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I wave him off, but he rises and stops.
“Hey, this thing?” he starts. “Will it make you do something dumb, like push Rose away?”
“I hope not.”
After he’s gone, I look at his list and go over what he said. Then, I call Tony back.
“Make sure your protection sticks to Rush, and then, when he’s done with my errand, have him taken back to Queenstown.”
“Got it, Boss. Oh, and that meeting? It’s been pushed up.”
* * *
It’s a little early to be having cocktails at an overpriced, classless lounge, but here I fucking am, at the bar with oysters like we’re on a date.
The things I know about him on paper don’t tell much. Men like this… it’s all in the face to face read. Middleman, the type with the power, is what I’m thinking, because Harvard educated and the kind of money he’s got according to the IRS tells me smart.
The man’s rich as fuck. Not rich as me, but rich. He also is either lacking class or misread me completely. With the suit he’s wearing, I’m leaning to the latter.
“I knew your uncle. Your fiancée’s father, too.”
I wait.
“The big players, son.”
I barely control my reaction. I haven’t been called ‘son’ since…since I can remember.
“The Milovics, the Hanlons, even Ivan Popov, who really wants to make a name. Then there’s all the powered players still sidelined in Queenstown.”
Milovics? Hanlons? I dismiss the Irish, as I have deals with them and they’re more than happy. He’s mentioning Russians I don’t know, but they ring some far-off bell. Plus, for Popov to be singled out? Red fucking herring?
There’s something familiar about this man, something I don’t like. I never trust middlemen like this. Things might be about to get dicey.
“I have, as you say, big name organization connections,” he goes on.
Still, I stay silent.
He shifts in his seat. “Let’s say a client was a reason for Wilder senior and Finnegan senior working together. Derek owes him for that, but there’s some property he’ll accept as payment. Property and the businesses they run.”
“Terry, hate to break the news, but Finnegan’s gone,” I reply through a clenched jaw.
“He has a daughter.”
I quirk a brow. “And?”
“You owe. Don’t cross this person. It won’t end well.”
“There were years,” I say, “to deal with this.”
The man knocks back an oyster. “I’m the middleman. Business, you know how it is. The Bratva work on their own timetable.”
Bratva my fucking ass. I nod. “I’ll look into old history. Forward any files and outstanding contracts to my office.”
“Don’t cross the Bratva. People did back then, and…”
“I need the paperwork,” I say gently, but the wheels in my head are spinning. “Businessman to businessman.”
“They want it all, everything they’re owned. All the money, the affiliates, the power. Properties. You know how it is.”
