Page 22 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

T he hospital smells like bleach and something vaguely sour underneath—like maybe someone tried to clean up after something they didn’t want to talk about. I keep my breathing shallow as I follow the nurse down the hall, holding a sad little bouquet from the corner store.

They’re carnations. I think. Could be something else, but they were cheap and colorful and felt like the kind of thing you’re supposed to bring when you’re pretending this is just a casual visit—not an excuse to poke around for answers.

Burns is awake when I step in. He’s propped up in bed, remote in hand, flipping through the channels like he’s five minutes away from losing his mind. When he sees me, he grins.

“Liam,” he croaks, voice rough but smug. “Didn’t think I’d rate a hospital visit from the golden boy himself.”

I set the flowers down on the table by the bed. “You lived. I figured that at least earned you a pity bouquet.”

He laughs, then winces. “Don’t make me laugh, asshole. It still hurts to breathe. They said I got lucky—missed anything vital by about an inch. One inch. Can you believe that?”

I pull up the chair beside the bed, trying not to show how much I’m watching him. Every twitch, every blink, every word. I want to believe he’s just grateful. I really do. But my gut’s been twisting since the moment I got the call, and it hasn’t untangled yet.

“You look good,” I say finally.

He raises an eyebrow. “That a compliment or a warning?”

I smirk faintly. “Maybe both.”

He laughs again and presses a hand to his side. “Careful, you’ll make me bust a stitch.”

We talk for a bit—nothing important. The nurses. The shitty hospital food. How his wife’s been on a warpath about the press coverage and already started milking the sympathy angle for his next ad campaign.

Then I shift gears. “They said the shooter’s been found. Killed in a standoff.”

Burns nods. “Yeah. Saw it on the news. Real nutjob, apparently. Had some kind of manifesto. The usual garbage.”

“You believe that?” I ask carefully.

He frowns at me. “Shouldn’t I?”

“I just mean… it all happened pretty fast. Doesn’t that seem off to you?”

Burns doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head, watching me a little closer now, but not with suspicion—more like curiosity. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’ve always been this tightly wound or if something’s changed.

“You really think so?” he says slowly. “I mean, we’re talking about a senator getting shot in broad daylight.

That’s not something the Feds ignore. They probably threw everything they had at it—local, state, federal.

Hell, probably even some off-the- books task force I’ve never heard of. Of course they found him fast.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s supposed to be comforting. But something about the way he says “of course” makes my skin crawl.

Still, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, but there’s a tension in my chest that won’t ease. “It just… doesn’t sit right.”

Burns lifts an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound like one of those podcast weirdos. You know the type—thinks every blip in cell service is the government tapping their brainwaves.”

I huff a small laugh. “I’m not saying it’s aliens. Just… I don’t know. It’s all a little too neat.”

Burns shrugs. “Maybe we just got lucky for once. You ever think of that?”

I don’t answer. Because no, I haven’t. Not since the moment the bullet hit the ground beside me. And especially not since I started wondering if the person standing closest to the shooter had more to gain than anyone.

I don’t answer. Because no, I haven’t. Not since the moment the bullet hit the ground beside me. And especially not since I started wondering if the person standing closest to the shooter had more to gain than anyone.

But Burns lets the silence sit for a moment, then waves it away like we’ve wandered too far off track.

“Well, anyway,” he says, exhaling as he settles deeper into the pillows. “Let’s talk about something less depressing. The primaries are coming up. A few days out now.”

I nod, sitting up straighter. “You ready for it?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve got the best people working the ground game,” he says, then flashes me a grin. “And you’ve been knocking it out of the park. I mean that. You’ve helped shift the narrative—made me look like the kind of guy voters actually want to have a beer with.”

I let out a dry chuckle. “Glad someone thinks I’m useful.”

“I’m serious.” He sobers slightly, tone sharpening just a bit. “We’re this close, Liam. But we can’t get comfortable. Especially with Volkov’s trial coming up.”

That name lands heavy.

Burns continues, eyes narrowing. “There’s talk he might get released. Nothing confirmed, but enough noise to make me pay attention. And if he does…” He shakes his head. “You think he’s going to sit back and let me win this election?”

My jaw tightens, but I say nothing.

Burns studies me, like he’s measuring his next words. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing—the shooting, the chaos—it was them. Trying to send a message. Stir up fear. Make me look weak, or better yet, dead.”

He says it casually. Too casually.

Like it’s just another theory. But his eyes don’t quite match the tone.

And suddenly, the conversation doesn’t feel like a deflection anymore.

It feels like a warning.

I nod slowly, keeping my expression neutral. “Yeah,” I say. “You might be right. The Russians don’t usually take kindly to someone threatening their grip on the city.”

Burns lifts his brows like he’s impressed by how quickly I agreed. “Exactly. You get it.”

But even as I say the words, something doesn’t sit right.

It’s too easy, blaming the Volkovs. And sure, it tracks—they’ve got the reach, the motive, the means. Anatoly’s always played the long game. But I’ve spent enough time in the middle of this damn mess to know that things aren’t always as simple as they look on paper.

Still, I keep my doubts to myself. Burns already thinks I’m bordering on conspiracy theory territory. No need to start sounding unhinged.

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” I say instead, rising to my feet. “If there’s anything out there, I’ll find it.”

Burns smiles like that settles it. “I knew I could count on you.”

I force a smile back, shake his hand, and tell him to get some rest.

Once I’m out of the room, I exhale hard, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension. But it doesn’t go anywhere. The hallway’s too bright. Too clean. Too full of unanswered questions.

