Page 10 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

ANATOLY

Roma nods at me as I approach, and I notice Vassily hanging back a few feet away from the group.

Something's different about him. His usual swagger is gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic hesitation.

He can't quite meet my eyes.

I know why.

Mother must have told him what happened two days ago. About the gun I placed in her hand and the order I gave.

Did she also tell him that she saved her own skin? Or did she leave that part out of it, as she always does?

"Fucking busy out here." I say to Roma as I scan the street.

A couple glances our way, eyeing our assembled group before turning back to their conversation about which Broadway show they wanted to go see next week. A couple of kids run down the street, narrowing missing a man in a suit rushing to his office

I don't like it. Too many people. Too many bystanders. Too many eyes who might see something that they shouldn't see.

"Keep your weapons concealed until we're inside," I instruct the group. "We don't need any heroes calling the cops before we even get through the door."

The men nod in understanding. I motion for Vassily to follow me as I step away from the group.

When we're out of earshot, I turn to face my younger brother. His eyes are still uncharacteristically downcast.

"Whatever Mother told you and whatever you're thinking right now, keep it to yourself until we get back to the mansion," I tell him, my voice low but firm. "I need you to fucking focus right now, Vasya. Ponimayesh?"

Vassily swallows hard. "Tolya, I—"

"You need to remember who the pakhan is," I cut in. "It's not Mother. It's me. And she's been working with Lola against us. By any reasonable interpretation, that's betrayal. What I did two days ago was well within my rights."

My brother's eyes widen slightly, but he nods.

"I know."

I study him, not entirely convinced. There's something off about him, something beyond just the shock of learning I nearly had our mother kill herself.

Vassily shifts again under my gaze, and takes a deep breath. "Tolya, there's something you need to know—"

"Later," I interrupt, glancing back at our waiting men. The job comes first. Whatever Vassily wants to confess can wait until after we've secured Amara. "Right now, we have a job to do."

I walk back to where the men are waiting, and scan their faces. These are good men. Loyal. Ready to die for the bratva if needed. I hope it won't come to that today.

"Gotovi?" I ask. Ready?

They nod.

We walk in smaller groups to avoid drawing attention. As we approach The Devil's Shamrock, I notice Volkov men sitting in cars parked around the perimeter. They're not even trying to be subtle about it. Four vehicles with two men each, all watching the entrance like hawks.

I signal to my men to take their positions—covering the exits, blending into the crowd and keeping an eye on the Volkovs. Once everyone's in place, I approach the front door with Roma and Vassily by my side.

The bouncer—a big guy with a neck wider than most people's thighs—immediately steps forward, blocking our path.

"Club's closed for a private event, gentlemen," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "Come back tomorrow."

I smile thinly. "Tell Killian that the pakhan of the Baryshev Bratva is here to see him. He'll want to make time."

The bouncer's face hardens. "I said—"

"I heard what you said." I reach into my jacket pocket.

The bouncer tenses, hand shifting toward what I assume is his own weapon. But I pull out a fat roll of cash instead. Peeling off a few hundreds, I press them into his meaty palm.

"Go tell Killian I'm here," I say quietly. "Unless he wants a bloody fight in broad daylight that'll ruin his business for good. Do that, and you'll get the rest of this when I'm inside."

The bouncer looks down at the money, then back at my face. Something in my expression must convince him I'm not fucking around.

"Wait here," he mutters, disappearing inside.

Roma shifts closer. "That's one hell of an entrance fee."

"Chump change for what's at stake," I respond, eyes fixed on the door.

A few minutes later, the bouncer returns, holding the door open.

"Mr. O'Shea will see you now," he gestures towards the door.

I press the rest of the roll of cash into his open hand. He immediately slips it into his pocket, gives me a curt nod, and opens the door to let us in.

I give him a curt nod back.

I am, after all, a man of my word.

Heavy bass pounds against my ears the moment we enter.

Even in the middle of the day, the strip club is filled with people, everything from businessmen "on lunch" to tourists nursing drinks at the bar. Dancers move and grind on the platforms and poles, and the smell of body lotion and liquor is thick enough to cut with a knife.

My eyes cut straight through the dim lighting to the VIP section, where Killian O'Shea sits surrounded by his men. The Irish bastard is lounging like a king holding court, a whiskey in hand and a smile playing on his lips.

