Page 15 of Ruthless Salvation

“I’m here with the Genoveses. I figured you’d want to know what they had to say. They’ve got a friend named Michael Garin, one of Boris’s crew.”

“I’m not on speaker, am I?” Keir asked.

“No, though it sounds like I am,” Conner said in a jabbing tone.

“Tor is with me. Wanted him to hear.”

“Hey, man,” I called to Conner.

“That works. No need to repeat myself.”

Keir brought the talk back to the subject. “They trust this guy Michael?”

“Yeah, it’s a long story, but he’s got ties to the family. According to Boris, Damyon runs half of Moscow.”

Keir’s visible agitation mirrored my own. “What the hell is he doing here, then?” We knew the Russian was bad news but never expected him to have quite so much power.

“Not sure,” Conner continued. “But having Moscow owe Boris a favor was too good an opportunity to pass up. No chance of them colluding, though. These guys don’t trust one another even a little.”

“Guess that’s good to hear,” Keir said, tension still tightening his voice. “Thanks for checking on that.”

“No problem. Michael says he’ll let us know if he hears anything else.”

“Pass along our appreciation.” In our world, a phrase like that was as good as gold. Michael had done us a solid, and we’d return the favor, should he ask. I hoped the Genoveses weren’t leading us astray.

“Will do.”

The call clicked dead.

Keir slid his phone in his pocket, a hint of a frown tugging at his lips. “I suppose if Boris isn’t worried, we shouldn’t be either, but I’d much rather find out that asshole is on his way back to Russia where he belongs.”

“My sentiments exactly. Until that’s the case, I say we stay on high alert.”

“Agreed.”

We wrapped up our business at the rink, then went our separate ways. Preparations for fight night kept me preoccupied most of the day, and since it was Sunday, I didn’t have to go by Moxy.

The next day, I got up early enough for one last gym session before resting for Wednesday’s fight. Early as in noon. Overseeing the club kept my schedule opposite most folks. I preferred it that way. It gave me an excuse to be antisocial.

After my workout, I strengthened my resolve to ignore Stormy Lawson. She was scheduled to work, and I wanted to show up mentally prepared. I had to stop thinking about her and following her like a goddamn puppy. It didn’t matter what customers said to her or what idiotic danger she put herself in. It wasn’t my responsibility.Shewasn’t my responsibility.

I absolutely, without exception, could not give in to the temptation to engage with her because I had no self-control where she was concerned, and that simply wasn’t an option. Maintaining control in all aspects of my life was paramount. Without discipline and predictability, chaos ensued. Neither she nor anyone else outside of my family was worth that sort of risk.

* * *

I was remarkablysuccessful at avoiding Stormy the first half of the night. No eye contact. No greetings. No interaction whatsoever.

I started to believe I had day one in the bag when a swell of cheers snagged my attention, and I looked at the main stage. Micky had started her set, but instead of dancing, she pointed into the crowd, motioning for someone to join her.

“This is your song, baby. Come show me what you’ve got,” she called over the music.

What the fuck was she doing? She knew as well as the rest of us that it caused chaos when clientele ended up on the stage. My irritation ignited into fury when I saw Storm waltz up the steps into the limelight.

Motherfucking no.

The beat dropped to a pulsing grind, and both women began to move in unison. Every muscle in my body instantly coiled and was ready to lash out.

So if you fucking want me,

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