Page 47 of Lucky Strike

Tristan grunts, tapping the gas. “Tell him we’re on our way.”

It’s six thirty, and the sun blazes bright, hot and low in the sky. I text Finn and Alex as we drive, telling them to follow us to Conley. Tristan maneuvers impatiently through the traffic on Summer Street, cursing the dregs of rush hour. Ten minutes later, we pull up to a cluster of warehouses on the far end of the terminal.

It’s quiet, almost deserted, except for a small group of men talking outside an office space. Sure enough, it’s Ivan and Ilya Sokolov, their crew no doubt waiting inside their Mercedes Sprinter. Tristan pulls over, cutting the engine. Finn parks behind us, doing the same.

Ilya spots us as we cross the street and lumbers over with a laugh. “Look who it is, the leprechauns of Beantown.” He’s an ugly motherfucker, big and broad, his face like a bulldog’s. “Why so frustrated, eh? You should have stopped by the club, instead. Plenty of pussy over there to help you relax.”

“We’re good, thanks,” mutters Tristan.

Ivan cocks his head, hands tucked into the jacket he always wears regardless of the weather. “Then what do you want?”Four guys slip out of the Sprinter, joining the Sokolovs on the street.

“Just wanted to have a little chat.” I keep my eyes on him, arms loose at my sides.

“Really? You appear out of nowhere just to have a little chat?” Hearches his eyebrows, making a show of scanning the street. “Tell me you have surveillance on us without telling me.”

“I have surveillance all over Southie,” I inform him. “This is my city, Ivan.”

“Your piece of the city, maybe, but fair enough.” He comes through the center of his group, stopping just inches away, a wave of his shitty cologne clobbering me. It’s a power move, but I don’t back down.“Tell me what you want so I can go, Lucky. I have someplace to be.”

“Why are you here?” I ask. “Why do we keep on seeing your guys here?”

His smile never wavers. He doesn’t know how much I know, but did he really think I knew nothing? I feel Tristan and Alex draw closer behind me. “Maybe I like the view.”

“I hear Allston’s just as nice,” I reply. “There’s nothing for you down here.”

“Ah, but there is,” he says, waving his hand toward the docks.

“I thought you worked out of Chelsea.”

“We’ve had to switch things up,” he says. “There’s plenty of room at Conley. Don’t act like a child that can’t share.”

“Sharing’s a nice sentiment, but let’s be real. There is not, in fact, enough room at Conley for the two of us. Me, doing what I do, and you, doing what you do … pretty soon there’s gonna be way too much action down here.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” says Ivan, eyes twinkling. This fucker always looks like he has a secret.

“Shit runs smoothly because we stay out of each other’s way,” I remind him. “You should stay on your side of town if you want to keep the peace.”

“Peace is overrated,” he says softly. “Anyway, it’s too late for that. We have an office here now.”

“This won’t work.” I sigh, trying to tamp down my irritation. “It won’t end well.”

“Are you trying to intimidate me?” His gazes flicker over my shoulder to Tristan, Finn, and Alex. “Is that why you’re down here?”

“Just reminding you of what’s at stake.”

Ivan’s pale blue eyes rove over my face. “That a threat?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Ilya pushes past him, surging forward so fast I don’t quite have time to dodge his fist. He clips my face as Tristan shoves me aside and delivers a clean uppercut that has Ilya’s head snapping back. And that’s all it takes. Mayhem descends as we collide in a flurry of fists and shouts. Ivan socks me in the face, so I thump him in his, getting his ribs, too, for good measure. Tristan, Finn, and Alex throw punches left and right, eyes wild with excitement as they take on whoever comes at them. Blood pumps in my ears as I dodge another attack from Ilya, striking him in the jaw with a swift right hook. He stumbles backward, but not before landing a grazing hit on my cheekbone. Tristan whoops from somewhere behind me. He loves this shit.

But we can’t let this escalate any further. There are cops around, and even though most of them are on our payroll, this is messy. I knew it was a risk, rolling up on the Sokolovs’ crew like this, but I came to talk, not brawl.

Before Ilya, who’s panting like a rabid dog, blood seeping from a cut on his cheek, comes for me again, I pull out my Glock and point at him. “We’re leaving,” I yell above the noise. “I suggest you do the same.”

Ivan catches sight of me, yelling something unintelligible, and the fighting falters as everyone else reaches for their guns.

“We’re leaving,” I repeat, keeping my eyes, and my aim, on Ilya.

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