Page 64 of When Kings Fall

I eyed Mason, more than a little surprised by him giving the go ahead here. “You’re giving me your blessing to go ahead and make a deal with a mafia heir?”

“I trust you. Now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling.

“I’d have to meet with him in person. He won’t make a deal any other way, something well known about the particular bastard.”

“I expected as much.”

“Go in stealth, Lev,” Colt cautioned me, his sweet worry for me clear.

“I will, cupcake. Don’t worry.”

“You should give Caterina a heads up,” Brianna advised me. “Another well-known thing concerning all of this is Nico and Caterina’s hatred for one another. Her being your friend, I can’t imagine it will go down well. Especially if you don’t clue her in. Just explain how urgent the situation is, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“Yeah. All right, let me reach out and sort this,” I said, giving Brianna a kiss on the forehead, then pulling my phone from my cargo pants to set it up.

Making a deal with the devil it was then.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

A dive bar.

Kind of apt for the dirty dealing that was about to go down.

It was also the kind of establishment where I felt the most comfortable.

Unlike the world I’d grown up in, these sorts of places were raw and honest. There was no pretense. People were their real selves, down to the bone. There was no bullshit.

With one exception.

The dangerous fucker I was here to meet.

Deception and manipulation were the name of the game for him.

Good thing I was well-schooled in that just as well as he was.

A couple of bar flies sat up at the front nursing their drinks.

There was another day drinker sipping at a scotch near the middle who I pegged as late-sixties, his shock of white wiry hair standing out through the dim lighting of the place.

I heard that distinctive rumble of a Ferrari outside, signaling the mafia prince’s arrival.

He moved quickly—just the way I liked it—and he was stepping into the bar a mere few seconds later.

He located me quickly and strode toward me with confident, measured steps.

I took him in.

At twenty-five years old, he carried himself with the confidence and command of somebody twice his age.

His deep-black hair brushed the collar of his white open-collar shirt, a designer leather jacket over the top, black just like his dress pants. He was a big guy, broad and all muscle. Green eyes the color of sapphires honestly locked on mine as he swaggered toward me, emanating a whole lot of power.

As he reached my booth, his gaze darted to my vodka and he turned his nose up. But a quirk of his lips took its place when he turned his attention to the bottle of Johnny Walker Black and the crystal glass beside it.

Recognizing that I’d gone the extra mile in a show of respect, he gave me a chin lift, then took a seat.

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