Page 156 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

“Then stop bullshitting me and tell me the truth,” he counters. “You cared about her.”

“Fuck off. Anyway, this isn’t about her. It’s abouther.”

“Who?”

“The She Devil,” I scowl. “Xena.”

Arslan crosses himself again.

“It’s about the fact that she felt she had any say over my life,” I continue. “And that she showed up without announcing herself. She waltzed into my hotel like she owned the place.”

“She will, one day. In a manner of speaking.”

“Don’t fucking remind me.”

He steers the conversation back on track. “Belle was pissed, then?”

I nod. “Pissed enough that she packed up and left that same night. I figured I’d go talk to her in the morning and help her and her sister get home, but she was gone.”

“Back to Oklahoma?”

“I have no idea.”

Arslan raises his brows. “You didn’t check? That’s unlike you.”

“She isn’t a threat,” I say gruffly. “Wherever she is, it doesn’t matter.”

There’s a brief pause before Arslan snorts. “I don’t believe you as far as I can throw you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a heavy motherfucker, for one.” He reaches over the bar, snags two glasses, and pours us each a shot of tequila. “And second, it means she does matter—to you.”

“No, it doesn’t. She does.”

Arslan holds his glass up for a toast. “Yeah, she does. But the beauty of alcohol is that we can drink until nothing matters.”

“We have plans tonight, remember?” I ask even as I reach for my shot glass.

“Of course I remember.” He tosses back his shot, winces, and then grabs the bottle again. “Even more reason to drink.”

* * *

By the time Arslan and I stroll into the Greek restaurant downtown, we’ve gone from sober to drunk and back again. The only reason he’s standing upright is because he guzzled coffee straight from the pot like a water buffalo.

“Can I get you two started with any drinks?” the waitress asks as we walk through the door.

I glance over her shoulder to count the number of Greek soldiers lurking in all of the shadowy corners.

“Scotch,” I say. “Double.”

Arslan orders the same. As soon as our drinks are delivered, Giorgos spots us.

“Good luck.” Arslan pats me on the back and starts walking away, swaying a bit more than normal.

“Some right-hand man you are.”

He laughs and slips into conversation with a few women standing around the bar.

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