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CHAPTER EIGHT

LIAM

ABOUT FOUR MONTHS AGO

Declan, Tristan, Conor, Rory, and—surprisingly—Finn have been silent during our drive from Declan’s place in New Rochelle. Our meeting with the new Pakhan has been a month in the making, and even though we’ve taken extreme precautions for our safety, I’m pretty sure all of us are on edge.

Merging into traffic, I drive down West 52nd Street and turn into the valet parking garage. The six of us take a moment to stow our guns and knives beneath each of our seats before climbing from the Tahoe. The valet takes my keys in exchange for a retrieval ticket, and we make the short walk down the bustling block to the Museum of Modern Art.

Approaching the line full of families and high-school-aged kids on field trips, Declan asks, “Anyone else feel a little out of place?”

This was an odd-as-fuck place to choose for this meeting.

“It checks all the boxes.” Finn shrugs. “Public and populated.”

“And when this goes south and they break the agreement not to bring guns, they’ll only have killed all of us, a few families, and half of P.S. 35,” Conor jests, causing the woman in front of him to spin around with a horrified look on her face.

“He’s kidding.” I laugh with a playful nod, trying to play off his honest concern. “He has a terrible sense of humor.” When she finally turns back around, I toss up my hands and mouth, “ What the fuck ?”

An awkward smile and furrowed brow paint Conor’s face, and he silently says, “Sorry.”

Why worry about the Bratva when we can just get taken out by security for making mass shooting threats?

As we make our way inside, we each scan the e-ticket from our phones and pass through the metal security detector. We walk through the lobby of the first floor, toward the Rockefeller Sculpture Garden. Out of earshot of the security guards, Finn snarks at Declan, “Still think it’s a stupid location?” Declan rolls his eyes in response, which only seems to push Finn to agitate him further. “C’mon. You can say it: This was a good idea, Finn.”

“How did you, of all people, know about this place anyway?” I ask.

“Cat likes the paintings,” Finn answers with a shrug, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And I enjoy getting my wife off in public.”

And there it is…

“For fuck’s sake,” Declan exhales as we walk outside into the garden. “Here? You fucked Catlin here?”

“No. I made her come here .” Pointing toward the back corner occupied by a large wave-shaped sculpture, he smirks. “Right over there, actually. But now that you mention it.”

It’s like Finn knows exactly what to say to get under Declan’s skin. Every single time . Sucking in a deep breath, Declan lets out a heavy sigh and grumbles, “Someone shut him up. Please.”

I check my watch for the time. 10:55 a.m.

Five heavily tattooed suit-clad men step into the garden and begin walking toward us, with a tall, dark-haired man—comparable in age to us—leading the way. Ivan. Even knowing they have all walked through the same metal detector we did, we all stiffen and become more vigilant of our surroundings.

“I thought there were five Evans brothers,” Ivan observes with a slight Russian accent.

“He’s adopted.” Tristan glances at Rory, who stands out from the rest of us with his red hair. It’s an honest answer. He might not be blood, but he’s spilled enough of his own for this family to make him as much my brother as any of the other men standing beside me.

“I’ll keep this short,” Ivan offers. “We have two choices. We can keep shedding blood, which I will highly enjoy. Or… I can take your gift of eliminating Mikhail and putting me in his place as a gift. One that I repay with a truce.”

“A truce?” Declan repeats. “And what does that look like?”

“The Big Apple is a huge fucking city. You stay out of our business and we’ll stay out of yours.”

The six of us look at each other, silently coming to an agreed-upon decision. Tristan outstretches his hand to Ivan as he says, “My brothers and I can agree to that.”

This seems too fucking easy .

Ivan slaps his hand into Tristan’s and shakes it firmly. “But if you fuck me”—Ivan’s gaze slowly passes between Declan and Finn—“I will not fail as Mikhail did.”

Finn stays quiet and stoic beside me—exercising self-restraint or biting the fuck out of his tongue—but I can practically feel the rage radiating off Declan as he exhales a quiet, angered breath.

Not releasing Ivan’s hand, Tristan rebuts, “Cross us and we will send you to visit Mikhail.”

A hearty, dark laugh rises from Ivan’s chest. “Then we have an agreement.”

A month to put together a three-minute meeting. One that I hope will eliminate the threats that those we love have had to suffer through since this war started.

Ivan and his men walk toward the gated exit for West 54th Street, and we head through the lobby to West 53rd Street. We make the quick—and silent—walk back to the parking garage. The valet delivers my Tahoe, and we all climb inside. As the final door clicks shut, Declan snarls, “If he ever fucking threatens my wife and children or Catlin again, I’ll fucking kill him where he stands.”