“I am.” Underneath the bar counter, I crack my knuckles and ready myself for a fight.
I haven’t drawn a gun yet. But the moment where that might become necessary is fast approaching.
The men at the booth are still staring daggers into my back. This is definitely the right place.
I just have to figure out where to poke.
“What’s your business then, friend?” the bartender pries. His tone is growing icier with each exchange.
I shrug nonchalantly. “This and that. But the reason I’m in Dublin at all is to do a favor for a friend.”
“Oh?” the bartender says, raising his eyebrows.
“Cillian O’Sullivan,” I say, raising my voice slightly to make sure the boys in the back can hear me. “Ever heard of him?”
The bartender stills instantly.
Jackpot.
“Can’t say I have,” he says. “Close friend of yours?”
“Very.”
“You haven’t touched your beer,” he remarks, pointing down at the full mug in front of me.
I look down at it as if I’m considering taking a swig.
But the truth is that I left my taste for alcohol back in Mexico. If I never drink again, it’ll be too soon.
That was the old Artem who drank until he didn’t have to face his demons anymore.
The new Artem looks his demons in the face when he buries a knife in their chest.
I raise my gaze back up to lock eyes with the bartender. Here we are—the moment where the violence starts.
I’m fucking ready.
“I’m Russian, friend,” I spit, purposefully emphasizing the term of not-so-endearment. “I don’t drink this Irish piss.”
The bartender’s fake smile drops at once. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”
I smile coolly. “I think you heard me just fine.”
More to the point, the boys in the back heard me.
The bartender’s eyes flick over my shoulder. But I’m way ahead of him.
I already feel them coming, and I act before any of them have even realized that I’m far more than they bargained for.
Grabbing the hilt of the dagger I’ve had hidden against my thigh since I sat down, I turn and hurl it through the air.
The blade buries itself in the neck of the man closest to reaching me. His face freezes in shock.
He wasn’t ready to die.
To which I say—then he shouldn’t have come anywhere near Artem Kovalyov.
I don’t let any of his mates recover. I swing around, grab the hilt that’s protruding from the dying man’s neck, and step behind him in the process.