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My gaze never wavered from the man I wanted. “He’s got me.”
The other bartender tapped the guy on the shoulder. “Marek?”
My target—Marek—tipped his chin up at his coworker in acknowledgment, dropping skewered olives into the glasses before setting them on a server’s tray. He braced both palms against the bar and leaned forward. “What’ll it be?”
I set my empty glass on the bar between us and mirrored his pose so I knew he’d hear me. “You. Upstairs in five minutes.”
A slow smile spread across his lips but it was nowhere near reaching his dark eyes. “Flattered, but I’m only into bar service if you know what I mean.”
“Let me rephrase.” I matched his smile and leaned even closer, catching a whiff of his cologne in the process, a clean scent that could never be considered offensive in any social setting. It also masked a hint of cigarette smoke. Since there was no smoking allowed inside, it must have been from his break an hour ago. “You have five minutes to willingly walk up those stairs or I’ll have you dragged up them. I’d prefer not to make a scene, but if you want the police called on both of us, then, by all means, disobey me.”
His eyes narrowed, raking over me as he leaned away. His lip curled ever so slightly but he nodded. Defiant but smart enough to know when to play along. Another trait I could use to my advantage. “Coming right up.”
“Good boy.” I pushed away from the bar and returned to the stairs. He was even more interesting up close than he was from a distance. And young. God, did he look young—all except for his eyes. They were too hard, too calculating, to belong to anyone who’d barely lived.
Based on everything I’d observed, I had no doubt it would be an interesting conversation whenever he finally graced me with his presence.
As ordered, Anton and Valery had vacated the VIP area and stood down the hallway like a pair of sentinels, matching scowls and all. I didn’t know what they thought was going to happen in a respectable establishment, but it wasn’t worth trying to convince them otherwise.
Forgoing the table on the balcony, I let myself into the private sitting room and took a seat in the green leather chair facing the door, double-checking the time on my watch. Thank God it was quieter in there. My thumping brain could use the break.
While I waited, I slipped my cell phone out and sent off an inquiry on Mr. Marek. With such an unusual name for an American, it wouldn’t take Eduard long to track down what I needed. How many Mareks could possibly work at Dalton’s?
Eduard’s return email dropped in my inbox moments before the door to the private room swung open. I had enough time to scan the coversheet—Marek Sommers, twenty-five, native Chicagoan, bartender at Dalton’s for the past six months—before the man himself walked in.
“Shut the door.” I tucked my phone back into the inner pocket of my suit and gave him my full attention.
Marek swallowed but did as instructed, taking a meager two steps into the room.
“Do you intend to have a conversation from across the room?” I asked, gesturing to the chair adjacent to me.
“Yeah, I’m good.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed where he was.
“Do you know who I am?”
He shrugged, an unimpressed look on his face. “Another rich guy who thinks he can tap whatever piece of ass he wants.”
“And yet you came.”
By the set of his jaw, I sensed that I struck a nerve. The furious glare he gave me confirmed it.
Flattening my palms against the arms of the chair, I pushed myself to my feet and crossed the room slowly. To his credit, he held his ground even when I invaded his personal space. I stopped a foot away from him, one hand in my pocket in a quasi-mimicry of his pose. “As much as I appreciate your confidence, Mr. Sommers, and what I would like to think was some attempt at a compliment… I assure you the only thing I want is to know who your supplier is.”
Instead of showing any sign of alarm that I knew his full name,orhis side gig, his dark eyes narrowed again. “I think we use Byrne Beverages. Montero something for the groceries. I’d have to ask about—hey! What the fuck?!”
Slamming him against the wall, I pinned one forearm across his throat while I shoved my hand into his right pants pocket. He might have been able to hold on to most of the contents but one little baggie slipped free in the struggle. I ripped my hand out of his pocket and held it up, squinting at the cluster of candy-like pills.
“Nirvana?” I asked, arching a brow. The giant N stamped into each one was a clue but I wouldn’t know for sure until we’d run tests.
Marek struggled beneath my arm, trying to throw it off. In the process, he came dangerously close to where three of my ribs were still healing. “Get the fuck off of me!”
I let him go and took a step back, pocketing the pills. “Answer the question and you can go.”
Although I fully expected him to take a swing at me, he didn’t. Straightening his white button-up, he glared at me with unmasked anger. Not fear. Not surprise. Just pure anger. “How the fuck did you know?”
“I saw you downstairs. And just now? You made a fist in your pocket, but only with one hand. I bet you have at least two thousand dollars of product on you right now and you don’t trust your coworkers enough to leave your stash where they could stumble across it.”
“Are you a cop?” he asked, eyeing me from top to bottom and back again. In a custom three-piece suit with a vintage Rateka Polar watch? Doubtful. Even he seemed to think it was a stretch by the way his dark eyebrow lifted. “Or a… fed?”
