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“Oh my god, I’m-I’m so sorry, I—”
But one of the guards pushes her to the side, snatching up napkins and dabbing at Belsky’s wrist.
The blonde, whose mouth is still opening and closing like a goldfish, shuffles from foot to foot. She turns to Lorcan, eyes wide and pleading. Don’t fire me. Or worse. He simply shakes his head and nods in the direction of the door, motioning for her to leave.
I watch the scene unfold with something unsettling brewing under my skin. Bringing protection to a meeting with the Quinns is an understandable precaution, but the armored Merc and the guards that would wipe your ass for you…
It’s a sign of power. One that a green politician doesn’t have.
Belsky’s façade is slipping. He’s irritated, shooing his guards away and unbuttoning his cuff links to roll up his sodden shirt sleeve.
It’s then I see it. A tattoo on the back of his wrist. Four letters, separated like coordinates on a compass.
O. M. ?. T.
Motherfucker.
I shift my stare to Lorcan. He’s still watching the chaos unfold in amusement. He hasn’t seen what I’ve seen, but he feels my eyes boring into the side of his face, and he looks over.
I strum a finger against the arm of my chair. Two deliberate taps.
Something’s wrong.
The confusion doesn’t last long, hardening into a deep scowl within seconds.
Two taps. It’s just one of many codes we use to communicate when we can’t talk freely. Two taps mean something about the situation isn’t right. A wire poking out from a client’s collar. A gun-shaped bulge in a new housekeeper’s apron.
Or, in this case, a Bratva tattoo on the wrist of New York’s next potential governor.
Wearing my best uninterested expression, I rise to my feet, straightening the lapel of my jacket. “Excuse me,” I say dryly. “If you’re about to talk politics, I better leave before I fall asleep.” I turn to Lorcan and add, “Call me if you need…” My eyes graze over Belsky, pinning him with a blistering stare. “Assistance.”
With a parting snarl to the guards flanking the door, I enter the lobby, my easy saunter morphing into a quick stride the moment I turn the corner. I locate the security office behind the reception desk and burst in.
“Stand down,” I bark at Jon and Aiden, the two henchmen I sent to keep an eye on the security cameras. They part like a curtain, revealing a wall of computer monitors, each showing a different corner of the hotel.
“How do I work this fucking thing?”
“Here, boss.” Aiden stoops over and taps on a keyboard. The middle screen cuts to a drop-down menu, detailing every camera name and a short description of what they display.
“You”—I jab a finger to Jon—“radio Ronan and have him station four men outside the drawing room.” I lean across the desk, rapping a knuckle on the screen that shows the room from a bird’s-eye view. Lorcan’s still flicking through the wedge of papers Belsky pulled out of his ass. “You see anything remotely dodgy, you let Ronan know.”
“Copy that, boss.”
“You”—I clap my hand on Aiden’s shoulder—“show me the parking lot.”
He flicks through a few streams of the enormous parking lot from different angles before—
“Stop.” There’s the armored Merc. A burly man in a suit leans against the driver’s door with a cell phone to his ear. “Parked in the disabled space,” I tut, shaking my head. “I knew he was an asshole. Zoom in.” When he zeros in on the car’s plates, I snap my fingers. “Write that down.” Aiden scribbles the digits down on the side of his hand. “These cameras got mics?”
“Good question,” Aiden mutters as he tap, tap, taps on the keyboard again, bringing up a settings page. Suddenly, a voice floods over the speakers.
I rest my weight on my palms against the desk and lean forward, ears straining to listen to the man on the phone.
Jon flinches when I thump my fist against the desk. “I fucking knew it. The bastards are Russian.”
Aiden mutters something under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. I need a moment to get a handle on my adrenaline spike and figure out our next move. Moving to prop myself against the cold wall behind me, I cross my arms and close my eyes.
My instinct was right. Leo Belsky is anything but a meek politician trying to make the world a better place. A fucking Bratva tattoo… I haven’t seen one of them since we annihilated the Bratnov family a decade ago. As far as we’re concerned, not a drop of Bratva blood is left on the East Coast.
