Page 33 of Brazen King

With a shrug, I swing my gun into position and pull the trigger, blasting a hole in the Russian’s shoulder. He howls, his hand releasing Johnny to cover the wound instinctually. That’s all the bartender needs to gain the upper hand, and he straightens, bringing the back of his head into the second Russian’s nose as he breaks free of his confinement.

“Can we kill ’em, boss?” Scotch demands, taking aim at a man who stands frozen as he stares at his companion with a bullet in his shoulder.

“No,” I say, a wicked grin curling my lips. Because this is clearly in retaliation for me interrupting Boris’s poker night—and taking his cocaine. Natasha might not have killed me yet, but her father’s not taking my provocation lightly.

Which is exactly what I was hoping for.

Scotch casts me a curious look. I’m not usually one to show mercy. But I think Boris has unwittingly just offered up my next opportunity for a little fun.

“I think it’s only fair that we give them a taste of their own medicine,” I say and signal my men forward.

Lance leads the charge, slipping his gun into its holster before snatching a pool stick from the wall and snapping it in half over his knee. The Russian he targets pauses, his sledgehammer midswing, and turns to face my right-hand man. And his smile starts to fade as he realizes who he’s about to fight.

My foster brother has made quite the name for himself. Around Brooklyn, he’s known as the Mad Knight—a nickname he earned for his berserker fighting style and the way he fearlessly charges his enemies. When it comes to brawls both in the bare-knuckle fighting rings and whenever someone pisseshim off, he’s not just deadly. He’s brutal. A force to be reckoned with.

He’s both the sword and shield that protects my family.

And no one wants to mess with him.

Not unless they have a death wish.

I love watching him at work.

My hands itch to join the fray. And as my men clash with Boris’s, I have half a mind to do so. But as Lance has pointed out more than once, with my father’s passing, I’m the only King left to keep the family business alive. None of my brothers want it, and Quinn’s not made for this kind of world.

So it’s probably best not to get myself killed in a stupid fist fight.

Besides, I’m getting too old for pub brawls.

Not that I’ve minded my wrestling matches with Natasha one bit.

My cock twitches just thinking about her.

And I wonder if I can’t manage to provoke another late-night visit from her with this new development. Mirth bubbles up in my chest as an idea comes to mind. I love getting under Boris’s skin. And my deal with Natasha has only motivated me in that regard. Because the more I provoke him, the more likely I am to see her.

I watch as my men subdue the situation within minutes. Using makeshift weapons or just their fists, they beat the Russians into submission. And soon, they have Boris’s men bloody, battered, and on their knees in the middle of the trashed bar.

It didn’t take much because we outnumber them easily.

I wager Boris sent just a handful of men when he thought no one would be here—so they could cause the most destruction without hurting innocent civilians. That’s something I canrespect about the oldpakhan. He doesn’t revel in unnecessary violence. But clearly, he wanted to make a statement.

And he would have succeeded, too, if I hadn’t, by chance, called an impromptu meeting today. We wouldn’t typically be here at this time. But thankfully, we are. So, once again, we have the upper hand.

I eye our new prisoners as I stand above them, stalking slowly along their ragged-looking lineup. Their smirks are long gone by now—along with several of their teeth. And they kneel complacently before me, watching me with defiantly suspicious eyes.

“What shall we do with them?” Lance asks, gripping the hair of his Russian prisoner and jerking the man’s head back to expose his throat.

Typically, now would be about the time when I’d bring their numbers down to one. And I would send the last man running back to hispakhanwith a message to make it clear that no one messes with the Kings.

I’m known for being ruthless, for killing anyone who dares to get on my bad side.

But knowing these men are connected to Natasha, even remotely, makes it harder to be cutthroat.

I don’t know which ones she might have a special attachment to—if any. They might be her cousin, her godfather, a friend. And while I don’t relish the idea of her having male friends, I also feel less inclined to hurt her by hurting someone she cares about.

“I don’t know. I think you guys have made a work of art,” I say, grinning as I look from one bloody lip to the next black eye.

Boris’s men glare up at me through swollen lids. But none say a word as they wait for my verdict.

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