Page 56 of Wicked Savage

But most of all, I just want to spend as much time as I can with her.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Fionn says from beside me, and I swear I forgot where I was for a moment.

“Doing what?” My eyes narrow as I shift in the seat at Tynan’s office, waiting for the Russians to arrive.

“Smiling.” He laughs. “It’s her, isn’t it? The girl from the club? What’s her name?”

“Fuck off.”

His grin widens. “Why are you keeping her a secret?”

“Because. I like it that way.”

He chuckles again just as Tynan passes a stern look between us. “I hope you both are being careful. Women are nothing but trouble.”

“Well, if you keep talking like that, you’re gonna die alone,” Fionn retorts.

Tynan definitely has no interest in relationships. In fact, he prefers solitude. Maybe it’s the loss of Mom and realizing that not everything lasts forever, or maybe he can't bring himself to trust anyone. Whatever the reason, his world revolves around Brody, our cousin’s son, whom he adopted after both of Brody’s parents died. Tynan constantly worries about him. The poor kid stopped talking after the tragedy. He was only six, just a baby. We all wish we could help, anything to make him talk again.

“I have Brody. I don't need anyone else.”

“One day, you’ll eat your words, brother.” Fionn folds his arms over his chest.

“Never gonna happen.”

A sharp knock on the door cuts through the tension, and we all rise in sync as the four Russian brothers walk in.

“Konstantin,” Tynan greets, shaking hands with the biggest of them all—a hulking presence, towering over everyone by a good few inches.

Konstantin moves with a calm, predatory air, his gaze never leaving us. He sits first, flanked by his brothers as they all settle on the sofa across from Fionn and me.

Tynan gestures toward the bar. “May I offer you all a drink?”

Konstantin's smile doesn't quite reach his gaze. “Vodka, please.”

Tynan’s attention flicks to the others. “And for you?”

“Same,” Kirill replies, his jaw clenched tight, the skull tattoo on his neck shifting as his muscles tense.

“Me too.” Aleksei nods, his expression as cold as his voice.

“Same for me,” Anton adds, leaning back into the sofa.

“And where is your drink?” Konstantin asks us.

Without waiting, he pours a shot for each of us and brings them over. I take mine reluctantly, but keep my face neutral.

“Nu davayti! Na zdorovie! To health, as we say in my country.”

We all raise our glasses, the burn of the liquor biting down my throat.

Tynan leans forward. “So, to what do we owe this pleasure?”

Konstantin settles back down.

“We need a favor.” His tone is smooth and deadly.

“What kind of favor?”

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