to bring it up to him.
Apparently, Robby doesn’t fall into that category.
“Look, I get it,” he says, holding up his hands.
“You’ve got history with these guys. But we need to do something with the girl once we’re through with her, right?
Can’t keep her around forever planting seeds and shit in the garden.
The Bratva’s willing to pay top dollar. It’s the best deal we’re gonna get. ”
The vein in Aleksei’s temple starts to pulse, his good eye focused on Robby and Robby alone. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Or maybe you’re just too close to this,” Robby retorts with a nervous laugh. “Hard to see the big picture when you’re only working with half the vision, right, Cyclops?”
“You puny motherfucker!” Aleksei roars.
The room erupts into chaos as Aleksei launches himself at Robby and the NYPD cop takes refuge behind the sofa.
Aleksei snatches him up anyway, grabbing Robby by the collar and slamming him against the wall.
“Call me that again,” he growls into his face. “Say it and I’ll snap you in half like a twig.”
“Hey, it was just a joke,” Robby squeals. “Don’t they have those in Russia?”
“Alright, alright,” I say, raising a hand to end the commotion. “Everybody cool it. How many fucking times do I gotta tell you to leave personal gripes out of what we’re doing? You want to kill each other, be my guest. But do it on your own fucking time. Right now, we’ve got work to do.”
Aleksei holds Robby against the wall for another tense second before finally releasing him. The cop sputters out a relieved breath as he lands back on wobbly legs.
“The Bratva deal moves forward,” I go on. “Marco, you’ll handle ironing out the final terms. Aleksei, I need you with me today—we’ve got a special visit to make.”
“Where?” Aleksei asks. He spares a begrudging glance over at Robby as if still tempted to tear him to pieces.
I rise from the armchair and stick both hands into my pockets. “Wall Street.”
LaMalfa’s secretary doesn’t dare try to stop us when we turn up to his fancy office on Wall Street. She goes ghost pale and points a trembling finger at the large corner office.
That tends to happen when two large, tattooed, masked men turn up in a civilized environment such as this.
LaMalfa’s office is made up of glass and chrome, with sleek modern furniture and a first-rate view of the Manhattan skyline.
He’s seated behind his massive executive desk when we barge in, a fancy letter opener in hand as he slices through a stack of mail. His head snaps up in surprise, then irritation flickers across his face as he realizes who it is.
“Who the hell authorized you to be here?”