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Declan cracks his neck as I stow my phone back in my trousers. I told Layla just a few hours ago that I don’t make rash decisions. Yet, here I am, about to barge into a Bratva club so Declan can get a little vengeance.
Although technically… this isn’t my rash decision.
I am merely ensuring he doesn’t wind up dead.
The bouncer immediately recognizes us from the last time we were here. A baseball bat to the side of your face will do that. He rushes Declan, but is taken to the ground as though he was just sacked by an American football offensive lineman. His head hits the asphalt of the parking lot, and he’s out like a light.
Climbing from the bouncer, Declan kicks him in the gut, and his limp body folds like an accordion. He kicks again with such force that at least one of the bouncer’s ribs cracks.
“Feeling better?” I tease.
“Almost.” Declan steps over the unconscious bouncer and through the velvet ropes of the club.
At midday, it’s nearly devoid of staff and customers. One bartender and two men are sitting at a VIP table by the entertainment. There is a sole stripper—clearly twenty years past her prime—dancing on stage. She quickly alerts the two men before her to our presence, and they both hastily rise from their seats. “You didn’t get the message last night?” one of them snarls in a thick Russian accent.
“We did.” I continue to cross the room with Declan and begin tapping on my ear. “But we don’t hear so good.”
A man with fresh scratches along his face and neck steps before us. The Bratva is either attacking women in mass, or dumb fucking Irish luck put us before the two men who attacked Quinn.
“She do that you?” I gesture to his fresh wounds.
He rubs his hand over them and wearing a wicked smile. “I’d always heard redheads were fucking fiery, but she was a real feisty fucking bitch.”
“Made for a damn fine fuck, though,” the other boasts, and Declan clings to what little composure he has left. He seethes rage, a hot scarlet creeping up his neck and over his face. His hands ball into fists at his sides, itching to throw a punch.
“I’m looking forward to getting my hands on that tight little brunette next,” the marred Russian threatens.
I see fucking red and lose control. Roaring as I lunge at him, I slam his body into the stage with the full weight of mine. He wrestles back, and the two of us fall into a bar table, flipping it to the ground.
“I killed your fucking friend,” I growl, pinning him to the ground beneath me and throwing a fist into his face. We grapple for control, both of us knowing that this is going to be a fight to the death. “I’ll kill any fucking man who even thinks about laying a hand on her.”
He lands a punch to my side, putting me off-kilter and allowing him to gain the upper hand. Another blow hits my jaw before he leans forward and spits, “I don’t plan on killing her. I want you to know what we’re doing to her night after night.”
Gripping his shirt, I slam my face into his. Blood and spittle rain over my face as I shatter his nose. I use his disorientation to my advantage and quickly roll him back beneath me. Lifting a broken beer bottle from beside us, I shove it under his chin and into his neck.
I push with such force that I can see shards of bloodied glass behind his teeth as he gasps for air. He might be desperate for air, but he’s a dead man. We both know it, but I can’t stop.
I grit my teeth and growl as I firmly hold the neck of the bottle in my fist. Driven with rage, I continue to shove the glass into him as his blood pours over my hand and splatters across my body.
The shrill screams of the dancer on stage bring me back to reality. I climb from the dead man beneath me, drenched in him. His blood speckles my face, has saturated my shirt, and is currently dripping from my hand.
Quickly surveying the bar for other threats, I find Declan straddling the body of the other dead man, continuing to pummel his face—if you can even still call it that—with a barrage of fists. His knuckles are shredded and bleeding from the bones he continues to slam them into.
I stalk toward the stage and pull the stripper from it. She falls into me, and I leave splotches of blood on her skin as I stand her before me. She grimaces when I grip her face with my blood-covered hand.
“Let your boss know I don’t do well with people threatening my family. This is just the beginning of what I’m willing to do to protect them.” Tears well in her eyes.
“Now, I feel better.” Declan looks equally as disheveled as he climbs from atop the dead man.
We opt to not to leave Kiska a pile of ash and head back into the club. I pull into the alley and text Liam and Finn.
Where’s Layla?
LIAM
She’s here with us.
No, where in the club?
