Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (9 page)

T
he young man's
eye looks black in the moonlight, but I know they aren’t truly that color. They're dark brown, like his hair, because we've been packed into the back of a van together, and I've seen him up close, along with all the other recruits.

He's shorter than me, but it's easy to see he's fifty pounds heavier.

Everyone's heavier than me, though. I haven't had more than one meal a day in a month.

His name's Sergey, though the older Russians call him some other name I can't pronounce or understand. I can't tell if it's a Russian word or just some dumbass nickname.

They call me Po'Boy, I guess 'cause I let it slip that I was born outside New Orleans, and that's the only shit they know about Louisiana. And sometimes, after I've been drinking or been punched a few times—or both—my Southern accent creeps back in, enough for me to be unintelligible to these New York Russian fucks.

That, or it's because I'm poor as fuck.

The trainers say this is our final initiation night, and then we'll be part of the crew.

I just want some money. And three meals a day.

And to get out of this creepy fucking alley.

I wish Gray were here. He's the one who got me odd jobs, running errands for the old Russian men down by their headquarters, a café with no actual customers.

Somehow I kept getting more and more work. And then they offered that I could join up, get some real money. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Not any more.

Sergey lowers his head, keeping his eyes on me the entire time. It's that fucking Russian-bull look all the men on the street get—they call it
bychit
or something like that. Sergey does it very well—he's got his head down, his eyebrows raised, and his mouth hanging open.

Like he's ready to charge.

Like he'd gore me to death if he had fucking horns.

"Fair fight," growls Podronsky. He's an old Russian with one blue eye and one rheumy one coated in a wet, white substance, like someone laid a fried egg over it. He's got scars all over the back of his gnarled hands, and tattoos that creep up his neck and across his forehead.

He's eighty if he's a day, and he scares the living shit out of me.

"What?" I say. And then Sergey charges me.

The first punch lands on my chin, knocking my head back so hard I hear a crack in the bones in my neck.

"What the fuck, Sergey?" I spit out. Aren't we on the same fucking team?

Then he attacks my middle. He's lower to the ground, and I'm a tall, starving thing.; He's a fucking flurry of fists. And all breath—all sense—is knocked out of me.

I fall to the alley floor, my cheek dragging in the black city slime. In the distance, I see a ring of heavy boots. All the men I've been running with the past few weeks, lined up in a circle.

To watch?

To keep me from escaping?

Sergey's heavy work boot draws back, and I see it coming straight for my face.

Fair fight. They said to meet here tonight. They didn't say anything about getting my ass kicked.

I roll. I'm fast for my size. Sergey's kick misses, and before he can steady himself, I launch onto his body. We both crash onto the cobblestones, but I land on top. He grunts. Once, loud.

Then he turns in my arms. Fighting is so intimate; you're so close to the man you're trying to hurt.

And then he grunts a string of angry Russian words.

I've heard enough Russian curses over the past few weeks to know that he's threatening to kill me. Pretty sure he called me a bitch and a motherfucker, too.

"
Suka
," I spit out, before slamming my fist against the side of his face. I have no idea what it means, but I know it's an insult. A good enough one, judging by the roar of approval from the crowd.

I rear up on my knees, straddling the bastard, beating him with my fists. Over and over and over again. For a second the blood on my knuckles reminds me of my father—only I was always the one on the ground.

There's a buzzing in my ears; my knuckles and my chin and my ribs are on fire. But I can't stop hitting him. I've been here before, but never on top. Usually I'm the one on the floor, moaning, bleeding, slowly fading into unconsciousness.

But now I'm on top. I don't like it, that I feel like my father.

But I can't stop hitting the man below me.

Then I hear a name.
My
name. A voice—Gray's voice. He's calling my name. He's telling me to stop.

I pull back. The chorus of men jeer at me—for what? For not killing the poor kid beneath me?

