Page 133 of Broken Blood Ties

I fumble next to me, grappling to grab Cormac’s arm. When he finally understands where I’m pointing, he curses and jolts to stand before he takes off in a near sprint.

I throw my damn heels, chucking them away. The floor is sticky, grimy with an uncomfortable pull, as alcohol, spit, and God knows what else suctions to the soles of my feet. I take off in the direction Cormac darted, glancing over my shoulder to see Riku lost in the sea of people. What the hell happened?

Yanking out my phone, I dial Kieran this time. It goes straight to voicemail.

Jeez.

It’s then I decide to shoot off the text while clinging to the outer wall of the arena, making my way to the entrance that leads to the halls surrounding it. I’m panting from the stagnant humid air, plus my exertion in this confining dress.

I scramble to find any of Kieran’s men; the guards he has plastered around the arena. Where are they?

Several men I don’t recognize brush by me in suits, and when I turn to look at them, they’ve stopped to watch me.

Yakuza.

Stumbling back, I run into a cackle of girls in fancy cocktail dresses giggling and sucking the straws of their drinks. “Hey! Watch it!” one of them yells.

The four Yakuza men drift toward me, dressed in all black. No suits. Just black slacks with black shirts and leather jackets. I push through more people spilling out into the main hallway for drinks and slip on spilled alcohol, crashing down on my knees to the concrete floor.

My heart pounds in my chest while I frantically try to untangle the long fabric of my dress from where it’s bunched around my legs. I cry out, dread tightening around my throat as desperation gnaws at me to.Move, move, move!

I force myself to my feet, legs shaky beneath me. Focused behind me on the approaching men, I slam into a solid figure and the impact knocks the breath from my lungs while I stagger back. I swallow, hard, and take in the grim, familiar face.

“Callum?”

Chapter41

Kieran

Forty minutes earlier…

Salvatore Buscetta steps forward, his shoulder grazing a black training bag close to him.

“Or should I say pretend son-in-law,” he says, moving around to stand by Riku.

I glance over my shoulder at Callum. His expression moves downward when I try to meet his gaze.

I frown.

“What is this?” I ask.

That’s when Riku stands, his traditional leather outfit creaking with each flex of the material. He lifts a chin to Callum before the door opens and two more Yakuza men enter.

My thoughts sour when I look at Callum beside the Yakuza men. He stands in stark contrast to the others in every way—his long, tousled brown hair against their shaved black, his green eyes among a line of dark, and the disgrace in his expression clashing with the smug smirks on their faces.

Damn it, Callum. What the hell is this? He sold me out? How in the bloody hell did this happen? My thoughts quickly shift to panic. Callum wasn’t some street lackey—he was part of my secure group. Finn, Cormac, Callum, Licon. Each a trusted mob man in my circle given access to everything the Irish has. And this is how he repays me?

Bile surges into my throat, but I swallow it down, backing away from him.

“What is this?” I ask again. The words choke me.

Summer. Where’s Summer, or Cormac?

Salvatore gestures to Riku before sliding his hands into his pockets. The lines around his mouth from one too many cigars, I’m sure, curve upward, and I clench my fists.

He drags a hand through his salt-colored hair.

“We have a mutual interest in seeing this through,” Riku starts.

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