Page 32 of Brazen King

But I refuse to have feelings for him. He’s my family’s enemy—my enemy.

Besides, he’ll probably be dead before tomorrow. If I have any say about it.

13

KILLIAN

“How’s it going, Johnny?” I ask as I stroll through the front doors of O’Laoghaire’s a few hours before the traditional Irish pub would open for lunch.

As one of my main fronts for my less-than-legal side of the business—not to mention one of the best pubs in Brooklyn—O’Laoghaire’s serves as something of a main office for me. A convenient place to meet my men and shoot the breeze over a pint before getting down to business in the back room.

“Hey, boss. Lance,” Johnny greets us from behind the bar as he hoists a rack of glasses onto the counter. A cigarette hangs loosely between his lips, giving him that air of indifference he’s known for.

With arms the size of tree trunks and tattoos covering every inch of exposed flesh, he looks more like a bouncer than a bartender. But he makes a mean cocktail, and I feel perfectly at ease with him in charge. He knows how to make his own rules, but he sure as hell enforces the ones I put down as well. Which makes this pub one of the safest on the east side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Beside me, Lance responds to Johnny’s greeting with a curt nod. But that’s good enough for the bartender. Lance’s silence is to be expected.

“Teague here yet?” I ask Johnny as I keep walking past the pool tables toward the back room. We’re meeting with several of my captains about the deal we’re brokering with the yakuza tonight—a shipment my men will be taking charge of as soon as it arrives.

“He’s already waiting for you,” Johnny confirms, jutting his chin in the direction we’re headed.

“Perfect.” Flinging the frosted-glass-paned doors wide, I step into the poker room we use as something of a casual conference area.

Seven of my most trusted men recline about the space, some sitting, some leaned against a wall. Two have darts in their hands as they face off at the board along the far wall. But as soon as I enter, the horseplay stops.

“Fellas,” I say as Lance closes the doors behind me. “I hope you all had a nice weekend.”

“Yeah, boss.” They respond with broad grins.

“Good. Then, I’ll take it you’re chomping at the bit to get back to work,” I joke. Pulling out a chair beside the one my accountant is sitting in, I plop into it. “Teague, why don’t you inform our boys about the shipments they have to look forward to and what their roles will be?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Teague agrees, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his long nose as he opens the ledger.

The men step closer, setting their games aside to settle around the poker-made-conference table.

But before Teague can begin, the sharp crack of a door hitting a wall catches my ear. My head jerks instinctually in the direction of the main dining area, and my men do the same as the sound of elevated voices follows.

The glass-paned French doors muffle the words, but I catch the distinct rolling sound of a Russian accent followed by Johnny’s gruff, authoritative tone. Beside me, Lance tenses, his feet carrying him toward the door before anyone else has time to react.

A moment later, the sound of glass shattering has the rest of us on our feet. And the crunch of wood breaking tells me our Russian guests have decided to smash up the pub—likely because they know it belongs to me.

“Bloody bastards,” Lance growls, drawing his gun as he wrenches the door open.

Harper, Seamus, and Aaron follow suit as they stand on either side of the doorframe, maintaining partial cover.

As the frosted glass doors swing wide, they reveal a handful of Sokolov men, all hulking figures with weapons of destruction in their hands as they smash glasses and batter the tables and chairs.

Two have Johnny restrained, his cheek pinned to the bar counter, his massive arms forced behind him as they struggle to keep him under control. Aside from a split lip and torn shirt, he looks no worse for wear. They must have had to gang up on him in order to subdue him.

Neither of his bearded captors look like he took it sitting down. In fact, one seems to be missing several teeth, while the other has a bloody nose and a good-sized welt over his left ear.

“Alright, mates, go ahead and release my bartender unless you want trouble,” I state casually, though I raise my voice to carry over the noise of barstools breaking.

Several Russians glance in my direction, and one gives a sneer before taking his bat to the light suspended over a pool table. Sparks fly as the glass shatters, and the chord whips wildly across the open space.

“I don’t think we will,” one of Johnny’s captors says, giving the bartender’s arm a good crank.

Johnny grimaces, biting back a grunt of pain.

---