Page 9 of The Assassin
“He always carries a flip knife against his ankle too,” Santiago said, and Ardan sent him a glare. Santiago’s smug smile should have earned him a punch across the jaw.
Once Bor had the knife, he spun on his American Legend Rider biker boots and entered the house. Ardan took a moment to appreciate the boots, and the silver skull buckles on them, before he followed Bor into the clean entrance hall and through to a room Ardan knew was the public area of the house, complete with a bar and a stripper pole in the center.
The room itself reminded Ardan of something out of the fifties, with black painted walls, red leather couches, and dark wooden furniture. The bar ran along the left wall, made of a dark mahogany and shiny from polish, with a mirror that ran the length of the wall behind it. Two or three people worked it at all times, men and women, because like the New Gothenburg club, the Kings of Men MC, the Norse Lords also liked all the genders.
Odin sat in the middle of the room in front of the stripper pole, where a muscular, sepia toned man was waving his thong-clad ass in Odin’s direction. The room was full of other Lords too, each enjoying either a drink or a hole, or if they swung that way, a dick intheirhole.
If Ardan could say something about biker clubs, it was that they knew how to party, and they partied every chance they got.
Odin glanced up from his leather chair, the gray of his hair glinting under the lights high in the room, and raised a finger, gesturing them forward. Santiago took the lead, and Ardan followed. Bor shifted off to the side, his attention caught by a young redheaded woman to his right.
Odin straightened when they reached him and when he flicked his hand, the stripper sauntered off to find another interested biker. “Ardan.”
Ardan lowered his gaze slightly. Odin wasn’t his boss, so he didn’t deserve a full-fledged head bow, but there was a certain decorum Ardan had to portray while he was in Pleasant Beach. Sloan often did business with the Lords. “Odin.”
“Fenrir told me you were here on business.” Odin nodded at Santiago.
“Santi would be right.”
“You didn’t come to ask for my permission.” He lowered his voice, leaning forward in his chair almost threateningly. “You know the rules, and so does Killough.”
“The boss doesn’t know I’m in Pleasant Beach,” Ardan said. He kept his hands in front of him at all times. Moving them anywhere else could be considered a threat when someone was an assassin or hitman.
Odin frowned at him, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows diving. “And you didn’t think to come to me for permission to be here?”
“It was an oversight.”
“I know you, Ardan Murphy, you don’t do oversights.” Odin stood. He was taller than Ardan by at least six inches or so, and he was a bulky man, even in his forties. “Your disregard for my laws is insulting.”
Santiago snorted, and Ardan took that as a gesture to put his best sucking up skills into action. He smiled, tilted his head forward, and put a hand over his chest. “I truly apologize. My mark is agile and fast, and I needed to move as soon as I had intel. I couldn’t risk him running again.”
“I wouldn’t have run.” Mancini’s rough, deep voice sent a shiver down Ardan’s spine, and he turned, eyes meeting that of the man he’d been chasing for six long, tiring months. The bastard looked as refreshed as someone who had slept for a week straight.
“Mancini.” Ardan’s jaw tightened, but he breathed through his irritation. George had taught him to be calm. Anger would make him lose control of the situation, and he couldn’t do that, not while Mancini was here, in front of him.
Odin laughed and the sound shocked Ardan into glancing at him. “Your mark was courteous enough to ask for permission to be here. Unlike you.”
Ardan exhaled subtly and forced another smile on his lips. “Such a gentleman.”
Odin waved his hand. “Fenrir is the only reason you weren’t dead the moment you walked through my door. I won’t be so kind a second time. Don’t come into my city for business without my permission again.” He stepped forward, his boots sinking into the plush red carpet. “Now drink, fuck, and join in on the fight club, but no killing. Not in my city.”
He pointed at Ardan and then Mancini in warning, before he spun on his heels and stormed off, probably to find something to drink or someone to fuck. Ardan watched him go, idly thinking about ignoring the rules and killing Mancini anyway. He chased off the thoughts. Sloan would kill him if he messed up the business relationship with the Lords.
Santiago slapped him on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t kill him.” He disappeared in the crowd of his brothers.
“Lovely group of men.” Mancini’s cologne filled Ardan’s nose, a spicy scent with a dash of cinnamon, and Ardan couldn’t help but breathe it in a little deeper to keep himself in the present. Putting a bullet in Mancini’s head would only result in more problems right now.
He turned to Mancini and crossed his arms. “You’re clever, I’ll give you that.”
“Parlay?” Mancini held out his palms toward Ardan, the grin down right condescending.Italian prick.
“Fuck you.”
He laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d swear, Murphy.”
Ardan closed the distance between them and got in close to the other man. “You haven’t won yet.”
“I disagree.” Mancini leaned forward until the tips of their noses touched. “How long are we going to play this game of cat and mouse? When are you going to admit you won’t ever kill me?”
