Killian #2
He could be a drug dealer, or a pimp going about his unlawful business, but he doesn’t look up as I draw closer. Anyone that disinterested is a threat. He knows I’m coming and he knows who I am. It’s not Danyl or Andrey, but he has to be another Russian.
I don’t know how the Bratva could have figured out I was here. I’d arrived at the restaurant long before Katarina and her other dinner guests showed up, cutting the CCTV feed until I was safely hidden. The only silver lining in being discovered is that I get to knock the shit out of someone.
My gaze flicks left and right, scanning buildings from the ground up to confirm I’m not the target in a sniper’s scope.
Satisfied I’m dealing with only one arsehole, I slip my hand into my jacket.
I have a Glock and a knife strapped to my shoulder and I’m choosing between the two when my opponent pushes off the wall. His hands remain in his pockets.
“You don’t need to shoot me, dickhead.”
The familiar voice doesn’t brighten my mood one iota and I keep my hand inside my jacket. “I was going to stab you. I still might.” The Russian’s alert wasn’t because of me. “Your undercover skills are shit, Mal. The Bratva spotted you.”
Malachy stops in the middle of the alley and waits for me to reach him. He frowns at my wig, but doesn’t mention it. “They knew one of us was hanging around outside the restaurant, and that’s where they were looking while you played with their little princess.”
The only weapon I draw is my fist and I punch Malachy’s shoulder hard enough for him to stagger back a step. “You put them on high-alert, idiot. They could have searched the restaurant.”
“They’re always on high-fucking-alert, you should know that,” Malachy counters. “That was a stupid risk to take.”
I never did tell him how I’d walked into Katarina’s apartment building completely blind. And I don’t intend on telling him now. Nor do I offer any gratitude. Fine, maybe he did divert some heat away from me, but I’m not about to feed my brother’s ego. It’s big enough as it is.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask as we start walking towards the street. The team we’ve put together is supposed to pick me up tomorrow.
“I’m the advance party,” my brother explains. “I hitched a ride with a group of playboys who lost big on our tables. The others will collect us as planned.”
“I hope you’re not expecting to stay at my place.”
“I thought we’d go for a drink first,” he replies, not taking the bait for an argument.
“I’ve been staying low,” I explain. His eyebrows quirk at that but I ignore him. This evening was a necessary risk. “Getting shit-faced in a bar while there’s a rumor circulating that we’re in Chicago is not a good idea.”
We turn onto the sidewalk and Malachy keeps pace with me, even when I steer him towards oncoming pedestrians to block his path. Unfortunately, everyone steps aside when met with his scowl.
“Drinks at yours it is then,” he says. “Do we need to pick up some booze on our way back?”
“I’ve got plenty for myself, thank you very much.”
Malachy’s quiet for a few steps. “So, what’s got you in a mood? Did Katarina not put out? Or is it that dead ferret on your head?”
“Jesus, it’s going to be a long night.”
Truth be told, I don’t hate the company, and by the time we’ve drained the first bottle of whiskey, Malachy and I are crashed out on my apartment floor, backs resting against armchairs, legs stretched out and a fresh bottle within easy reach.
We’ve caught up on business, bitched about our brothers and complained about Dad. We’re not quite at the level of drunkenness to stray onto the reason I’ve been lost and forlorn in Chicago, but there is another topic we’ve also been avoiding.
Malachy drags one of the pizza boxes towards him and takes a slice. His mouth is full when he asks, “If we do find him, would you take the shot?”
I don’t need to ask who we’re talking about, but I struggle to find an answer. “If it’s a choice between letting Ignacio escape or claiming the kill that belongs to Dad, I’d shoot. No hesitation. Would you?”
“Truthfully?” Malachy asks, discarding the pizza crust. “Even if the bastard was trussed up and ready to be returned to Vegas, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.” He shakes his head, fighting against the thoughts that haunt him. As they do me.
Four years ago, when Ignacio was still a member of his brother’s cartel, he cooked up a scheme to hold one of us for ransom until Dad returned a shipment we’d stolen from them.
Drugs mostly, but some weapons too. He had five of us to choose from, but Tiernan and Ronan are rarely separated, and on the day our mother died, Malachy and I were busy reinforcing security across all our assets, preparing for a retaliatory strike.
