″Sleep well?”
″Aye.” I grab ahold of her hips, pulling her on top of me. “I’d say you did too. I heard some snoring there for a bit.”
″I don’t snore.”
″How would you know?”
She smirks, kissing me. “I guess I wouldn’t.”
Her lips brush against my cheek and my ear as my phone rings on her nightstand. I groan, recognizing the tone to belong to Sean’s number.
″Let it ring.” Her hand slides between us, grabbing my cock.
I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to stop whatever it is she’s planning to do. But there’s only one reason Sean would call me right now, and it has to do with the Russians.
″I have to get it.”
She huffs and sits up, reaching over to grab it for me.
Before I can speak, Sean’s voice cuts through the line. “We have a lead. Texting you an address.”
″Lead for what?” I ask.
″Russian rat.”
″Fuck.” I shoot up from the bed. Scanning the room, I remember I left my clothes in Haley’s bathroom. She stays in bed as I hurry there and get dressed. When I come back out, she’s up and in a bathrobe. “I’ve got to go, love.”
″Okay,” she whispers. I press a kiss to her cheek and she rests her hand on my chest. ”Andi leaves tomorrow. I’ll see you the day after?”
″Sure. I’ll call you when I’ve got a free minute.”
″Okay, but I might not answer, depending on what we’re doing.”
″That’s fine. I’ll call Cillian to check on you then.”
She huffs, rolling her eyes. “I forgot I’ve got a shadow following me.”
″You do. So best be on your best behavior. He reports to me, after all.”
″Yeah? Well, you may be the King of the Mob. But I believe the Queen is the one who holds all the power.” She pretends to take a crown off my head, placing it over hers, and curtseys.
″Truer words have never been spoken.” I grab her hand, kissing it as I bow. “I have to get going now, love. I’ll call you later.”
When I leave the brownstone, Cillian steps out of the SUV, walking past me as he heads to the house. “Updates every fifteen minutes, Cillian.”
″Yes, sir.”
Scotty holds up the head of a beaten and unidentifiable man. He’s Bratva, the Russian mafia. I can tell by the tattoos covering his body. I also know torture won’t break him. Bratva men are fucking hard-wired to not feel pain. They’re fucking robots.
They drink fight and fuck worse than we Irishman.
″Scotty,” I say, approaching him standing in the corner of the warehouse. “What’s the Russian have to say for himself?”
A muttered curse comes from the beaten man, and he spits blood onto my suit. I chuckle, squatting so I am at eye level with him. “You can spit your blood all over my clothes, arsehole. I’m not going to cry over a ruined suit. I make enough to buy five of them in an hour.”
″You Irish think you are the boss. We will come into your town and destroy it if you don’t give it up.”
″You can try to run us out, but we control the turf.” Reaching into my sock, I pull out my favorite knife. The same one I used to carve Liam Doyle’s chest all those years ago.