Page 49 of Savage Lust

“Be careful.”

That was the second time someone had said that to me in the past few hours. My response was a half-annoyed grunt.

The flickering lights of The Black Cat Gentleman’s Club lit his face as we pulled into the parking lot. Even the beard didn’t hide the hard line of his mouth. I hadn’t told her shit, hadn’texplained the rules. But I’d done it to protect her. I couldn’t explain that to Jace, not yet. I’d have to leave him with his opinions.

I climbed from the passenger seat. Preacher and Band Aid, a burly guy with a baby face, were already waiting outside with Kyrylo Soletsky. The heir to the Ukrainian mafia had a baby face that would fool just about anyone.

But I knew better. The cheap grin as Preacher talked was fake as fuck.

“About damn time.” Ky’s smile vanished from his face but twinkled, real, in his eyes.

I slapped my hand into his and let him pull me into a back smacking hug.

“Looks good on you.” He tugged at the front of my t-shirt. “Maybe I won’t lose any of my girls to the back of your bike tonight.” There was no accent to his English. He’d grown up in Vegas. But he switched easily to Ukrainian to issue a few curt commands as we followed him into the club.

The lights and smells were all familiar. They used to leave me feeling at ease, maybe excited. The dancers here were as hot as any I’d seen in the city. And yet, I could only think about Riley.

I locked gazes with Preacher as we ducked off into Ky’s office, and the spot behind my ear itched again. I let the older guy go in first, not trusting him not to knife me in the back. This was a brotherhood, with no place for that distrust and yet...

“The agreed-upon amount?” Preacher asked as soon as the door shut behind us. Asserting his dominance, an attempt to remind the younger men in the room he was in charge.

Ky nodded.

“Have you considered our offer?” Preacher barreled on, not giving him a chance to respond further.

Ky caught my gaze in the mirror across from his desk and made a face. Preacher was going over as well as a shovel to theskull. I’d not talked to Ky about this. Hell, I’d adamantly argued against Preacher’s bullshit right alongside Archer.

“I have. My answer remains the same.”

The tall Ukrainian looked at home in the dark wood and leather covered office. He wore all black, with the occasional flash of gold around his neck, in his ears, and on his fingers.

“Why not? White boy money spends as good as brown.” The growl in Preacher’s voice was meant to be threatening.

Ky considered a bottle of vodka, put it back, and poured shots of expensive tequila before turning and passing them out, purposely not answering. There would be no intimidating the guy who grew up with gangsters and war. He might live here, but he’d been home more than a few times.

Ky took his shot, swallowed, and smiled before hitching a hip on the corner of his large desk. “I don’t shit where I eat. You shouldn’t either.”

I shot mine and dropped the glass on the sidebar. Preacher stopped short of scowling, but the man hated tequila—hell, his racist ass hated everything that came across the border. This was extra salt in the wound, not on the rim.

The grin I exchanged with Ky meant he knew it, too.

“Product is being loaded now.” Then he looked directly at me, and any good humor egging on Preacher had brought to the room was sucked out. “For you, my friend, and in honor of Archer, my uncles have agreed on a good faith deal. Two days until we expect our payment—minus your cut, of course. The next run, we take half up front.”

The ride I would make tomorrow.

Merc took a pointed interest in his shot glass. The vein in Preacher’s neck throbbed visibly.

“Wait.” Preacher folded his arms across his chest, his gut sticking out far enough he rested them on top of it. “I think I need to talk with Val.”

“I’m curious why you think he’d entertain that conversation?” Ky’s left brow raised.

Preacher’s jaw clenched, forcing his handlebar mustache to raise like he’d just stepped in shit. I covered my chuckle with a cough and wiped a hand over my mouth. Our money stopped at Ky. The only one in the room who had ever spoken to any of his uncles about business was Merc.

“Because I think a renegotiation is in order.”

Ky’s shoulders went rigid like a fighter just before the bell. The four of us fanned out around him. But I wasn’t fooled. We didn’t have the high ground here. “None of my uncles will negotiate. Not for you, not for the goddamn president.”

The door pushed open, a large body shouldered right behind Band Aid, then another, evening the odds.

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