Page 119 of Lamb

The deal wasn’t leaning in Chains’ favor, especially if he hadn’t verified the information himself before staking such a large claim on it. But Chains would always be at the bottom of the proverbial chain until he managed to rein in his club and take charge. If he could manage it, I’d commend him; building from the ground up as a traitor was no easy task.

If he couldn’t … well, I’d still be entertained by the show, nonetheless.

“Deal.” Chains extended a hand, too eager to sign himself away to such unfavorable terms. Unfortunately, time was not on his side. And neither were we.

Wolf stared at the open palm, leaving it in the empty air as his stoney glower slid back up to Chains’ face. “Information first, then we shake.”

Chains’ fingers retracted into a tight fist as he lowered it onto the tacky table. A ring of white lined his tightly pressed lips as he worked the words up from his throat.

“A dead body’s turned up,” Chains began, forcibly unfurling his fist and lying it palm down on the table. “I know that’s common news in our world, but this is a special case.” His eyes bounced between me and Wolf and, for a split-second, toward his brother, his eyes uncertain. “It’s Anatoli Ivanov.”

Nobody moved.

“Is that it?” Wolf’s shoulders sank, his creased brow smoothing over his forehead as he released a sigh.

“It’d be nice if it was.” Chains leaned back into his seat. Whatever reaction he hoped to pull from us seemed to have fallen short of his expectations. “We both know that the FBI likes to look the other way when one of their most wanted shows up face-down in a river.”

Wolf’s fist flinched beneath the table. It was a brief fraction of a second out of the corner of my eye, but it happened. Hunter stayed stiff but calm beside me, holding his unfazed expressionneatly. Chains, fortunately, was none the wiser, missing the reaction he’d been searching for.

“This time is an exception,” Chains continued, ignoring the wave that passed through his company. “A full undercover operation has been sanctioned to find whoever put an end to Romanov. And I have good word they’re looking in your direction.”

“The FBI, huh,” I huffed, pulling out my phone and scrolling through an extensive list of coded contacts. I paused over numbers that would come in handy and got to work dancing my fingers over the screen and firing a few short messages.

Chains, and even his two buddies, sent me some inquisitive but guarded glances until Wolf diverted the attention.

“You got a time on this?”

“Sounds like they’ve been sniffing around your area already. If they haven’t been yet, you probably got a few days,max, before they come knocking.”

“Who’s your contact on this?”

“I don’t reveal my sources.”

Wolf gave him a long, hard look, stern silence stretching across the retro diner table, coffee growing cold between them. “Good. Don’t burn bridges you don’t have to,” he grunted, the closest thing to a compliment from a fellow president that Chains would ever receive.

Wolf pressed his humongous paws flat on the table and pushed his huge form to full height. He towered easily over the table and the other men. Even Hunter was dwarfed by his superhuman size.

Concern fractured through Chains’ calm and collected mask. His eyes flickered between us as I shifted out of the booth, making room for Wolf to follow, watching as the expression crept closer to the surface.

I kept mute, wondering if the pup would jump the gun or if he’d let us walk out the door.

Wolf ended my experiment.

A large meaty paw was extended over the still steaming coffee pot. A frown was still woven into the grooves of the Russian man’s face, his expression permanently disapproving and disgruntled.

Chains wasn’t fazed. He almost leaped across the table, stealing Wolf’s hand into a fierce grip before it could escape. Wolf held it for a long tenuous moment, and I’d bet money on the test of strength being exchanged between them.

“You’ll hear from us tomorrow,” Wolf finished, being the first to release the grip, satisfied by the exchange.

I stepped aside, letting Wolf take the lead as he turned his back on the young president, who had once been our enemy. As a betting man, I’d put money on the new fragile alliance taking shape. As vice president, I’d say there was much work left to do for anything to come to fruition.

Cold, tingling air was welcomed as we stepped out of the stiflingly warm diner, and I strolled toward my bike in tow of my president. Behind me, Hunter followed the procession with stiff, near-robotic movements.

“Family reunions always feel a bit tense,” I stated, rubbing my arms to chase away the settling chill. “I assume, anyway. I’ve never had one.”

Hunter sent me a cutting glare. “It was a business meeting,” he snipped. “What do you want us to do? Hug? Catch up like old times? Oh, wait. We don’t have any old times.”

“Ouch,” I hissed, holding a hand over my wounded chest. “That’s a tad cruel.”

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