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Bulldog noticed and thumbed back the front of his jacket to show the grip of the revolver shoved into his belt.
A big one.
Powerful, but heavy. Very heavy.
Too heavy to be quick on the draw.
A dumbass gun to bring to a shootout.
The sort that would have Dirty Harry sporting morning wood at midnight.
Turk cleared his throat. “Hey there Alexi, how’ve you been? Sorry we’re a bit late. Traffic was a dog.”
“Late?” Alexi’s lips pressed into a pale thin line. “No, I think not. I’m afraid we’re early.”
He was a straight man. Not big, but straight and as sharp as a blade in his impeccably tailored grey suit, with a long face cut with deep long lines and framed by shoulder length black hair. He might have looked like a wall street executive, if not for his eyes. They were cold and hard, like a chunk of black ice in each socket, and completely unreadable.
They suited his reputation well enough, like the blow torch, hammer and DeWalt drill set he probably kept hidden away in the boot of that chopper.
Turk just bowed his head respectfully. “If you say so.” What else could he say?
“Good.” The line across Alexi’s face twisted in a cruel parody of a smile, then his eyes shifted to take in our party. “You’ve brought what I asked?”
What? Was there a change of plan? And since when were we the Bratva’s delivery boys?
I glanced at Turk, but his eyes remained firmly fixed on Alexi. “Yes.”
The old bastard nodded, suddenly looking very smug. “Then I guess we have a deal.”
“I guess we do,” my brother growled.
“Now don’t be like that, boy. You should be pleased. With this one sacrifice, you’ve secured your family’s future. But perhaps I misjudged you?” He spread his arms out, palms open in expectation, as exaggerated as that fucking accent. “Perhaps this task is too much for you and now you’re having misgivings. Perhaps you’d prefer to go back on our little deal.”
The question hung in the air between them.
Yet even as time held its breath, I couldn’t shake the feeling that had been tying my guts into knots. What the fuck was going on?
Instinct shivered through me and I glanced at the Bulldog and his mate. Both were watching me.
“No,” Turk growled, then turned to me. “I’m sorry.” He still couldn’t meet my eyes, instead they were looking at something behind me. He dipped his head in a small nod. “Take him.”
I didn’t have time to ask what he meant.
Behind us, the night rang with a dull thud and click. Recognising the sound of a hammer being primed, I pivoted, moving to put myself between Turk and the threat at our back, one hand going for the 1911-
Only Lucca Zaboni and Anthony Clamenza already had their guns out and on me.
