Page 3 of Black Sheep

He’s not exactly a friend but there’s mutual respect and acceptance of the otherworldliness inhabiting our blackened souls. It’s what drew us to each other when we were placed in the same group for a brief time at West Point. Although Quinn never served, we kept in touch and ended up owning several nightclubs together, XYNYC being one of them.

Like me, he doesn’t need the income. Like me, this place is one of many outlets for the demons that haunt him.

I make sure Cleo is still seated and return to the bar.

I watch Quinn knock back a large drink in one ruthless gulp. “You know there’s a better blend in your VIP room, right?”

He slams the glass on the counter with barely suppressed violence. “Too far,” he replies.

We’re roughly the same height so, when he shoots me a glance, I’m well positioned to see the hounds of hell chasing through the jagged landscapes of his eyes. I don’t flinch. I welcome the horde like kindred spirits. Our souls have endured more than enough to last us several lifetimes, and we both know it. “That bad, huh?”

His jaw clenches as he takes a breath. “Worse.”

“Need any help?”

A dark shadow moves over his face, and he shakes his head. “It’s done. I have what I need.”

I don’t press him for more information. Ours is not that kind of relationship.

I catch movement from my lounge, and my gaze zeroes in on my nemesis. She’s risen from the sofa and leaning against the railing once more, the untouched glass of champagne again in one hand. The bodyguards are once more alert, and a few of my errant brain synapses attempt to be amused by the glare she sends their way. “If you need anything else, let me know,” I say absently, unable to take my eyes off the woman whose presence looms as large as the Sphinx before me.

I sense Quinn following my gaze, then returning to me. “Looks like you have a situation of your own that needs taken care of.”

“Yeah.” My voice feels as rough as it sounds. “Fucking tell me about it.”

He doesn’t nod or smile. Quinn Blackwood rarely smiles. But then, neither do I. Another thing we have in common. “Anything I can do, let me know,” he says.

No one can help me with this. “Thanks,” I say anyway.

He asks questions that bounce off the edge of my consciousness.

I shrug. I nod. I respond. But throughout, my senses are attuned to the other side of the room.

I barely register him stalking away. I click my fingers, and Cici, one of my waitresses, sidles up to me. I relay instructions, and she leaves, but not before she smiles in a way that ramps up my irritation.

I can’t think about that now. I have more than enough to deal with tonight.

Four lounges from Cleo’s, Vardan Petrosyan, the New York head of the Armenian mob, is downing expensive vodka like there’s a drought coming. His unsavory presence sticks in my gut like a rusty blade, but since he’s one of the many devils I’ve struck a deal with, I have to tolerate his presence for as long as necessary.

He’s been here going on two hours. I’ve ignored him for most of that time. Any longer and I risk pissing him off.

Men like Petrosyan demand fear where they can’t achieve respect. I feel neither, and he knows it, but he’s also aware I need him more than he needs me right now. So we both pretend I feel the latter.

I make my way to where he sits with his entourage. His minders stand in my way for the extra second it takes to make their point before they step aside.

The mob boss has a tall, slim blonde perched on each thigh. They both glance at me as I approach. I ignore them and focus on the short, stocky man with boxy features.

When he finally removes his wandering lips from one of the women’s cleavage, Petrosyan stares at me with dead black eyes, a cold smile sliding across his face. “I was beginning to think you forget about me,” he tells me in broken, heavily accented English.

“I wanted to catch you when you were feeling soft and mellow,” I reply.

He barks out a laugh. “Nadiya, he thinks I’m soft and mellow. Do you think I’m soft and mellow?”

The blonde on his left immediately shakes her head.

“Feel free to check; let’s make sure, ya?” he encourages.

She happily obliges by groping him brazenly. “No, Vardan, you are hard…everywhere.”

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