Page 4 of Brazen King

Despite my current feud with the club’s owner, I do qualify as one of the city’s elite, so usually, it’s not hard for me to get inside. With enough money, a man can buy their way through any door in New York.

But I suspect that, after tonight, I might receive a lifelong ban from Nebo.

The thought brings a smile to my lips.

My phone buzzes, alerting me to the fact that my men are in place inside. Enough men that we’ll be able to crash Boris’s private party without a problem.

“Let’s go,” I state, slipping my phone back into my pocket and opening the passenger door of my blue carbon Bugatti.

Lance follows, sliding out from behind the steering wheel with impressive ease for a man his size.

“Evening, gentlemen,” I say, buttoning my suit jacket as we reach the bouncers that block the long line of waiting clubbers from going in before they’re admitted.

“Mr. King,” Liam says, eyeing me suspiciously. The head bouncer and I have gone multiple rounds concerning my admittance into Nebo. But somehow, I still managed to get in every time.

“I’ve already booked a suite,” I assure him, flashing my reservation code on my phone before he can turn me away.

Liam scowls almost as convincingly as Lance, then he gives a sharp jerk of his head to signal that Igor can let us inside.

“A pleasure, as always,” I say cooly, striding past them as Igor swings the club door wide.

Lance follows me inside. A dark hallway serves as a guide to the main event. It’s lit by a soft ribbon of blue-white light flowing straight through the walls on either side, filling the space with an ethereal glow.

Then the dim hallway opens up onto an overlook, two stories above a massive dance floor made up of glass. And beneath it are bright squares of light that shift colors every few seconds.

The atmosphere is filled with humming energy, the clubbers drunk on alcohol and adrenaline as the salty smell of sweat lingers on the well-conditioned air.

Their energy bill must be astronomical to keep it at such a reasonable temperature despite the apparent body heat.

My eyes find Kieran in the crowd, then Scotch, and they slowly weave through the mass of writhing bodies to join me from the opposite end of the room.

Our movement is like a dance in and of itself as my men join me from various platforms and directions. All converging on the mirrored wall set deep within the back of the club.

“Sorry, this area’s restricted,” one of Boris Sokolov’s cronies states, crossing his bulging arms over his hulking chest as he plants his feet in front of the hidden door.

“Oh, come on,” I tease. “We heard there’s a party going on tonight. I thought we could join the fun.”

“Think again,” the second man guarding the door says, and he stands shoulder to shoulder with his Bratva brother as they bar our entrance with their bodies.

“Look, boys, we’re not here to cause any trouble. Just want to have a little chat with your boss. And word on the street is he has a veryspecialguest in there with him tonight.”

Not that I would consider Don Lucian Agosti a cut above the rest. Sure, he’s charming and suave. He looks slicker than a drum of oil in all his fine Italian suits and Florentine leather shoes, but if Boris is in the mood for negotiating alliances, it won’t be with the Camorra. It’ll be with me or no one.

“The boss said no one’s allowed inside,” the first man growls.

After weeks of provoking the Sokolovpakhaninto giving me the attention I demand, I’m used to fighting for every inch of airtime. And honestly, I don’t mind.

I get a kick out of winding people up. And the Russians are far too easy in that regard.

“Come on, lad,” I tease, stepping into the first guard’s personal space so I can straighten the collar around his thick neck that doesn’t need straightening. “Lighten up. I’m sure hewouldn’t mind if we drop in for a friendly visit. It’s just me and a few friends.”

The guard’s eyes shift to the men accumulating behind me, and he seems to register the fact that not only do I have Lance—who’s considerably larger than either of them—but I’ve got seven other able-bodied Irishmen ready to help me force our way in.

“A quick chat,” I promise. “I’ll even leave my gun with you as a show of good faith.”

The man immediately bristles, and his partner’s hand goes to the small of his belt as I draw my revolver from inside the breast of my suit and pass it to him, handle first.

Lance doesn’t have to say a word. I sense his silent disagreement by the subtle shift of his weight. But he won’t argue with me.

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