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Alec's face breaks into a wide grin. "You haven't got a therapist, Xander. And if you did manage to find one, you'd probably need to put a bullet in his ass after one session."
I laugh because, well, he's right.
A footstep sounds behind us, and I turn to watch Declan and Knox walk toward us. Declan's hair is gelled back against his scalp, his suit so stiff I wonder if he has the thing painted against his skin.
"You're late," I call to the two of them.
"And yet Mr. Sandro isn't here." He smirks. He doesn't smile, but Declan's lips tip up towards his nose like he might've in another life. Another reality that wasn't ours.
Knox is dressed just as badly. Except he's gone the opposite and is one step away from looking like he's just stepped out of bed with his latest fling.
I catch him with a harsh look.
"You could've made more of an effort, you know. This is business,” I mutter.
His shoulders move up indifferently. "I still look better than all three of you combined."
With his windblown blonde curls and mother's green eyes, he’s pretty, and I’ll give him that. He's the only one among us who takes after her and, by virtue of this, has always been her favorite.
"I'll beg to differ on that, Knox. Any less effort, and you'll look like something the cat dragged in,” Declan breaks in.
"And I'll still fare better."
Ryder clears his throat behind us. "Mr. Sandro has been led to the table."
We all turn together and head towards the room in the tiny house where we have all our business meetings. The place is teeming with our men.
Protection has been drummed tighter with the way things are up in the air at the moment.
We step through the door and walk briskly down the short hallway to the last room. The door has been flung open, and seated in there is Sandro Botticelli. His head wiggles towards the door at our entrance.
"I've been waiting."
"You shut the fuck up, Sandro, or you might take a fucking punch to the throat."
Sandro runs the largest smuggling ring in Chicago, and we need him on our side. But I will punch him if I have to, and I’ll be happy to do it. No one keeps the Amory waiting, not even Sandro Botticelli.
"Better than watching you gripe all evening."
I take the chair across from him, and my brothers settle in beside me. At the door, Ryder stands guard, along with who I'm certain is Sandro's right-hand man.
"We should get this over with fast. I haven't got all day," I start.
Sandro nods and spreads his hands out, as neither does he. "I've got the routes mapped out. And the men are ready."
"I'm not certain why we don't go in with our men and sweep up what we can." Alec shifts forward on his chair. "We've got the manpower, certainly the money. It's a better solution than trying to work our way in or look the other way. They'll never let anyone in that they can't do away with."
Sandro smirks and brings a flask to his lips. I'm certain it's raw vodka. The man doesn't drink anything else.
"They're not stupid. The Russians know we're coming for them. They're not worried. They're barricaded, and from the news I've heard on the fucking grapevine, they've got the support of the Cambodians. And that spells doom. It won't be a fair fight."
The Cambodians are stealthy and patient. They have a history as violent and colorful as a pirate's tongue.
The stakes would be considerably higher with them joining the fight. I run my hand over the hilt of the knife in my pocket contemplatively and nod.
"Can you get us eyes in there?" Knox asks. He pulls the bottle of whiskey on the table towards himself and pours a shot into one of the tumblers provided. I nod at him, and he prepares one for me.
Sandro shakes his head. "With the Russians, maybe. The Cambodians are a whole different story. They don't play by the same rules. I know a man who knows a man, but that's the best I can do."
