Page 51 of Dangerous Strokes

I shake my head once, pushing back at the rage filling my veins with every second that passes and every word Bartiste spits our way.

“That’s not an option.”

“You know the rules of the game—stay in our way and you die.”

I cackle at Bartiste’s threat because I can’t quite believe the disrespect and audacity.

“There’s no game here, old man. This is a goddamn jungle, and the rules are clear. You don’t eat on our territory, you don’t touch what’s ours, and if you don’t leave empty-handed, you don’t leave at all.” This time around, no self-restraint in the world would have kept me from growling at the man, watching as the veins in his temples swell by the second.

“I think—”

“The money you lost on the deal will be returned to you,” I interrupt. “We’ll add ten percent on top for the trouble. But only if you leave in the next twenty-four hours.”

“I’m not open for negotiations,” he seethes and as the look in his eyes darkens, I wonder if we’re actually going to leave this room alive.

“We are. You get what you’re owed, and everyone’s happy,” Finn says.

“That’s not how it works in my world.” Bartiste rises, stubbing out his cigar on the plate in front of him. All his men tense at the same time.

“You’re in our world now.” Vin speaks with a voice so cold the temperature in the room seems to drop.

“We’re not negotiating for women, Bartiste. We’re negotiating for the terms of your departure,” I continue.

“Expect a call tomorrow,” Finn finishes.

“Fine. But only ifyou”—he points his stubby finger at me—“are the one to make it.”

And with that, we turn around and leave the room, our men ensuring our backs are covered all the way through the corridor and out of the back door.

Maybe there’s a chance he’ll take the deal.

When we reach the car, we all seem to breathe a little easier.

“We have to go and protect the girls. This deal isn’t going to work.” Finn breaks the tense silence.

I shake my head and rub a hand over my face, scraping the five o’clock shadow I didn’t have time to shave.

“It’s not a good idea,” Carter replies before I get to shoot down that idea.

It fucking breaks me. I want to see her, hold her, kiss her. Worship the fucking ground she walks on. Choosing the right thing is getting harder and harder, because every step of the damn way, I’m questioning my decisions. The analytical side of my brain is slowly being drowned by fear.

“They need more protection!” Finn argues. “You’ve seen that motherfucker! He made even my skin crawl, for fuck’s sake!”

“He knows who we are, what we look like. We have to assume he knows more about us than we think. We cannot be the ones to go, we can’t risk it. We’ll be followed.”

“But you agree they need more protection?”

Finn lays back in the backseat.

“Definitely,” I say with a nod, looking out at the moonlit streets of Queenscove as we pull out into the calm traffic.

“I’ll send another team.”

Even though we can barely spare a few. We’re not deep enough in this business to have armies… and we’re going to need all the men we can get for whatever Bartiste could have in store for us.

“Not on our boat, though,” I continue. “Carter, talk to Jonathan and ask him if he can lend us one. Finn, choose the men you want to send over, but make sure you give them specific instructions and explain how detrimental it is to take precautions. They cannot be seen or followed. And tomorrow… we find out what kind of man Bartiste really is.”

But Carter ends the exchange on a chilling, ominous note.

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