Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Radimir hugged his wife, and she clutched him to her tight. “Come back safe,” she told him, her voice quavering, and he closed his eyes and nodded, his head pressed against hers. My stomach flipped: Radimir was doing this for Gennadiy, who was doing it for me. If something happens to him…
Gennadiy nudged my arm. I turned to see him holding out a black handgun, no doubt with the serial numbers filed off. A criminal’s gun. I hesitated, then took it.
Radimir took his own car, Mikhail went in his SUV, and Valentin rode with us. We drove in silence, as cold gray clouds filled the sky above us. Valentin spent the journey staring out of the window, toying with something on a chain around his neck. Just as we arrived, I finally glimpsed what it was: a silver bird, small and delicate, like it was designed to hang on a thinner chain around a smaller neck.
We assembled down the street from Finn O'Donnell’s bar. The sky was getting darker and darker: we were in for a massive thunderstorm, any minute. “We don’t go in shooting,” Radimir told us sternly. “We give Finn a chance to explain. But be ready for anything.” We all nodded.
We moved off down the street, with Gennadiy and me at the back of the group. Valentin still hadn’t spoken. “Is he okay?” I murmured to Gennadiy.
Gennadiy frowned, thinking. “What’s the date?”
I had to think for a second: a lot had happened in the last few days. “The thirtieth.”
Gennadiy grimaced. “Tomorrow is a difficult day for him.” And he moved forward in the group and put his arm around Valentin’s shoulders. I stared, trying to reconcile the two sides of him: the brutal killer and crime boss who sank his opponents in Lake Michigan and the man who deeply, fiercely, loved his family.
Finn O'Donnell’s bar was a beautiful old red-brick building four stories high, surrounded by vacant lots on all sides. The story I’d heard was that property developers had bought up and demolished everything else in the street to build high-end apartment buildings, but Finn had stubbornly refused to sell. As we reached the doors, Gennadiy gave Valentin’s shoulder a last squeeze and then moved in front of me, blocking my path with his broad back. “Stay behind me,” he told me over his shoulder.
“I know how to use this,” I reminded him, showing him the gun under my jacket. “I’ve been on plenty of raids.”
“I know.” He faced the front. “Stay behind me anyway.”
I rolled my eyes, but the worry in his voice made me secretly melt. Then Gennadiy pushed through the doors, and we were inside.
I wasn’t ready for the wall of noise that hit us. It was barely noon, but the place was already crowded with people drinking and talking. There was a rowdy, happy, blue-collar atmosphere, like everyone was either about to break into a song or start a bar brawl.
Part of what made it so noisy was the layout. The first two floors were one huge, double-height room with pool tables and three bars, and old, rickety-looking balconies loaded with people looking down from above. Everyone was in jeans and t-shirts, and the Aristovs stood out a mile in their suits. One of the bartenders pulled out his phone and muttered into it. Finn was going to know we were coming.
People cleared a path for us—even in Irish territory, everyone knew who the Aristovs were—and we worked our way up the wide, wooden staircase to the third floor. We approached a heavy oak door guarded by three unsmiling men. One of them opened it and waved us inside, then all three of them followed us in and closed the door behind us.
And there, behind an antique desk, lounged Finn O'Donnell.
He was in a suit, but he didn’t wear it the way the Aristovs wore theirs. More like Finn and the suit had negotiated, had a drink, and come to an amicable arrangement. He wasn’t wearing the jacket, there was no tie, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and rolled up over his muscled forearms. He was kicked back in an aging leather chair, his feet up on the desk, and a glass of whiskey in his hand.
I hadn’t been ready for how good-looking he was. I’d seen him in photos, but they didn’t capture how deeply blue his eyes were, or how they sparkled when he smiled.
“Well, well, well,” said Finn. “The entire Aristov family. I’m honored.” He had a faint Irish accent, like a playful thread of gold running through his words. He looked at Radimir and cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “You didn’t want to bring your wife along?”
“She’s working,” Radimir told him smoothly. “Planning an important book signing at the bookstore.”
Finn stood up and walked around the desk. “And who,” he asked, “is this lovely lady?” He stood right in front of me, thumbs hooked lazily in his belt like a cowboy, and looked deep into my eyes. His grin was teasing and cocky and just a little filthy. “Has anyone ever told you,” he asked softly, “that the way you walk is pure poetry?”