Dad was checking in at our various clubs while Lorcan headed for our biggest casino just off the Strip.
Mam was always hands-on in the family business and tagged along with him.
Ignacio and his sons, Diego and Tomas, jumped Lorcan as he was leaving the casino.
Naturally, Agnes McConkey came out to join in the fight all guns blazing.
Diego shot her in the leg, Tomas disarmed her and Ignacio put a bullet in her head.
For months afterwards, Dad played the CCTV footage on repeat until the image was seared into his eyeballs.
“Diego belongs to Lorcan,” Malachy says when the pain of dwelling on our mother’s death becomes too much to bear.
But this isn’t a lighter subject by any means. Lorcan was held captive by Ignacio’s splinter group and tortured for two weeks. From the little he’s shared, it’s clear Diego took the greatest pleasure in his torment.
“If we do find any of them in Boston, Lorcan stays back until we have the situation under control,” I insist. I’d reluctantly agreed to him being part of the team we’re meeting tomorrow, but we need to be realistic.
“The chances of him being triggered are too high, and the last thing we need is to be fighting him as well as our enemies.”
“But he gets the privilege of watching the light go out of Diego’s eyes,” my brother insists. He won’t simply agree to my order, but that’s Malachy.
“If we can make it happen, we will.”
“Which leaves Tomas for us to fight over.” Malachy says, swirling his whiskey around his glass.
I break the seal on the unopened bottle. “And then we grieve.”
“Then we grieve.”
It takes another shot of whiskey before I consider what life might look like when I’m not fueled by hate or passion. Empty comes to mind. Desolate. Bereft. Lost. And all those other words poets pluck from a thesaurus to describe a broken heart.
Malachy is watching me with an intensity I don’t much like. “Were there tears?”
“Sorry?” I reply, acting like my heart hasn’t just clenched at the memory of Katarina’s face when I’d opened the stall door. I need a moment to prepare.
My brother doesn’t play along. “Did you say goodbye?” he asks. “Can you say goodbye?”
I refill my glass. “Yes, and yes.”
“And you’re ready to publicly shame Katarina so Duke calls off the wedding? You’re happy for her to be sent back to her uncle to face the consequences?”
I tip my head to the side. “Do I look fucking happy?” I lick my lips, but Katarina’s kiss has vanished and all I taste is whiskey. “But rest assured the wedding isn’t going to happen. I can guarantee you that.”
“Shit,” Malachy mutters under his breath. “You’re planning something else, aren’t you? Something that’ll stop her being sent back to Russia.”
“Oh, fuck off, Mal,” I say, too drunk to come up with a better reply.
His jaw works. “Whatever it is, you’re going to start a war.”
“I’m not starting anything,” I say, my words laced with self-loathing because I wanted to start something with Katarina so fucking much.
But instead, I’m letting her go. “I’m just the prick who’s going to stand by and let everyone else decide our fate.
” My eyes glaze over. “Standing back and letting Ash take her from me. Without a fight. Because she’s a Barkov.
And no one ever fights for Katarina. She told me that. ”
Malachy goes still. “Why would Ash be taking her anywhere?”
Ah, bollocks. I wasn’t supposed to say that.
I drain my glass. It had to come out sooner or later.
“That’s the end game. The Griffins are faking her death and she’s going to disappear on her wedding day,” I explain.
“So don’t you worry your little head about wars or Barkov brides.
And please for the love of God, don’t give me shit right now about not telling Dad.
Katarina’s leaving.” I choke on a breath. “And I’m letting her go.”
I tense my fingers around my empty glass, ready to launch it at Malachy, but he doesn’t berate me for once. What he does is much worse. So much fucking worse.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. Yes, softly.
I barely trust myself to respond. If this fucker is nice to me, this dam I’m building around my heart might just break. “And what would you be sorry for?”
“For reasons I cannot begin to fathom, you liked her. And if you weren’t who you are, and she wasn’t who she is, even a cold-hearted bastard like me could see you’d make a right pair of… idiots.”
And that, Ladies and Gentleman, was the moment my fate was cast.