Page 3 of Brazen King

And now I feel the subtle assessment as men’s eyes roam over me with fresh interest.

“Quite a surprising turn of events tonight,” Evan observes mildly after a few moments of polite pleasantries.

My mouth tastes bitter as I work to keep my mask of shy innocence in place—a mask my parents taught me to adopt at a very early age.

This facade ensures our public persona remains respectable, revered even, in the elite social circle that protects and covers for the true nature of our family business.

“Shocking, I must admit,” I murmur, dropping my chin to look up at him through my lashes. “Mr. King made quite a spectacle.”

Evan and his counterparts give a soft chuckle of acknowledgment.

“Though, I must say, he isn’t entirely off base. Your father’s kept you girls locked in this tall tower for far too long. You’ve become beautiful young women. You deserve the chance to date.” Evan winks as he raises his martini glass in a suggestive solute.

I smile shyly to mask the heat that floods my cheeks as embarrassment rather than fury. “You’re sweet” is all I say. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” Giving the subtlest of curtsies, I pretend to wave to someone trying to get my attention across the room. Then I sweep from the group and make a beeline for the bar.

If I’m going to endure this roomful of overbearing wannabe suitors, I’ll need a drink.

“A glass of cabernet, please,” I say breathlessly, leaning against the wet bar with a suited bartender behind it.

“Of course, Miss Sokolov.” He turns to uncork a bottle and pour the crimson liquid into a tall-stemmed glass.

“Put that on my tab,” someone says in a playful, lilting voice beside me.

I recognize the low baritone immediately—and the hint of Irish brogue, not enough to mean he’s from Ireland, but I can guarantee Killian King’s parents were from the Emerald Isle.

God grant me patience, or I might make good on my father’s suggestion and send Killian’s balls straight up into his throat.

“It’s an open bar, Mr. King,” I observe cooly, straining to keep my tone polite.

Killian chuckles, the sound sending a shiver up my spine.

No one as arrogant and vexing as the Irish mafia leader should be so naturally appealing. It must go against some law of the universe. Though I’m not sure which one.

“I know that, Miss Sokolov,” he says cheekily. “I was joking.”

Still, he pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and drops it into the bartender’s tip bucket. The bartender’s eyes widen slightly as he passes the glass across the counter to me.

“Thank you,” I say softly, accepting the glass. Lifting the glass in a silent toast, I make a show of thanking Killian’s generosity.

Then, without another word, I turn my back on him deliberately and stalk away.

It’s as much attitude as I dare to exhibit during such a public event. But I need to leave before I completely lose my careful poise.

Because Killian King is dangerously good at making my blood boil.

2

KILLIAN

Humor bubbles up in my chest as I consider the subject of my plan tonight.

By now, Boris Sokolov is likely wishing I were never born.But how else am I supposed to get his attention?

Lance Knight, my foster brother and right-hand man, sits beside me, in the driver’s seat. His permanent scowl remains etched across his brow as we wait outside the lively Sokolov nightclub.

Music floods St. Mark’s Place every time the doors open, despite the fact that the sun has only just dipped below the horizon. But that’s not entirely surprising.

Notorious as one of New York’s finest VIP clubs, Nebo is always busy as soon as it opens. The club utilizes plenty of chic lighting and tiered areas for clubbers to sit and watch if they don’t want to join the pulsing mob on the dance floor below.

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