Chapter 18

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."

He steps forward and reaches for the bag of cash in my hand. As he grabs it, I swing the knife from behind my back, quickly slashing it across his throat. His blood sprays across my arm and quickly saturates the front of my suit.

I really fucking liked this one too…

Shoving him to the side, I rush the other guy before he fully realizes what is happening. Lunging at him knife first, I plunge it into his gut, causing him to gurgle a pained scream—loud enough to draw attention—before I have a chance to withdraw it and shove it into his lung. I drive it deep and twist the handle, gaping open the wound and flooding his lung with blood. He falls to the ground at my feet, gasping for air but only sucking in more of the sticky crimson fluid quickly seeping from his body.

He'll bleed out or drown in his own fluids by the time I return with my car.

Either way, he'll be dead.

Flipping up the lapels of my suit jacket to hide my now deep scarlet splattered shirt beneath it, I hastily make my way to my car and back into the alley. After a fleeting look around, I pop the trunk and shove both men inside before slamming the lid shut.

I climb into the driver's seat and quickly send a text to my brothers.

The Bratva and the welch are going to be a problem.

CONOR

You good?

In need of a shower and probably a car detail.

LIAM

Need help?

Are you offering to scrub my balls, baby brother?

While I can't fucking stand emojis, I still laugh when Liam sends me a middle finger.

I'm on my way to the club .

By the time I cross town and reach the club, they are all waiting at the curb.

"Fuck, Tristan!" Declan exclaims when I step from the car.

Realizing he's staring at my blood-stained clothes, I shake my head. "It's not my blood. It belongs to the fucking assholes in my trunk."

"Are we dumping them in the Hudson later?" Liam asks.

"No, I plan on returning them to the welch's place tonight. Right before we burn that shitty fucking bar to the ground to make a point."

From now on, none of us goes anywhere alone," Declan declares. "And I want someone we trust watching Fiona when I'm not around to do it myself."

"I'll get a few of our best guys over there in the next twenty minutes." Conor nods. "You're the only one of us with anyone to worry about."

For now.

This couldn't be a worse fucking time to invite someone into my life, but it's not going to stop me. I want more of Layla Stevens, regardless of the danger it may put her in.