35
AIDAN
A RUSH OF BLOOD TO THE HEAD - COLDPLAY
LATER THAT EVENING
"Didn't expectto hear from you this soon," I drawled as I stepped out of Brennan's ride. Peering around the place that could have been the site of mine and Savvie's deaths, I murmured, "And definitely didn't expect to be meeting you here."
"There's a symmetry to it that I appreciate," Lyanov retorted.
"Stepanov's here?"
"He's incoming." He cast Brennan a look. "I appreciate the trust you're showing me, O'Donnelly. I'm well aware that you don't owe it to me. Not after everything that’s happened."
"We both have had troubles in the ranks," I demurred. "I appreciate the rapidity with which you're willing to work."
He arched a brow. "The rapidity, hmm?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Fancy words."
"Fancy occasion. Not often an Irish mobster gets together with a Bratva brother on their turf to dispose of a mutual enemy together."
"Very true," he agreed.
I looked past him and saw the men I'd met last Christmas as well as the guy who’d hung around at the meeting I’d had with Maxim earlier.
Discussing business at Aoife's bakery had felt like a smart way to conduct our affairs in private.
Neither of us wanted the city to know that we were dealing with dissent, after all.
I just hadn't anticipated that Lyanov would deal with Stepanov within hours of our meeting.
"It's been a long fucking day," Brennan complained.
Lyanov replied, "He has reason to want to be here. The wait won’t be a long one."
"What reason? A gun shoved at the back of his neck?"
Lyanov's teeth gleamed in the streetlights as he smirked at me. "No. More sentimental reasons. He won't cut out and run."
"You don't have guards on him?"
"Niet," was his reply.
A guard shouted something I didn’t catch, but it had Maxim nodding. The gates pulled inward and thirty seconds later, an expensive Bentley rolled in.
The door opened the moment the car came to a halt, and a man burst out of the backseat, hurling what sounded like Russian insults at Lyanov.
He didn't appear offended. If anything, his grin widened with whatever bullshit Stepanov was saying.
"English, please," Lyanov directed. "So our guests can understand."
"I'm here. Give me back my son," Stepanov rasped, his accent pure Brooklyn.
"His son?" I asked Lyanov.
"Timofai has trouble understanding the word 'no.’ Especially when it comes to a woman under my protection."
"He's a boy. He makes foolish mistakes," Stepanov snarled. "You can't just take him because some little whore said he assaulted her."