I take the stairs down, one hand on the railing, phone already buzzing in my pocket.

Lucky: Working on it. Found some traffic cam footage. Looks like the guy showed up on foot near the venue twenty minutes before the event. No known gang ties—at least not officially.

Lucky: But get this. He was last seen leaving a car that’s registered to a shell corp. One that used to be tied to a Volkov-owned construction firm.

My pulse kicks up.

You’re sure?

Lucky: Still confirming. But yeah. Pretty sure.

I climb into the car and sit there for a minute, engine idling as I pull up everything I can on my phone—press reports, public records, surveillance leaks from the gala.

Lucky sends me a blurry still of the guy’s face as he exited the alley.

And yeah, he’s not familiar. But the license plate visible in the edge of the shot?

I’ve seen that prefix before.

Volkov plates. Eastside registration.

I scrub a hand over my face, jaw tight.

It doesn’t prove anything, but it’s a hell of a lot more smoke than I expected to find this fast.

Which means maybe Burns was right.

Maybe I was just being paranoid. Seeing ghosts in the wrong places.

The thought churns in my gut like acid. I want to dismiss it, shove it aside like I did before. But I can’t. Not when the pieces are lining up so cleanly now.

I head home, flip open my laptop, and start digging deeper. Cross-referencing logs from Blackthorn’s private security feeds, syncing timestamps with the gala’s perimeter coverage, even scraping data we got from that hush-hush city contract Quinn helped us snag last quarter.

And there it is.

Clear as day.

Multiple sightings of Dariy’s men near the venue. Not just one or two guys doing a drive-by, but a cluster. Lingering. Watching.

Some stationed near side streets. One near the back alley where the shooter came from.

And that’s no coincidence.

My chest tightens. Hands clenched so hard on the keyboard I could snap the damn thing.

They were there.

The Russians were there.

I sit back, jaw grinding, and let it settle in.

They didn’t just send a message to Ana. They aimed one at Burns too. Or maybe they weren’t even messages—maybe they were warnings. Punishments. Threats.

And if Ana had been a step closer to the blast zone?—

No. I can’t even finish the thought.

They’ve crossed a line.

They’re not just trying to scare her anymore. They’re trying to bleed her life out from under her. Piece by piece. And now they’re going after anyone who gives her shelter.

Burns. Me. Whoever stands between them and their puppet strings.

The rage comes quick, hot, and white and blinding. I grip the desk, try to breathe through it, but it won’t budge.

They think she’s weak. That because she walked away, they can come in and take what’s theirs.

But she’s not alone anymore.

Not while I’m still breathing.

If they want her back so badly, they’re going to have to tear her out of my arms. And I swear to God?—

I’ll tear the whole fucking Bratva down before I let that happen.

I’m still sitting at the desk, fingers tense over the keyboard, when the front door opens and Ana steps inside, cradling Lily in one arm while unzipping her jacket with the other. “I told her you can’t have that rock, miss ma’am, but she wasn’t having it.”

Kate follows behind with the diaper bag, shaking her head with a fond smile. “She’s got strong opinions for a four-month-old, I’ll give her that.”

Shane lingers just outside the door for a final scan of the street before stepping in and shutting it tight. He gives me a nod—silent confirmation that nothing suspicious followed them.

Good.

I stand, crossing the room before I even realize I’ve moved. Ana looks up, eyes crinkling at the edges when she sees me.

“You look tense,” she says, adjusting Lily in her arms. “Everything okay?”

I glance at Lily—her soft, rosy face peeking out from the hood of her little onesie—and feel that fury spike again. But I swallow it down. No explosions. Not yet.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just been digging into some stuff.”

Ana raises an eyebrow. “The kind of stuff that gives you that ‘I want to punch a wall’ look?”

Kate senses the shift and quickly excuses herself to put Lily down for a nap. Shane disappears into the hallway, giving us space.

Once they’re gone, I take Ana’s hand and lead her gently to the couch. She follows without resistance, searching my face like she already knows something’s wrong.

I sit beside her, knees spread, elbows on my thighs.

“I think I know who was behind the shooting,” I say quietly.

Ana stills. “What?”

“I didn’t want to jump to conclusions before. I didn’t want to believe it. But I looked through security feeds, timestamp logs, and cam footage. Some of Dariy’s men were there. Near the gala. Near the shooter.”

She swallows, visibly trying to stay calm. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Lucky found a car linked to one of their shell companies. I matched the plates. And I pulled footage from Blackthorn’s backup archives. I saw them myself, Ana. They were watching.”

Her expression tightens, and I hate that I’m the one putting that look on her face.

I reach for her hand. “I’m not telling you this to scare you. But I need you to know—whatever this is, whatever your family is doing—it’s not just about you anymore.”

Ana’s hand tightens in mine. She doesn’t speak yet, but her lips part like she’s about to—before her throat works around a hard swallow.

“You really think my father ordered this?” she asks finally, voice small but steady.

“I think,” I say, “either he did—or he’s letting someone under him do it without stopping them. And either way, it’s on him.”

Ana doesn’t answer right away. She just sits there, eyes clouded, lips pressed together like she’s trying to hold back the flood. Part of me wants to take it all back—soften it. But I can’t. Not this time. Not when it’s our daughter’s life on the line.

Before either of us can say anything more, my phone buzzes on the table behind me.

I reach for it absently, thumb swiping across the screen, then freeze. It’s from a number I don’t recognize.

A chill ripples down my spine as I read the message.

You're asking the wrong questions.