Page 13 of Dance of Ruin

The table goes quiet for a moment.

Kir Nikolayev, head of the Nikolayev Bratva, isexactlythe kind of person who would have a bone to pick with the Black Court. Kir’s old-school Bratva, the kind of man who believes in the traditional way of doing things. A lot of the old guard is like that—even the fathers of some of the men in this room.

The Black Court doesn’t play by the rules of the old world. We judge criminals who should have been judged by their own people and take justice into our own hands.

And Kir in particular has made itabundantlyclear he doesn’t like that.

But Kir’s the easy answer. Too easy.

“I don’t think it's Kir,” I say.

The Wolf drums his fingers on the thick wooden tabletop. “Why not?” he grunts.

I tap the ash from my cigarette. “Kir doesn’t play games like this.” I glance over at Carmine sitting next to me, still wearing his Hound mask. “Not now that we’ve got the friction out in the open. He knows about us, we know about him. For now, I think it’s a stalemate.”

Carmine nods slowly. “I’m inclined to agree. Kir’s a motherfucker, but he’s a motherfucker who comes at you and sticks a gun in your face, he doesn't skulk around in the shadows. It’s not his style.”

The Stag watches me carefully. “That lead of yours last night. How’d that go?”

I grimace before I slowly take a drag on my smoke.

Last night's meetup with Omar was supposed to give us an insight to the people…or person…who might be prying into the Black Court. I have a whole network of underworld “connections” or “little birds” throughout the city, and I’d heard from more than one of them that this guy Omar had been mouthing off in a couple of bars about his dickhead boss being “on the hunt for the Black Court”.

That’s why I arranged a meet: to figure out if this guy was full of shit, or if he really was an employee of the person who might be trying to dig into our secrets.

Turns out, Omarwasfull of shit. He also overplayed his hand.

“If you were this interested in meeting me, then that means you’re worried about what me and my crew might already know about your little club.”

Pro tip, Omar: don’t drop the only ace up your sleeve when you’re alone on a rooftop with someone likeme.

I clear my throat. “The meet was a dead end.”

“How dead?” Carmine asks dryly.

I exhale smoke, lips curling. “The kind where you’d need a shovel to scrape it off 7th Avenue.”

The Bull chuckles, shaking his head. “That good, huh?”

I shrug. “The whole thing was a setup to see if we’d react to someone like him mouthing off about his boss digging into us. And we did. I walked right fucking into it.” I frown, rapping my knuckles on the table. “But then he overplayed his hand, so I took care of it.”

The Wolf laughs darkly. “Good. Motherfucker got what he deserved.”

I lean back, stretching out my legs. “But it means whoever’s looking for us is getting bolder. More deliberate.”

Carmine’s mask turns toward me, and I glance over at him.

“Yes?”

“We can assume there were no witnesses?”

I roll my eyes. “You were more fun before you became don.”

Carmine slowly raises a middle finger.

“No,” I continue dryly. “There were no witnesses.”

I don’t know why I lie.

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