I stagger off of Sergey, still shocked that twenty minutes ago I thought we were all going to get food or something. I was hoping for fried chicken.

Now I'm on my knees, panting, and I look up at the crowd. There's blood trickling into one of my eyes; I squint and I see Gray watching me. He looks so serious.

The older man next to him has his arm out, in front of Gray. Pushing Gray back.

Keeping him from helping me.

Now Gray looks shocked. He opens his mouth, and points behind me. What's he saying?

Then Sergey is on me, tackling me to the ground. He punches me, hard—harder—on my left side. I grunt and roll, trying to throw him off. But something's wrong. Something's wrong with my side. I put a hand down, and it comes back covered in blood. Dripping. The blood looks black in the dark alleyway; my entire hand is black and wet, and suddenly there's a searing pain in my gut, a streak of pure fire burning its way down my left side.

I turn to see Sergey grinning, blood between his teeth. It's like a monster movie, and he's the monster, risen from the dead. I see a flash of something catch the light. It's a mirror. No, it's a blade—he's holding a blade. He just fucking knifed me, and my shirt is dripping with blood.

I'm gonna die here
, I think. So many times I thought I would die when my father was beating me—but
here
? When I finally escape the trailer parks and shitty apartments and make my own way in the world?

This isn't a fair fucking fight.

And that's when I realize Gray isn't coming to my rescue. Yeah, an older man has his arm around him. Gray wants to help me, but he's not moving. None of the men are moving.

Fair fight…to the death.

No one fucking told me.

Sergey raises his blade in the air. He says something in Russian.

"What? What?" I say.

And then he lunges toward me—

Gray slams his office door, waking me up with a start.

"Jesus, Gray." I come to, stretched out on the old leather sofa in the basement office of Gray's bar. It's surprisingly comfortable for a piece of shit. I worked all night and apparently passed out here rather than go back to my empty apartment.

"What time is it?" I squint at the ceiling-level windows. They're too bright, with cheerful morning light streaming in and ruining my excellent hangover.

I might've downed all of Gray's good whiskey last night.

"What the fuck's going on with you?" Gray throws himself into the too-small office chair behind his desk and it groans beneath his weight. He looks like I feel: shitty.

"Nothing." I sit up too quickly. My head spins while a blast of lightning, like the kind we used to get across the bayou, shoots straight into my skull.

I
definitely
downed all of Gray's good whiskey last night.

"You drank my good stuff?" Gray growls, holding up an empty bottle of some Irish import that Declan probably smuggled into the country.

"You run a
bar
, man." I grin at him despite my blinding headache. "There's no way I could drink
all
of your whiskey."

Gray drops the bottle in the trash, glares at me, and then flips opens a laptop. For some reason, I find this hysterical. Not two years ago, Gray and I spent night after night perched on a rooftop in the Ukraine, dressed all in black and waiting for our target to show up.

Now he's grumbling about Microsoft Excel.

"What the fuck are you doing, Gray?" I lean back and stretch casually. He watches me like the very act of me moving is pissing him off. Luckily, I don't scare easy.

Finally, he sighs and leans back in the tiny office chair. It creaks, and I mentally make a bet with myself as to whether it will break under his weight in the next five minutes.

"Woman problems?" I hazard a guess. "Or, wait. You're also trying to overthrow a psychotic mafia boss. One of those."

Gray snorts. "I'm not sure which one is pissing me off more."

I shrug. "As long as they're not
both
trying to kill you."

"Fifty-fifty." Gray finally cracks a smile. "Why are
you
sleeping in my office? Woman problems yourself?"

My smile fades a second, and I have the urge to find another bottle.

"Nah," I drawl, "No woman problems if you don't keep any women around."

Gray raises his eyebrows at me, but goes back to typing. "Good. And I don't want you fucking around with Elle. She's Kat's best friend, and I know—eventually—you'll break her heart, or piss her off, or both. Either way, I don't need another reason for Kat to be mad at me." He looks up from his computer. "So hands off."

