Page 27 of Black Sheep

He watches me for a moment before his gaze swings back to the monitors. I follow his gaze and see my three brothers stroll into XYNYC.

Fuck.

The lieutenant nods at them. “We talked about your father. What about your brothers? That one, Ronan, has quite the temperament. If Bratva decides to do business with you, how do you plan to keep him in line?”

It’s a problem I’m well aware of. Ronan grew up expecting to inherit the very empire I’m actively dismantling. I know he’s been going behind my back trying to talk Petrosyan and the Albanians out of dealing with me. So far, the lure of better profit has thwarted his efforts. But he won’t take defeat lying down. I grit my jaw at the thought of going toe-to-toe with my oldest brother. “You don’t need to worry. He won’t be a problem.”

The Russian shakes his head. “Before we even think about switching sides, we need better assurances.”

“What would satisfy you?”

He doesn’t immediately respond. He stands and buttons his jacket. “You will hear from us.”

“When?”

“When you hear from us,” he replies.

I exhale my irritation and stand to shake his hand. When he leaves, I sit back down and watch my brothers on the screen.

As instructed, they’re seated in my VIP booth and are being given premium service by my most trusted hostess.

Ronan, wearing a smirk, struts around like he owns the place, tossing back shot after shot of Balvenie whisky. He wears his thirty-eight years well, although a little wear and tear shows in the slight paunch clinging to his belly and the brackets framing his mouth.

Bolton sits brooding, thumbing his nose every other minute, his dark gray gaze darting after shadows that aren’t there.

Troy, ever the ladies’ man, is sweet-talking two girls on the edge of the dance floor. I watch him beckon the hostess. A minute later, he’s offering champagne to the girls. Phone numbers are exchanged, and I’m fairly certain one or both of them will grace my brother’s bed before the night is over.

I turn off the monitors and leave my office.

Bolton is the first to spot me. He surges to his feet, catching the attention of Ronan, who barks at Troy before his gaze swings to meet mine.

I struggle to remember a time when I felt any warmth or kinship toward my oldest brother. If there were such a thing as born enemies, we would be it. I have no inkling of the exact moment it began or the events that triggered it. All I know is he’s hated me for as long as I can remember. And the feeling is mutual.

My gaze tracks left to Bolton. He nods stiffly, although his gaze is less cold.

Troy steps forward, and our eyes meet. If I had a heart worth salvaging, I would mourn the hardness I see in his eyes. With two older brothers forged in Finnan’s image, Troy, the brother closest to my age, never stood a chance.

As if he senses my pity, his square jaw clenches, his eyes throwing challenges I have no intention of accepting.

“You wanted to meet. We’re here. Tell us what this is about so I can get on with my night,” Ronan says.

I shake my head. “I’m not discussing this here. I have an apartment upstairs. We’ll talk there. I only brought you into the nightclub because my meeting was running late.”

Troy snorts. “Yeah, right. It had nothing to do with you wanting to rub your shady little operation in our faces or anything, right?”

“No, but you’re free to think what you want. While you enjoy that premium champagne, of course.”

He raises his glass to me in a mock salute. “Thanks. I will. And if this cheap little show bankrupts you, what with the economy being in the toilet and all, then all the better for teaching you to be a little humble.”

I can tell him that with thirty-seven nightclubs situated around the globe, all turning a healthy profit, I’d sooner go bald overnight then go bankrupt.

I can also inform him that he’ll need more fingers than he possesses to count the zeros of my net worth. But I don’t have the time or inclination. I need them out of my way as quickly as possible.

“Let’s get this over with,” Bolton mutters, setting down his empty glass and thumbing his nose once more.

The tension in the elevator on the way up is thick. Bolton’s incessant twitching tells me he’s suffering the worst. By the time we exit, I’m certain my brother, contrary to his vigorous assertion otherwise, is still snorting shit up his nose.

I mentally shrug. As far bearing crosses goes, his is one that might eventually kill him. Some of us are already dead.

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