“He’s getting help from the fucking Russians!”
Liam was toying with his phone, thinking over how best to handle Reagan’s disappearing act when Bobby, one of his brother’s soldiers, came walking into his office uninvited, but Bobby’s words managed to make it through his foggy head before he prematurely put a bullet in the man’s head.
“What are you going on about, Bobby?” Liam asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the men were too afraid to speak what they needed to say for fear of what he would do next.
Producing his cell phone, he opened up photos he had snapped, scrolling down to the one he needed, then angled the phone in Liam’s direction.
Taking the device, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
There was a barbershop, one he had never paid much attention to since it seemed rather empty the last few times he had passed it—there was no point in taking from those that weren’t receiving. But then his gaze snapped to the two men at the focus of it.
One was Declan, of that he was sure. He had seen the lad around enough, even before he had thought to make trouble for them, but it was the other man that made him pause to look closer.
He had seen his face before, that night at Reagan’s pub. He had been sitting at the bar with a drink in his hand, his attention on Reagan as though it had any right to be. If Liam remembered correctly, he had even mouthed off, thinking to get in between Liam and Reagan.
And now that he thought back on it, on the way Reagan had rushed around and stepped between them, he wondered for whose sake she had done it. Was she more concerned with keeping her business secure, or had she been trying to protect him?
Pointing to the one he didn’t know, Liam asked, “Who is he?”
“Mishca Volkov, boss of the Volkov Bratva. Word is the Bratva and Declan have never seen eye-to-eye, but maybe Declan made a deal for their help to move against us.”
Liam considered the information.
It wasn’t a bad move on Declan’s part, smart even. He would have done the same thing if his family were in a similar circumstance.
“What do you want to do about him?”
Had this Mishca Volkov been waiting for Reagan’s brother? Possibly to have a message sent off. It would make sense, even explain how Declan had been able to make so many moves against them when he was supposed to be in hiding—he had the Russian doing it.
“Donovan has an important meeting in three days. Three days. Find them,” Liam said, shoving the phone back at Bobby. “And bury them. We don’t need more complications.”
And once this problem was solved, he would make sure he thoroughly explained to Reagan why not to cross him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Russian.”
There was a certain ire to Niklaus’ tone as he answered the call, shifting his hands on the wheel as he put the phone to his ear. He didn’t sound particularly excited whenever his phone rang, but whoever was on the other end this time, it was clear that Niklaus felt a way about them.
“Despite what you think, I do have a life outside of your fucking Bratva.”
Bratva. She had heard that word before, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she had heard it, or even what it meant.
“I’ll pencil you in tomorrow,” Niklaus said with a roll of his eyes, even if the person on the other line couldn’t see him. “Fine. Stop your fucking bitching, I’ll see you within the hour.”
Hanging up, Niklaus tossed his phone on the seat, then turned on his blinker before merging into the turning lane.
“I need to make a stop first,” he explained, as he made a U-turn, heading back the way he came.
“With a Russian…” Reagan hedged, hoping he would offer up more.
“Mishca is his name, my brother.”
There was definitely bad blood there from the way Niklaus spoke about him in that detached manner of his. And she could only remember once when Niklaus had brought up his family.
“I didn’t know he lived here.”
A tick worked in his jaw, but he didn’t sound bothered as he answered. “We grew up separately.”
She frowned, feeling a pang in her chest. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t imagine not growing up with her brothers.
“Don’t be,” Niklaus said with a wave of his hand. “He’s a dick.”
Reagan didn’t get a chance to comment on that fact before Niklaus was mumbling to himself.
“An obnoxious little shit with a hero complex.”
“A hero complex?”
“You have no fucking idea.”
She really didn’t, but the way he spoke about him, with such disdain and annoyance, she was almost afraid to ask him what problem he had with his sibling.
It wasn’t long after that they were turning into a side alley adjacent to a number of storage units. Already parked a ways down was a jeep spattered with mud and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.
Leaning against it was a man with curling blond hair, a rigid jaw, with almost every inch of his skin covered in colorful tattoos.