“Come on, Paulie,” Rory, the owner of the shop, called to the man watching television. “I’ll finish you up in the back.”
“Come on,” the man said gesturing to the TV with an outstretched arm. “The game is on.”
Rory clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll watch it back there too.”
Grumbling beneath his breath, Paulie hoisted himself up, barely sparing Niklaus a glance as he followed behind the barber and disappeared through the doorway, the door closing behind them.
At his back, one of the men lowered the blinds, then twisted the handle so that it was impossible to see it, or rather, to see in.
Still, Niklaus didn’t panic. He’d faced worse odds over the years.
Most of the men in the shop were purely muscle, that much he could tell from the way they glared at him, but had yet to move from their respective spots, but one man who’d been standing by that same door Rory and Paulie had disappeared through pushed off the wall, coming towards him.
Unlike the others who were mostly clean-shaven with their hair styled, this one had a good amount of facial hair, a silver ring through his nose, along with at least three rings on each hand. His hair was longer than the lot of them, and pulled back from his face, and the closer he drew to Niklaus, it became clear that his hair was actually twisted into what looked like dreads.
He was tall, about Niklaus height, even had about fifty pounds on him, but Niklaus still wasn’t worried.
But it wasn’t he who spoke. No, another man who was sitting in the furthest chair sat up, forest green eyes staring at Niklaus as though he would rather see anyone else but him.
It was clear, however, as he got to his feet and swiped a hand over the front of his vest that he was the one in charge, Declan.
What was it with mafia guys that made them feel the need to wear a suit every day?
Niklaus much preferred a good pair of jeans and his boots, but Declan, very much like Mishca, had on a three-piece suit, sans jacket, and even had a pocket watch peeking out from his vest.
“You’ve got a set of balls on you, Volkov,” he said, lacking the accent that Celt sported so proudly. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head right now?”
Like that question was the ammunition they needed, the others withdrew their guns, all trained on Niklaus from every direction.
Bending his arms, he raised his hands, not looking bothered in the slightest as he shrugged a shoulder. “Wrong Volkov.”
Sometimes, especially when he was in New York on business, Niklaus adopted the Russian accent that had taken him years to master, that and learning the language during the times when his face was exposed. It had even made it easier to get into certain places because his brother’s face was so well known.
But at the moment, it wouldn’t pay to pretend to be Mishca, not with these men.
Sure enough, Declan’s anger shifted to confusion. “Bullshit. Volkov doesn’t have a brother.”
“Especially not a twin,” the other at his side added.
“Oh?” Niklaus glanced around. “I’m standing right here.”
Declan still looked skeptical. “You live anywhere long enough, you can adopt the accent.”
“Fair enough.” Niklaus dropped his hands. “As much as I’d like to stand here and argue this point with you, I have better shit to do. I’m going to need you to back off the McCarthys…for now.”
Now, Declan’s skepticism tuned to ire. “Made a deal with the Russians, did they?”
It was clear that he wasn’t about to accept Niklaus at his word—though that was fair enough considering the whole twin thing. And maybe if he didn’t have such a time restraint, he might have been less annoyed by this whole situation, but with a mysterious deal going down, with Reagan in the middle of it—even if she didn’t want to be—he needed to make his point.
And quickly.
Out the corner of his eye, Niklaus could see one of Declan’s men drop his gaze to the floor. It was only for a moment, a heartbeat’s time at most, but it was all Niklaus needed.
Shifting his body, he lunged at the man, catching him off guard as he locked his hand around the man’s hand and the gun, twisting them both so that Niklaus was shielded by the man’s body in case they decided to start shooting.
“As fun as this has been,” Niklaus said when he had everyone’s attention. “I don’t have the time. You,” he went on gesturing to Declan with the gun. “Need to backup. At least for the next week and a half. After, I couldn’t give a shit, but one of your bullets nearly hit someone that means something to me—and I get a little antsy when that shit happens. So unless you want to die, back the fuck off.”
While the other men in the room took a step back—except Declan, who only managed to look mildly surprised by the demonstration—that wasn’t he had come here for.
“I’m not in the habit of doing favors for those undeserving,” Declan added after a moment.
“Then do it for Reagan.”