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Elian’s hand slid up to the side of my neck, pulling me in to press a kiss to my temple.
“Me too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Elian
“You have to admit it was an interesting request,” Rico said as he, Renzo, and I stared at the restaurant we were going to have the meeting with the Bratva in.
When the word had gotten out that Renzo was seeking an audience with Dimitri, the word got back to us that he would have the meeting, but on one condition.
That we have it on neutral turf.
Meaning on the turf of a crew that hated both us and them equally.
The fucking Irish mafia territory.
I suppose their logic was that no one was at any more risk than the other if we were on turf where we were all equally hated.
The Mean Fiddler was the Irish mob’s homebase, a restaurant known for exactly two things: a good beef stew and their complete aversion to serving any sort of ‘finicky’ drink. You drank beer, or you brought your business elsewhere.
“We all set?” Renzo asked as Cage emerged from the restaurant.
Since cleaning his life up, Cage had been, more or less, in charge of our family’s communication with the Irish mob. A task that usually involved a lot of back-and-forth and arguing because they didn’t want to kick-up the money to us that they owed us.
“Yeah,” Cage said in a voice that suggested anything but.
“Is this a ‘We gotta be worried that they’re gonna poison us’ thing?” Rico asked.
“I think I’d suggest bottled beer,” Cage said, smirking at us. “But, to be fair, they might hate the Russians slightly more. I got ‘em to agree to seat everyone in the party room for privacy’s sake. Trust me, you don’t want their asses eavesdropping. They’re always looking for something to use against us.”
With that, we moved inside.
It was a newly renovated building made to look old with all of its dark wood, exposed brick, and vintage framed art on the walls. There was even a genuine fireplace with a fire crackling happily as we passed, moving toward the party room that was, roughly, half the size of the rest of the restaurant, and dominated by one massive table that must have been built inside the room, because there was no way it would have fit through the doorway otherwise.
“Food kinda smells good,” Rico said as we each chose to sit at the far end of the table facing the door.
Coal moved back out into the dining room, wanting to keep an eye on things.
We had two carfuls of men and women on the main and cross street, close enough to spring into action if shit went down.
We didn’t have to wait for long before Dimitri was making his way into the room, flanked by three… women.
My gaze cut to Rico, seeing a flash of confusion cross his face before he tamped it down.
Renzo, though, was unreadable as he stood and nodded at Dimitri.
Dimitri was tall and a sturdy kind of fit with a broad, masculine face, brooding brows, and deep blue eyes.
“Lombardi,” Dimitri said, voice deep, accent thick.
“Volkov,” Renzo said.
“This meeting is overdue, da?” Dimitri asked as he sat.
“You’ve been a pain in the ass lately,” Renzo said, getting a small lip twitch out of the Russian.
“Says the man who started a gang war to get back at me.”