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Stroking my beard, I look past his broad shoulders and out of his window. Past the sheet of rain and into the hotel’s lobby, lit up by the massive chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling. Then I glance out of the rear view. My men are in the sedan behind, waiting for my instructions.
“I want two men stationed out front, another two in the security office watching the surveillance cameras. Karl will call when Belsky turns up and let us know who he’s with.” I pause, rubbing my hands together. “Let’s get the valet to put a tracker under his car, too. It’ll be useful later on.”
Admiration flashes across Lorcan’s face. He claps me on the shoulder and says, “And that’s why you’re my right-hand man.”
“You say it like you had a choice.”
We exchange a look. Lorcan never had a choice in having me as his right-hand man, just like I never had a choice in heading up the henchmen, our family’s army. Our roles within the family were decided long before we were born, written by decades of tradition and legacy. Our fate is entwined into our DNA—as a direct descendant on the main bloodline, Lorcan was always going to become the boss of the Quinn empire, and as the eldest first cousin, I was always going to be the head henchman. Just like our fathers were before us, and their fathers before them.
Fate carved out the roads we would take in this life, but she didn’t make them straight and smooth. Lorcan should never have become the boss so young, if at all. His father and two older brothers were killed almost thirteen years ago by the Italian’s makeshift bomb. There should also be three of us: Antoin, our other cousin, was the head of the family business and logistics. But he decided fate hadn’t dealt him the right cards and tried to overthrow Lorcan. No surprise there that the slimy bastard is now chilling six feet under.
The moment we step into the lobby, the staff is on us like flies on shit. Holding out warm towels to dry off with, they also have a silver tray with our usual drinks. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee for Lorcan and Smugglers Club whiskey on the rocks for me. I slam it in one go, enjoying the warm hit to the back of my throat. Lorcan glares at me through the steam rising off his coffee.
“Lucky bastard,” he mutters. “I could do with ten of them right now.”
I grin. Lorc’s been sober for ten years. “Sorry, cuz. Poppy would have my balls in a vise.”
His lips tilt upward at the imagery. Or, more likely, at the thought of his wife.
“Yeah, she would,” he says proudly. He dabs a towel against his neck, then tosses it toward a waiting blonde in a cheap suit. After rearranging his floral pocket square, he hardens the lines of his face. “Is the drawing room set up?” He barks it out into existence to no one in particular. But one thing about being a Quinn is that somebody always gives you an answer.
“Yes, boss,” the hotel manager says, stepping out from behind the desk. He bows his head, extending his arm toward the back of the lobby. “Please, follow me.”
We slice through the busy lobby like a hot knife through butter, through the sea of well-heeled tourists and businessmen marveling at the Sistine Chapel–inspired ceiling and Calacatta marble pillars.
The drawing room is a quiet, private space that feels like an extension of the Quinn estate. Deep-seated armchairs, a wall of books that have never had their spines cracked, and an onyx wet bar snaking around one of the corners.
Lorcan hitches up his slacks and settles into an armchair. He takes in my stance—looming in the doorway with my fist curled around the Glock in my waistband—and shakes his head. “Don, sit the fuck down. You look like you’re about to start World War III.”
“I might have to. How long have we got?”
He glances at his Rolex. “Three minutes.”
I lift my burner to my ear and call Ronan. He answers on the first ring.
“Yes, boss.”
“Have the joint surrounded. And put two men in the hotel’s security office while you’re at it. I want eyes on the cameras at all times.”
“On it.”
“And let us know as soon as Belsky arrives and with how many men.”
As I stab the end call button, Lorcan grunts something that doesn’t make it past his tongue.
“What?”
He grazes me with a weary look. “You’re being overcautious. Belsky is a nobody. A green politician who couldn’t run for a fucking bus let alone the governor’s seat. I’m willing to bet he’s just an optimistic prick who thinks he can change the world.” He steeples his hands together and rests his elbows on his knees. When he looks at me again, his expression is smug. “He’ll learn who runs things on the East Coast real quick. Believe me.”
I strum my fingers against the armrest. You don’t spend your days balls deep in other people’s blood without developing some sort of instinct. For me, it always creeps up from my shoulder blades and wraps a firm grip around my neck. Something isn’t right. I pop the top button of my shirt and mutter, “Better safe than sorry.”
“Quite right.”
My cell buzzes, slicing through the heavy silence. I glance down at the screen and let out a bitter laugh. “Buckle up, boss.”
Lorcan’s frown deepens over his coffee.
Still grinning, I slip the burner into my breast pocket and settle into the armchair. I stare into the flames of the roaring fireplace. “What green politicians do you know who show up in an armored Merc with four bodyguards?”
