Page 38 of Sweet Ruin

Another thing is also for sure: He just heard every word I said.

Which leaves two very important questions unanswered.

Who the hell is he…

And what is he going to do next?

8

KANE

A LITTLE WHILE EARLIER

Nobody ever stops me at the door at these things. It baffles me.

So many times, I’ve come unannounced and uninvited to kill a man, or blackmail him, or torture him into giving me things or answers I need.

And never once does anyone think to ask, Who are you and why are you here?

Tonight might be the closest I’ve ever gotten to getting turned away. A woman who has clearly drunk far too much eggnog comes wobbling up to me.

“Are you Dorsey side or Boyd side?” she slurs, eyes crossing.

“His.”

“Aren’t you handsome?” She pats my arm and goes tottering off.

I stand in the doorway and take in the scene. There are at least fifty people here, weaving around and chattering among one another.

I only give a fuck about one of them.

I’m sure he wishes I didn’t. Connor Boyd might’ve thought he could take my money and disappear, but if so, he thought wrong.

I came tonight because I’ve learned, in my many years as pakhan of the Makov Bratva, that men among their family tend to yield much faster than they do when they’re all alone.

When you have them in a dank dungeon cell or cornered in a filthy alley, they get their hackles up and try to fight—or worse, to negotiate.

But when Grandma is one room away and she’d hear you scream if I started to fillet you with the serrated knife I keep in my boot?

Things go much more smoothly.

All I need is ten minutes with Connor in a quiet corner.

Luckily, I’ve just spotted him.

Unluckily, he’s in the middle of a throng of people. I clench my teeth in disgust at the sight of him. He’s happily chatting, waving a full drink around to underscore the punchlines of the story he’s telling.

He looks too fucking happy.

A man who owes me four million dollars ought to be sweating into his collar and glancing fearfully at every patch of shadow.

I’ll have to wait to get to him; he’s too far in right now. At least he hasn’t seen me yet. I want to be the one to sneak up on him.

So for the time being, I slink into a corner, pour myself a drink from the bar, and wait.

But as people finish eating and the tide of the party shifts toward me, I decide that I’m better off finding a more secluded hiding spot. I don’t want to answer any questions or, God forbid, have that drunk woman come pawing at me again and making fuck-me eyes in front of all her friends and family.

I look around me and find the perfect spot.