AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Twenty minutes after the time Niko had set for the meeting, the Russians finally arrived. Christian opened the gate, and a black Land Rover pulled in.
Eight stood out in front of his men, watching as Niko slid from the back seat, looking like he’d just come from a GQ shoot, in a suit and overcoat getup that probably cost as much as Eight’s Fat Boy. From the front on the same side, the passenger seat, one of his closest advisors, a brawny, bald, heavily inked dude named Vadim, climbed out. Vadim had the fancy clothes, but he didn’t look like a GQ model any more than Eight did. He was Niko’s security guy.
Was it significant that he’d brought Vadim, the muscle, and not Luka, the brain?
Eight didn’t know the names of the driver or the other guy, and it didn’t matter; they were background noise and not his problem. Niko and Vadim were the ones who’d have something to say.
Stepping forward, Eight held out his hand. “Nikolai. Welcome. Merry Christmas.”
Niko smiled as he took Eight’s hand and they shook, but Eight wasn’t sure that smile was friendly. “Eight Ball. Thank you for having us.”
Like Eight had had a choice, and had invited him to a fucking party. Right. “Let’s go in and talk. There’s coffee and some kind of breakfast muffins inside.”
~oOo~
A couple of sweetbutts had laid out a nice little spread on the bar—coffee, trays of muffins and pastries, a few different kinds of juices—and Vadim and the other two bellied up right away, but Niko was all business.
“This isn’t a brunch date,” he said, eyeing the food and drink and giving his men a look that made them pause. “This is business. Let’s go into your ‘chapel’”—Eight heard the sarcasm clear as day—“and get to business. Your officers only.”
Eight got pissed immediately, but his first impulse, honed by years of shoving shit off his shoulders, was to laugh. He almost tried to hold back, but then he decided no. The arrogant Russian prick thought he got to make demands in Eight’s own house, let him see what Eight thought of that bullshit.
He let the snarky laugh out and said, “No, Niko,” and savored the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Volkov’s eye. The name Niko was a familiarity he hadn’t allowed the Bulls. “This is the Bull’s house. We make the rules here. That chapel is our sacred space. You’re the guest. We say who sits at our table. And as president, I want the whole club in there now.”
At the corner of his eye, Eight saw Vadim, Niko’s attack dog, straighten up and get ready, and saw Dex and Mav do the same, but Eight kept the rest of his attention on Niko.
The Volkov boss kept his expression impassive, but he let a silence spread while he and Eight stared at each other until the whole party room started to buckle under the tension.
Eight held the stare. It was starting to feel like some middle-school pissing match, but if it was, this was his school.
“I think this clubhouse goes derelict without the Volkovs. We’re more than guests, Eight Ball. You need us.”
A memory rose up in Eight’s mind’s eye—not his own, but one of Becker’s. A story he’d told a few times over the years, of a trip he’d taken with Simon and Apollo to Chicago for a meet with Niko’s grandmother, Irina. It had been early in Beck’s tenure with the gavel, while Eight was doing his stretch inside. At that meeting, Irina, who’d been pissed that Delaney had retired, had taken Becker’s measure.
Beck told the story as the moment he’d really understood that he was president of the Bulls, that he had to define what it meant for him to hold the gavel. Facing Irina Volkov, he’d had to show her that he could handle the power and the responsibility—and he’d had to see it for himself as well.
With a flash of insight, Eight understood that he was having just such a moment. Becker’s successor and Irina’s were marking out the tone and terms of their partnership, right here, surrounded by Bulls and Russians, in the middle of the club party room, which smelled benignly of fresh coffee and sweet rolls.
Right now, more than a year after he’d taken the gavel, Eight had to decide, had to know in his heart, that he deserved that gavel, that he could lead the club well. And he had to show Niko the same.
Becker had chosen him to be his right-hand man and assumptive successor. The club had voted him to the seat unanimously. And he had been leading. All these months, he’d been doing it. Not just maintaining, but leading. Setting JJ’s mess right, and setting the kid himself—who hadn’t missed another dues day—right. Getting Kelsey out of harm’s way with minimal fuss at Duncan’s patch party. Working to get Maverick to let his kid wear a Bull. And just every day, making sure the club was whole, was safe, was getting paid. Keeping the station running, maintaining relationships in the neighborhood, in the city, with their business associates. Like the Volkovs.
He could do the job. Hewas doingthe job. And hell, he thought he might be pretty good at it.
As newly minted certainly filled him up, Eight smiled. “This clubhouse has been full and lively for forty-five years, Nikolai. Long before your granny crossed the ocean. It’s the Bulls that keep the Bulls standing tall, and it’ll be the Bulls keeping us tall long after we’ve forgotten the name Volkov.” He leaned against the bar. “What we have with you is a mutually beneficial business arrangement. You’re here because of business we’re doing together—you and us. All of us. You are honored guests, but you are guests. You want to take your dick out and whip it around, go ahead. It ain’t good manners in a guest, but that’s your call. You don’t like meeting with the full club, that’s your call, too. You are free to go. But walking away from us hurts you bad, too.”
Vadim had come up to Niko’s side; as Eight’s little speech ended, he made a forward move, clearly aggressive, but Niko put up his hand and stopped him, all without shifting his gaze from Eight.
Again, the room seemed to freeze while Eight and Niko continued their stare contest.
What was Comrade GQ thinking? Had Eight just blown a hole in the club’s coffers? Because it would fucking hurt to lose the Volkovs. They’d survive it, he was sure, but they’d be crippled for a long time.
Still, better that than bend over for a regular Russian ass-fucking.
Finally, right about the moment Eight thought his entire nervous system would short out, Nikolai Volkov nodded.
One single move, his chin coming down about an inch. But it was enough. The arrogant kid—seriously, he was young enough to be Eight’s kid—had conceded the point.
And accepted Eight as president.
