Page 138

Son of a bitch! Hewasthe same guy I’d met on my yacht weeks ago. The one that tried to pass himself off as a soldier.
“Mr. Hook,” he said, his voice smooth as silk but with an underlying edge that sent a chill down my spine. “I must admit, I was surprised to receive your invitation after our last encounter.”
I forced a smirk, channeling my frustration and anger into the persona I’d created as his men searched both me and Jack for weapons. “Well, Mr. Petrosian, I wanted to personally apologize for what happened then and make sure it didn’t ruin ourbusinessrelationship.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile remained in place. “I hope you understand that in my line of work, trust is a rare commodity. How do I know you’re not … playing for the other team?”
My heart rate spiked, and I wanted to grin, but I kept my expression neutral. “Fair question,” I said nodding to Jack. “That’s why I brought along a character witness. I’m sure you recognize Jack Finn?”
Petrosian’s eyebrows rose just a touch as he took in Jack’s imposing figure. “The hockey player? Interesting company you keep, Mr. Hook.”
Jack stepped forward, his grin all teeth and no warmth. “Killian and I go way back. And let’s just say, I owe him a favor or two. When he said he needed some muscle for a business meeting, well, how could I refuse?” Jack was laying on the television drama mafia role a little thick.
I could see the wheel’s turning in Petrosian’s head. An NHL superstar involved in his operation? I’d seen the same gleam in the eyes of the guy I first spoke with when I started down this path. The potential for blackmail, for leverage, was too good to pass up.
“Very well,” Petrosian said after a moment. “Let’s talk business.”
As we moved to the back of the restaurant and sat at a table, I caught Judd’s whisper across my ear piece. “Stay steady. You’re just there to meet him. Keep him busy so we can get in place.”
So far, everything was going according to plan.
The negotiations were tense, a delicate dance of half-truths and implied threats. I played my part, letting my natural edge and the lingering effects of the whiskey fuel my performance. Jack, to his credit, was the perfect wild card, his unpredictable energy keeping Petrosian and his men on edge.
But as the meeting wore on, I began to sense things starting to unravel. Maybe it was the way Petrosian’s eyes kept darting to the door, or the increasing frequency to which his bodyguards were checking their phones.
Something was off.
A muscle in Petrosian’s jaw twitched—the first genuine tell from a man who’d maintained perfect composure until now. He leaned forward, fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the table. The movement sent the overhead light glinting across his signet ring, briefly illuminating the embedded ruby like a drop of blood.
“You come highly recommended, Killian,” he said, his voice smooth despite the sudden tension radiating from him. “But after that last incident on your yacht, I’m reconsidering our arrangement.”
Jack laughed then—that reckless, broken sound that never failed to set my teeth on edge. The wrong laugh at precisely the wrong moment.
Fuck.
“Something funny?” Petrosian’s underboss—Dima—straightened from his position against the wall. His hand drifted toward the bulge beneath his tailored jacket.
“Just thinking about how much bullshit we’ve all been shoveling in the last hour,” Jack replied. His eyes, when they met mine, held a warning I couldn’t quite decipher. “Gets exhausting doesn’t it?”
The room temperature dropped ten degrees. I struggled to keep my expression neutral, and fought the desire to curl my fist.
“What my associate means,” I began, but Petrosian cut me off with a raised hand.
“Your associate should watch his mouth.” His accent thickened with anger, his consonants pronounced and sharpenough to break glass. “And you, Mr. Hook, should consider your words carefully.”
The bodyguard near the door’s phone received a text; it’s buzz echoing in the room. His face hardened as he read it. He left his post to join us and whispered something to Petrosian, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Actually,” Petrosian continued, reaching for his drink with deliberate slowness, “I’m curious about something. That operation on your yacht last month—terrible business, three of my men arrested. Very unusual, how the authorities knew exactly where to look and when.” He took a sip, eyes never leaving mine.
The statement hung in the air.
Behind Petrosian, the second bodyguard shifted position, angling for a clearer line of sight at Jack.
I forced a casual shrug while my mind raced.
Jack shifted at my side, likely debating whether to get physical or not.
Don’t do it, Jack. Not yet.