Page 75 of Black Sheep

“Very good,” he replies solemnly, and then he hangs up.

I take one last look at the blank screen. The closure of knowing who my victims were might be blocked from me for now, but if I play my cards right, another opportunity might just open up before the day is over.

I return downstairs and slip quietly into the room. Cleo is still asleep, her dried hair a sexy, tangled mass on the pillow. The sheet has half slipped off her, and one breast is bared. The remembered taste of her fills me with fresh hunger. I clench my jaw and turn away. My hunger will need to be satisfied later.

I slip back out and head to my office. Because I’ve stayed in the club overnight on many occasions, I keep a stack of laundered clothes in a closet. I dress in a black shirt and black pinstriped suit and head for the parking lot.

It’s still early enough for traffic to be bearable. I arrive at a deserted XYNYC ten minutes early and nod at the security guard at the door.

I’m not surprised when I walk into the empty club to find Sergey Yurinov, the head of the New York Bratva, seated in the booth at my private lounge, with half a dozen of his lieutenants fanned in a semi-circle around him.

I hold out my arms for the obligatory search before Sergey nods a dismissal at his men. Five of them stroll off, leaving the man I imagine is his number two.

I open my mouth to offer drinks but spot the five-thousand-dollar Stolichnaya Elite bottle and shot glass on the table next to him.

Sergey catches my gaze and shrugs. “You don’t mind, I hope? It’s still the middle of the night in Saint Petersburg.”

I stroll up the steps and take a seat at the end of the booth. I don’t hold out my hand for a handshake, and they don’t hold out theirs. “Not at all. Feel free to keep the bottle.”

He leans back, the half smile playing at his lips not diluting the look in the flint-hard eyes studying me. “Such generosity will aid us well in our negotiations, I think, Oleg, da?”

“Da,” Oleg agrees, his shrewd eyes behind rimless glasses examining me as keenly as his boss’s.

I stanch my premature anticipation of victory by cutting to the heart of the matter. For one thing, I don’t intend to be away from Cleo longer than necessary. “Shall we discuss terms?”

Sergey picks up the bottle, pours the chilled vodka, and lifts the shot glass, unhurried, to his lips. “First, explain to me, as you did to my emissary, why you need guns to run your nightclub.”

I take a breath, play the game, and give the answer he’s already aware of. “I don’t need guns to run my nightclubs. I don’t need guns at all. I just don’t want Finnan to have them.”

The boss and his assistant exchange glances.

“And before you mention it, yes, it’s personal. Will that be a problem?”

Sergey stands and strolls to the edge of the empty dance floor. “No, I don’t foresee a problem.”

I breathe easier. “Good. I propose a one-off payment of—”

“I’m not interested in your money, Mr. Rutherford.”

Tension grips my nape but I force myself to remain calm. “What are you interested in?” I inquire.

“You are very successful in the nightclub business.” He looks around, slowly spinning on his heel. “This one, for instance—”

“Is off the table,” I interject before he can finish. “I’m not interested in letting it go. I also have a silent partner who might object to our arrangement.”

Another exchange of glances. Oleg nods confirmation.

“The Punishment Club is also a noncontender,” I add, sensing the direction of the conversation.

Sergey returns to his seat and pours another shot. “This conversation is not going how I intended, my friend.”

I flash a mirthless smile. “You weren’t expecting me to be a pushover. I’m trying not to disappoint you.”

He laughs, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. He downs the drink and straightens his pristinely knotted tie. “Okay, let’s move further south. Viper Red.”

“Viper Black,” I counter. “You’ve done your homework. You know it’s in a good location, and you know how much it’s worth. It’s yours, free and clear, along with a year’s free consultation. In exchange for your agreement never to deal guns to my father.”

I’m aware I’m throwing a very lucrative business away, but the recollection of Cleo’s ugly bruises, and Finnan’s glibness over his atrocities, has sparked renewed rage. The chance for payback sooner rather than later is too good to dismiss.

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