“Thin,” I say with a growl, “ice.”
“Luckily, I’m a skilled skater.”
I snicker at him, right as my phone rings. Picking up my cell, I look at the caller. Melor.
“I need to take this, sorry.”
“That’s fine. I have to go anyway.”
I stand, and we shake hands like it’s a business meeting.
“You know, Isaak, if you ever want to leave the corporate world behind, you can come work for me. I need someone who’s good with numbers.”
Isaak raises a brow.
“You couldn’t afford me, Ilya,” he says easily, but I hear the interest in his voice.
I smile. Spread my hands. “Name your price.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, then he makes his way out.
It surprises me because he’s pretty fucking straight when it comes to work. If he meant no, it’d be a flat no.
Isaak’s interested.
And it surprises me in a good way.
Maybe tonight’s going to be a night of good surprises.
With that in mind, I call Melor back.
Chapter Sixteen
ILYA
Melorand I handle the small issue at hand. It’s one of the late IOUs I uncovered, and instead of dispatching soldiers, I join him for a sit-down.
I’m well-versed in the business, someone who shouldn’t be struggling in a part of Chicago run by an MMC. The motorcycle club, Demon’s Wrath, is known to the Yegorov Bratva. We don’t cross paths. But my grandfather did, and Demon’s Wrath, while keeping to their turf, run guns with our help. The Belov’s help.
The business owner, who runs a bar the Demon’s drink at, has protection.
Or did.
It takes a while, and I can tell Melor doesn’t exactly want to carry out Aleks’s set protocol. A finger for a late payment, or a bullet for the one stopping them.
Both players fall under the Belov Bratva.
But while quick and easy retribution or the taking of a lesser man from the Demon’s members, or a finger from a family member of the bar owner would usually be the answer, Melor and I sense something else.
And it clicks with a red-headed beauty’s fiery entrance. Both the bar owner’s reaction, a younger guy, and that of the leader of the Demon’s, who’s much older and clearly her relative, give me the story.
I hold up a hand. “If this is about a fucking love story, then you need to sort that shit out. We need to collect, and since this is over your daughter and this bar owner, then perhaps we should leave it up to her.”
“Aleksandr would end the scumbag’s life,” snarls Roland, the biker.
“And he’d end yours, too.” I didn’t catch the bartender’s name, but the family’s Irish, according to the notes I read attached to this IOU. “Aleks is dead, and I’m here.”
Melor crosses his arms at my words, his gun clearly visible.