And then I see Amara.

Grisha Volkov has her on a fucking leash.

An actual leather leash, like she's an animal.

Her legs wobble on as she tries to balance on a pair of ten-inch stiletto heels that she's clearly unaccustomed to wearing.

Instead of her usual reserved style, she's been forced into a set of neon-colored lingerie that leaves nothing to the imagination.

Her face is plastered with so much makeup it's hard to recognize the bright-eyed girl who loves her sister so fiercely.

When she spots me, her eyes widen with recognition and silent pleading.

Save me!

I move toward the VIP section, my vision narrowing until all I see is Grisha's smug face and Amara's terrified eyes. Every instinct screams at me to pull out my gun and put a bullet between Grisha's eyes right now.

Two men step forward to block our path.

"Hold up," one says. "You're not getting close to the boss until we pat you down."

I clench my jaw but nod, raising my arms to the sides. The shorter one runs his hands over my body, finding my Glock and shoulder holster. He pulls it out, checking the chamber before pocketing it. The other finds my backup piece at my ankle and the knife in my pant leg.

They do the same to Roma and Vassily, and strip all three of us bare of our weapons.

"They're clean," the taller one announces and steps aside.

Killian watches me approach with cold curiosity, swirling amber liquid in his glass before taking another sip.

Amara shifts nervously as I get closer, the movement causing Grisha to tug on her leash. She stumbles, and I have to physically restrain myself from lunging at him.

I take my seat across from Killian and he leans forward, his weathered face creasing into a frown.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Baryshev?"

"I'm here for the girl."

Killian tilts his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "Which girl? In case you hadn't noticed, Baryshev, I've got plenty of girls." He gestures around the club with his whiskey glass. "That's kind of my business."

"This one." I point directly at Amara, who shifts uncomfortably under my gaze. "Hand her over, and we all walk out of here without this becoming something you'll regret."

Grisha interrupts with a harsh laugh that grates against my nerves. "The girl is a personal gift for Killian," he says, giving the leash another tug. Amara stumbles forward a step, her eyes flashing with humiliation. "It would be out of the question for him hand her over to you for nothing."

I can't help but notice how Killian's expression tightens at Grisha's interruption. There's something there. An irritation at not being the one doing the negotiating on his own territory.

Well isn't that fucking interesting?

"My terms are clear," I say directly to Killian, ignoring Grisha completely.

"And if I don't agree to them, Baryshev." Killian leans back, and takes another sip of his whiskey. "Then what?"

"I didn't come here to make threats against you, Killian." I lean forward, keeping my voice even. "I came as a businessman to negotiate for something I want."

Killian's eyebrows rise slightly. He sets his whiskey down with deliberate care.

"A businessman?" He nods slowly. "And yet, you have ten armed men right outside my establishment." He gestures vaguely toward the doors. "That doesn't sound like negotiations to me."

"Call them insurance. I'm here to get family back." I glance meaningfully at Amara, whose eyes are fixed on me with desperate hope.

Killian follows my gaze, then looks over at Grisha with an unreadable expression before turning back to me.

"Family?" He taps his fingers against the armrest. "I was under the impression that Grisha here was family. After all, weren't the Volkovs and Baryshevs agreeing to a marriage between you and Lola? That's what I heard."

He's fucking with me, and we both know it.

This whole city knows I didn't marry Lola.

"Cut the shit," I say flatly. "We all know I didn't marry Lola."

Grisha lurches forward, yanking poor Amara along with him like a ragdoll. "You fucking liar!" His face is flushed. "My sister has the ring. I can prove it with a single phone call."

I turn to Grisha, giving him the same look I'd give to something unpleasant I found on the bottom of my shoe.

"Shut the fuck up, Grisha. The adults are talking."

Grisha's face contorts with rage. Before I can react, he yanks the leash so hard that Amara goes tumbling to the ground with a cry of pain.

My hand balls into a fist instantly, and I notice Killian's eyes flick to it, registering my reaction.

Before either of us can make a motion, Grisha slams a single knee into Amara's back, pressing it brutally as he forces her face down on the ground. She cries out in response.

That's when Grisha pulls out a gun, and presses the barrel against the back of Amara's head.

"You want to fucking play, Tolya?" Grisha's lips curl into a feral smile, eyes wild with power. "One wrong move and I'll put a bullet in this cunt's head."