Fedya had assumed Liam was an important member of the mob, but from the looks of it, he was more important than hesounded over the phone. He couldn’t be the leader?that was the Butcher. Fedya knew what that devil looked like.
So, Liam had to be the second in command around here.
“Jonathan,” Liam’s grin widened, baring sharp teeth. His Irish accent was as thick as the tobacco smoke he was inhaling. “I was almost thinking you wouldn’t make it.”
Fedya dipped his chin, acutely aware of the different sets of eyes on him from every corner of the bar. “Would’ve been rude not to, considering the gracious invitation.”
Liam’s grin deepened even more, but the men beside him didn’t share the amusement. One of them, a lean man with a gaze so sharp it felt like he could see your soul, tilted his head.
“American,” he said, voice edged with uncertainty. “That’s unusual. We don’t deal with just anyone, especially not sleazy Americans.”
“Give it a rest, Donnacha,” Liam said, just as the stripper left his thighs and got to her knees in front of Liam beneath the table. “Jonathan is a friend. Or will be.”
To Fedya, he said, “I hope you don’t mind,” he gestured towards the stripper under the table. The sound of a zipper flying open echoed around them. “I like a little motivation when I’m dealing. Nothing better than your cock down a whore’s throat. You agree, don’t you, Jonathan?”
Fedya nodded. “Agreed.”
Donnacha leaned back in his chair just as Liam laughed raucously. The third man had yet to say anything. He simply observed Fedya’s mannerisms, most likely looking for a slip. Fedya was one step ahead of him.
“I bring quality,” Fedya carried on, his accent so rich you’d believe his family was American. “No knockoffs, nosurprises. You wouldn’t have invited me if you didn’t think I had something worth your time.”
Liam swirled his whiskey, considering. The stripper was taking his cock deep in her throat under the table, and he seemed unaffected by it. For a split second, Fedya wondered if he was actually enjoying it or if it was just a habit.
“That remains to be seen,” Liam said. He leaned forward, curling one of his fists around the stripper’s hair, tugging tightly as he forced her deeper. His eyes darkened?not out of lust, but anger—as the next words left his mouth. “We’ve been burned before. Feds, backstabbers, amateurs trying to push off shite that jams when you need it most.” He nodded at the package Fedya had laid on the table. “You say your stock’s reliable.Howreliable?”
“Reliable enough to put your enemies in the ground before they take their next breath.”
The tension in Liam’s jaw eased a bit. He chuckled at that, but Donnacha’s gaze remained unwavering. “That so? And tell me, what’s an independent dealer like yourself doing sniffing around our business? I don’t know Americans to work alone.”
His Rs grew even harder with every word.
Fedya held his stare, unflinching. “Not every man answers to a God. Not every American answers to a syndicate. I work for myself. Fewer chains. Fewer problems. Easy peasy.”
Donnacha’s lips lifted incredulously when he heard the last two words. Liam exchanged looks with all three men before leaning back in his chair. His throat worked as the muscles in his jaw shifted, and then he yanked the blonde off him.
She staggered to her feet, wiping her mouth clean as she swallowed. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes watering, andFedya tried not to pity her, not to pity the fact that she was being treated like an object just because she was a stripper. Fedya couldn’t imagine how they treated their women here, but that wasn’t his business. He’d come here with a goal in mind.
Infiltration.
And he was slowly getting there.
“Leave us,” Liam barely nodded at the woman as he looked back at Fedya. “Alright, Jonathan. Let’s see if you’re worth the trouble.”
Just as he said it, a door at the far end of the bar swung open and Fedya could feel it in his bones?the immediate shift in the atmosphere, the dulling of conversations, the posture alignment, the thickness in the air.
Fedya didn’t have to look back to know their Boss had walked in.
Cormac “The Butcher” O’Rourke.
As prepared as Fedya was for this undercover operation, as prepared as he was for the worst that could happen, Cormac was the least of his options. He’d heard from reliable sources that Cormac rarely showed up at meetings like this, especially not ones with new arms dealers that were lobbying for an alliance with the Irish.
Fedya had seen ruthless men before, and there was Cormac. For such a small mob, Cormac was a menace. He wasn’t called The Butcher for the fun of it. He was involved in the worst possible shit you could think of?killing for fun, trafficking women and children, buying and selling what shouldn’t be. Activities like these weren’t uncommon in the mafia, but Cormac had a reputation. A dirty one.
One that Fedya wasn’t prepared for. But he’d already gone this far, and he couldn’t afford to slip now.
So, he maintained his usual bravado as Cormac stepped into the room and approached their table.
He was a thick, bald, broad-shouldered man with green eyes so cold they were like icicles puncturing your body. Unlike his men, Cormac wasn’t wearing a suit. He wore dark slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, forearms littered with scars and tattoos. Every inch of his head was lined with tattoos, and his right earlobe was split in half, like he’d forcefully ripped an earring out of it.
