Page 105 of Lucky Strike

“Yup.” He pats the piece concealed beneath his jacket.

Alex gives a nod from beside Finn.

I nod, and Tristan pulls out of the public parking lot. We’re in downtown Allston—Bratva territory. We’ve been laying low for the past half hour, waiting to hear from Kiki, the bartender I paid to keep an eye on the interior of Natalya’s. It’s the Sokolovs’ most popular venue, and one of the few that isn’t a strip club.

We drive by the front first, getting a feel for it. It’s lit, even on a Sunday night. Guess they deviate from the older, more devout generations in that way. Guess we all do.We’re not here as patrons, though. Natalya’s is Sokolov headquarters, and the brothers conduct business froman office upstairs. We’re paying them a visit tonight because, well, we got business. Tristan drives up a couple of blocks before circling and parking beneath a blown streetlight on an empty, quiet street.

Keeping to the shadows, we approach Natalya’s from the rear. The dank alley behind the club has a pair of dumpsters and a security guy so burly he makes the Incredible Hulk look petite. Pulling a mask down over his face, Tristan goes in. The guard stiffens as my brother emerges from the dark, recognizing the threat a second too late. Tristan grabs his left hand, delivering a sharp pressure point strike to the right side of his neck. The guard’s knees buckle, and he collapses. Tristan keeps applying pressure until he’s gone, at which point we move in.

We slip through the door into a black hallway that opens into the club itself. It’s a sensory nightmare, a hazy kaleidoscope of colors whirling through smoke machines, perfume and sweat, the sour tang of stale beer. Heavy house music pounds relentlessly while girls wearing next to nothing dance in elevated glass boxes. We move slowly, sticking to the wall, scanning for threats as we edge down the hallway toward the black, nearly invisible door Kiki said to look for. It appears just ahead, on the left.

Pulling my Glock from my holster, I enter first, followed by Finn, Alex, and then Tristan. We ascend a dark, sticky staircase and pause outside a second door. I put my ear to the wood, but it’s impossible to hear anything thanks to the bass-heavy music. Yanking down my mask, I push my way into the office. Ivan and Ilya Sokolov are across the room, talking with another man. Two others stand at the darkly tinted glass, looking out over the club below. Alex steps up first, dispatching the first two who take aim. The third manages to squeeze out a couple of shots, and Alex falls back against the wall, cursing. Tristan pushes past him, killing the shooter before turning his gun on Ilya. Throughout it all, I’ve got my gun trained on Ivan, whose gun is trained on me. He spits a toothpick from his mouth, eyes flashing with murderous intent as we stare each other down.

“I hope you’re not surprised,” I murmur.

“What the fuck is this?” Ilya growls, inching toward the gun on the desk.

“Leave it,” Tristan says tersely. Ilya does, his hand falling to his side.

“You know what this is,” I respond, never looking away from Ivan.

“We may’ve had a little dust-up at the docks, but our families have a truce,” Ivan says, eyes narrowed.

“That truce dissolved the second you hit Lucky’s house,” Tristan says. “And then his car.”

“With me in it,” I add, taking a step toward Ivan. “My family.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” Ivan says.

“I heard it was a hit and run.” Ilya sneers. “You have no idea who was in that truck.”

“You’d be surprised what I know,” I say, darkly amused that he just admitted to knowing it was a truck that hit us.

Doubt flickers across his face as he glances at Ivan. Suddenly he reaches for his waist, his grip closing around another gun. Before he can properly aim, Tristan empties three rounds into his chest.

“No!” Ivan flinches, his eyes flying to his fallen brother. “What did you do?” he screams, rage mottling his skin. He shoots haphazardly, sending heat crackling over my skin as a bullet grazes my arm. Hissing, I shoot back, catching him in the shoulder at the same time Finn shoots him in his abdomen. Dropping the gun, he falls to his knees with a guttural roar.

I’m on him in a split second, kicking the gun away. Falling to his back, he stares up at me with hatred in his eyes and blood trickling from his mouth. Kneeling beside him, I raise his chin with the barrel of my gun. “I told you this wouldn’t end well.”

He closes his eyes. “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you!” Rage and adrenaline combine in a lethal dose, giving me tunnel vision. I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate the man beneath me. “I could’ve lost my son in that crash, my girl.”

“Yeah, well what the fuck did you think was gonna happen?” He grunts, his breaths coming fast and shallow now. “Running your mouth like that.”

“The fuck you talking about? No one ran their yaps.” I yank him up by his collar. “No one called the cops.”

“I have it on authority that you did.”

“No. It’s against code.”

“You assholes have no code.” His eyes gleam, and suddenly he laughs, closing his eyes. “You have no idea, do you?”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask, barely resisting the urge to smash his face with my gun until he stops laughing.

“Your problems are a lot closer to home than you think, Lucky.”

“Who you been working with?” Angel’s intel comes back to me like a slap. I let go of Ivan, letting his head smack the ground. “The Blades?”

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