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Anything more you want answered, you’ll have to meet me at the club.
9pm tomorrow night. Don’t forget the card.
-Tristan
Checkmate.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TRISTAN
My phone dings from the breast pocket of my jacket before I’ve made it to the parking garage around the corner.
LAYLA
Are you serious?
Very.
You wanted to know more.
I’m just giving you what you asked for.
And that’s one…
I’d use the next two questions a little more wisely if I were you.
I can’t help but smile as I tuck the phone back into my pocket, knowing that she is going to be cursing me as she reads it.
There is nothing more satisfying than earning the submission and obedience of a brat. And I fully intend to get both from Layla.
I’ll convince her it’s what she wants if I have to.
Pulling out of the garage, I head uptown to pay another visit to the welch. Surprisingly, he actually sent a text this morning that he has thirty-thousand dollars ready for pick up. It’s not the whole hundred thousand dollars, but it’ll allow him to keep a few of his fingers for a few more days.
I have no idea how he came up with it so quickly. Rumor has it, he’s neck-deep in debt with nearly every bookie in the city. So much so that most aren’t allowing him to double down in an attempt to get himself even. Not that he could pick a winning team if his life depended on it.
Which it does.
Stepping into his sports bar, I immediately note the three men in flashy shirts at the bar.
Definitely not his usual clientele. And definitely Bratva.
The welch is behind the bar; his left hand—short of two fingers—is well wrapped in a bandage. Spotting me, he gestures to the three men before him, and I am suddenly acutely aware of how fast this situation can turn on me.
“Is that where your money is coming from?” I ask, keeping my voice low with my eyes on the silk shirts as I reach the bar to collect his repayment.
He nods and slides the small bag across the counter. “They own the bar now. Took it as payment for my debt. This is their payoff to you. They said you’d know why it’s short.”
Turning my head and glancing down the bar, I find the three of them waiting for a reaction from me. One they aren’t going to get. Unlike Finnigan, I’ll maintain my composure. For now.
“Appreciate the payment.” I tip my head at them before turning my attention back to the welch. “We aren’t finished, and you can be assured you won’t ever be placing another bet in this city.”
Grabbing the bag, I leave the bar and head to my car down the block. Every few steps, I glance over my shoulder, knowing they will be coming. I’ve barely made it one hundred feet from the bar before two of them step onto the sidewalk and quickly begin following in my direction.
Turning into an alley, I pull the K-Bar knife from the back of my pants and use my body to shield it from them as they follow in behind me. “You lot realize you shorted me $70K and want to clear that up?”
They look at each other and scoff, clearly thinking they have the upper hand. With a thick Russian accent, the taller of the two stares me down. “I think what you have is too much. After the shit you and your comrades pulled the other night, the Bratva shouldn’t pay you shit.”
