“Speak of the fucking devil,” Rory huffed from behind me.
I dropped my head slightly, comprehending what the asshole was insinuating. A lump formed in my throat as Kirill lifted his head, his expression even more possessive. For about a million reasons, I expected him to grab me by the arm, tossing me over his shoulder like a caveman. He didn’t, although as he walked toward the crowded bar, I could sense he was doing it on purpose, protecting what he believed belonged to him.
He couldn’t have picked a worse night to stalk me.
I bit my lip, jumping slightly with every heavy bootstep he took.
Finally, the crowd started talking again, but I heard their grumbles. The insults were disgusting, but in every one of them, I heard real fear. I waited, watching as the two bartenders snubbed the brute, acting as if they hadn’t seen him.
That was bullshit.
Since I still didn’t see Sean, I made my way through the crowd, easing behind the bar and heading toward Kirill. At least the closest people around him had made a wide berth, giving him two full arm lengths of space. I threw a look at the two bartenders, giving them an evil eye. What the hell was the Russian going to do inside the bar?
Kill every person here.
I rolled my eyes at my stupid thoughts. Now I was incensed. Unless Kirill had come into the bar before killing people, he was still a paying customer. I used it as an excuse to crowd over the surface, glaring at him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as low as possible.
“The last time I checked, this was still a free country,” he answered, the sound as deep and ominous as it had the night before.
He continued to stare at me with his hooded eyes, making the entire situation uncomfortable as hell.
“Are you drinking?” I asked, finding it difficult to catch my breath.
“Bourbon. Neat.”
While he’d happily issued full sentences the night before, his few word answers gave me an intense wave of shivers. He was angry, even more so than the night before. I backed away, prepared to grab a bottle of bourbon, watching as he turned his head toward the three men I was going to serve. Maybe what good ole Rory had said was true. Shuddering, I moved toward the computer, typing in both orders. As they flashed across a screen, one of the bartenders moved to fill the beer order.
And left Kirill’s order alone.
I grabbed a bottle, pouring him a hefty amount. He deserved a little hospitality after the way he’d been treated. A laugh tried to push to the surface. My mother had called me far too naïve to live in New York. Maybe she’d been right. Organized crime was everywhere. I’d seen The Sopranos and documentaries. I’d read stories. That didn’t mean I understood their organizations.
But I did sense the danger.
After sliding the drink across the bar, I whispered the amount of the bill, uncertain what to expect. He lifted his gaze from the glass to my eyes as he wrapped his hand around the base, twirling it from side to side. Even though it was impossible, I could swear I heard the scraping as the tumbler shifted across the wooden surface.
As he lifted his glass, holding it in front of him for several seconds, I noticed what he was wearing. Dressed in all black, he exuded darkness, as if issuing a silent but bold threat to anyone coming near him.
He tossed every drop into his mouth, closing his eyes as he swallowed. Even the way he handled his alcohol reeked of superiority, utter domination. After placing the glass on the bar and sliding it in my direction, he reached in his pocket, pulling out a wallet and tossing a hundred-dollar bill in my direction.
“Keep the change.”
For some reason, that pissed me off. I pushed the bill back in his direction. “Don’t worry about it. The drink is on me.”
I’d surprised him, his eyes opening wider than normal. When a slight smile curled on his upper lip, I stood as tall as possible, daring him to try to give it back to me.
No, he had to make certain that everyone in the room knew we had a connection. He slid the tip of his index finger under my chin, lifting it gently.
Lovingly.
As if we’d been lovers the night before.
I wanted to slap his face but knew better than to cause a scene inside this bar. Stiffening, I managed to keep my eyes locked on his, but every muscle was tense, and I was shaking like a leaf. As he leaned further across the bar, I could swear the man was going to kiss me.
“Ty ochen’ plokhaya devochka, moy ognennyy shar.” His whisper was hoarse, yet the tone was another round of soft velvet floating across my skin.
I closed my eyes briefly, taking several tiny breaths for fear of crying out. “I don’t understand.”