I glare at Gray, reminding myself that I shouldn't tell one of my two friends on earth to go fuck himself. Gray's not saying anything I haven't already told myself.

But I don’t like to be told what to do. That's why I never joined a crew. I make my own fucking rules.

And Elle makes me want to break all of them.

"Fucking bar management—this shit puts me to sleep," Gray growls, already forgetting about Elle. Good. "I've sent Declan to look over Solonik's brothel business."

"That shit creeps me out," I say. I hate the fucking skin trade. Maybe because my daddy always said my mama had been a whore. I never knew if he meant it literally or not.

"You gonna shut down the brothels when you take things over?" I watch Gray's huge hands type on the laptop; it looks like a toy in his hands.

"I'm not taking shit over." Gray gives me a warning look.

"It's just the two of us," I remind him gently. He's getting that fucking Russian-bull look, but he's too smart to charge me.

I think.

"You called me back to the States to help save your girl," I say. "You called Declan back—"

"Someone say my name?" Declan sticks his head in the door. He's wearing the same clothes as five hours ago and carrying two beers.

"You slept here, too, Dec?" I say.

Declan laughs and hands me a bottle. "Fuck no, mate. I went home with one of those hipster girls."

Gray grunts, and I grin. "How was she?"

Declan drops down on the couch next to me, clinks my bottle, then grins. "Wrong question, my friend. The correct question is: how were
they
."

Gray slams the laptop closed.

"Trouble in paradise, brother?" Declan asks Gray.

"Gray was just saying when we take down Solonik, he'll shut down all the brothels. When he's in charge." I grin at Gray's thunderous expression.

"I'm killing Solonik," Gray growls. "And then I'm taking Kat and we're getting the hell out of here."

"Out of where?" I say. "This business? New York?"

"All of it," Gray says.

"Bullshit. You're too strong, you're too respected—and you care too much. If you take out Solonik and then fucking bail, there's a power vacuum. Then who's in charge? You think they won't keep selling flesh? Buying drugs from fucking unknowns? Getting people killed because whoever steps up next is an idiot?" I can't believe I just said all that. It's not like I care what happens in New York.

I take a deep breath, and another long, cold drink. It's not helping my hangover, yet. Then I think of Elle's face as I left her on the street. Crushed. Perfection, and I crushed it.

I down half the bottle.

"Jesus, Chase, where the fuck's all this maturity and forethought coming from?" Declan puts his hand on my shoulder. "I thought all you cared about was getting paid and getting laid. And maybe—country music?"

"Country music? Fuck no. You know I'm into Streisand."

"Back to business." Gray ignores Dec and points at me. "We’re still looking into the Russian who paid you a visit. You were right. From the looks of his tattoos, he's a hitman, and a damn good one."

"I'm going to hit the streets today," I say. "Put out the word to a few international friends. See who wants me dead. This month, anyway."

Declan cracks a smile, his scar tugging at the edges of it. "We're already on it." At my surprised look, he shrugs. "You aren't in this alone, Chase."

Gray nods. "And we don't want you running around like a target. We've got men on it. Besides, I need you here, helping me out."

I feel like they're placating me. The look of friendship—loyalty—in their eyes shouldn't make me uncomfortable. It should make me happy. But it does both.

"All right, gentlemen," I say. "Guess you assholes aren't getting rid of me just yet. Now, can we get back to the fun stuff? How are we going to fucking take down an entire mafia family?"

Gray and Declan give me grim smiles, and we start discussing strategy.

But in the back of my head, I've got a bad feeling. My dream comes back to me, a knife covered in blood. The way the whole world recedes as you bleed out…

How it makes you utterly numb.

I think of Elle. It hurt to say goodbye to her.

But that's how I know it was the right fucking thing to do.

Someone wants me dead. I need to be numb—numb and focused—right now. If I want to live.