Page 46 of Lucky Strike

“Oh, sorry—did I pull you out of Mass?” I ask flatly.

He holds his hands up. “My abuela wishes.”

I allow a small smile. “What’s going on?”

“I did some asking around after your brother hit me up.” Thesparkle in his dark brown eyes flattens, replaced by regret. “Looks like we got a problem. A couple of problems, actually.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Angel lifts his chin. “Ilya Sokolov paid some of my guys a visit back in March, told ‘em he’d hook ‘em up if they lifted some of your outgoing hardware every month. I don’t have numbers, yet, but I know they’ve succeeded a couple times.”

I nod once. “I can confirm.”

“I took care of it already; family business,” he says firmly, eyes warning me not to overstep. “But the Bratva’s not stopping, Lucky. They got eyes on you.”

“Yeah, well, we got eyes on them, too,” I assure him. “I’m guessing there’s more.”

“They’re trying to get into the gun game,” Angel says. “The ones they stole were samples. They wanted to see what the product was like, up close. They got a supplier down in Miami, but they’re not happy with it. They want something closer, and they know you got one.”

We get our guns from a family-owned business in New Hampshire, known for top tier product. Like us, some of their business is legit. Brand new guns are manufactured right there and sold to legal firearm resellers. But they have other clientele, a group of under-the-radar buyers that includes Saoirse. My family’s the syndicate’s contact. We order the best of what they got, whether it’s brand new, acquired from the black market, or decommissioned and repurposed military firearms.

We’ve been running guns since the seventies, when the grandfather I was named for came to America and started supplying folks back in Belfast and Armagh. My family made a fortune, and when the fighting in Northern Ireland cooled, they turned their attention to other conflict zones. By the time my dad took over, the Kellys had gone domestic as well, supplying groups across the States. Massachusetts, with its stringent gun laws, was prime real estate.

The Sokolovs, on the other hand, have built their empire on cybercrime, drugs, and sex work. Rumor has it they’re into darker shit, too, like selling girls that don’t want to be sold. Their nightclubs in Boston and Manhattan make a mint but are ultimately fronts for their real businesses. We’ve never had problems with the local Bratva because there’sno overlap in what we do. Why they suddenly want to get in on the arms hustle is a mystery.

I narrow my eyes, thinking. “What’d they offer you?”

Angel raises an eyebrow. “Monthly payment to keep an eye on outgoing shipments and report back times and cargo details. Three hundred for every M16 lifted, four for the ARs.”

“They really think we wouldn’t notice?” I ask, incredulous. I’ve seen a lot of stupidity, but this might take the cake. Just because we ship a ton of iron out every month doesn’t mean I’m not going to notice if some goes missing. We run a tight ship, no fucking pun intended.

“Nah, they know you’re gonna notice.”

So, they’re trying to bait us then, too. Intercept outgoing shipments so they can get their greedy paws on our cargo, lure us into war. But why? “What else?” Because I know there’s more.

“They want control over your routes, your connections,” he says. “They probably wanna put you out of business.”

“What’d you say to them?” I ask.

“Told ‘em I had to talk to the prez.” Angel runs his neighborhood’s crew, but his cousin Rafael is the president—he calls the shots in Boston. “Raf’s not gonna switch things up, though. It doesn’t make sense when your people are in good with the cops and inspections and all that.”

The Blades have been allies of ours since the nineties. They ship in and out of Conley, too, paying us ten percent to make sure their shit passes inspections. We have connections with all the right people—and by right, I mean corrupt—in shipping and transportation so we can stay discreet, exploiting weak points in the inspection process. We pay people to make sure our shit, and the Blades’, gets in and out without issue. Angel and his boys provide manpower down at Conley Terminal and sometimes in the streets, depending on the situation. They even come to us when they need hardware. We got their back, and they got ours.

But the Sokolovs are cutthroat, and they won't take no for an answer. Propositioning Angel’s men is obviously just the first step in eliminating the competition.

I nod, considering whether I should tell my father or not. A couple months ago, it wouldn’t have even been a question. He’s in charge. But Idon’t want to stress him out right now. Only thing he needs to focus on is getting better.

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Tell Rafael to stall on the other stuff. We’ll deal with the Russians.”

“Do that. We’re not trying to be in the middle of no war.” Angel pulls a battered burner phone from his pocket and squints at the screen. “I gotta go. You good?”

“Yeah. Thanks for bringing me up to speed.”

“Your business affects my business, Lucky.” He bumps his fist to mine, and we go our separate ways.

Back in the Range Rover, I relay the parts of our conversation Tristan missed as we exit the garage. “So, what’s next?” he asks.

Both of our phones go off at the same time. “Fuck, Johnny says the Sokolovs are at the docks.”

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