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“Calm the fuck down,” I growl, cutting him off. “We’re here to stop Rafael from stringing you up.”
“I’ve got a meeting tuh-tomorrow,” he says. “You’re not FBI, are you?”
“You have a meeting with an agent who doesn’t care,” Anton grunts. “And before you go to court, Cordero will kill you.”
“He’s right. But I’m someone you should thank your lucky stars you met tonight, Owen. I’m a man who has a very strong motivation to hurt Rafael in any way I can. That means I want to help you and keep you safe. Isn’t that what you want… to hurt Rafael?”
Owen swallows.
I step forward, letting the Bratva darkness creep into my voice. This is a different energy from the businessman, the club owner, the texter, the kisser. This is the Bratva prince burning through.
“My name is Nikolai Volkov. Perhaps Rafael has mentioned me.”
Owen gulps, nodding.
“What does he say?” I growl.
“You’re the figurehead for the Volkov Bratva here in Miami. He doesn’t know what you’re doing, but he knows it’s more than the club. He thinks he has to fight you. He thinks there’s war coming, that you’re going to tread on his turf.”
“That’s why he’s sent men to DC.”
Owen nods. “He’s a bad, bad man. He’s worse than you probably already know. I have to stop him. I have to end this. I need to go to the Feds.”
“You can do that if you want. We can’t stop you.” Behind me, Anton makes a tsk sound. Of course, we can stop him. “But if you know about the DC incursion, then you know I’ll do anything to stop Rafael from making moves into my brother’s turf. That’s a fucking blood oath I won’t break. What do you have, Owen?”
“Huh-have?”
“Why is Rafael so scared you’ll talk?”
Owen straightens up a little. He’s thirty-one, I know, but he seems younger.
I step forward again.
“I’ve got a drive with a lot of information on it,” he says. “And I’ve worked in his business long enough to testify to what I’ve seen. I can take this scumbag down.”
“We can take him down,” I say. “Get ready.”
“But how do I know I can trust you?”
“It’s us, or death,” I growl. “Even if you go to the Feds, they won’t give you protection immediately. Cordero wants you dead, now. Pack up.”
“Boss,” Anton says.
He’s standing at the window, curtain peeled back.
“How many?” I ask.
“Three,” he grunts.
“Fuck. Hide.” I look at Owen. “Go along with whatever they say.”
“But, but,” he babbles.
“Just do it. Then you’ll find out why you can fucking trust us.”
Anton moves into the small storage closet. I back up into the bathroom and shut the door almost all the way. I hear Owen panting and panicking on the other side. A minute later, somebody violently kicks the door off its hinges. Owen screams and heavy footsteps rush inside. Something crashes.
“Where is the fucking drive?” a man roars, then curses in Spanish. “Where is it?”
