Ty knew just how ruthless the men sitting at that table could be. At his desk, he had stacks of photos of their handiwork—tongues cut out, necks slashed, heads with the backs blown out. For a moment, the vivid image of Morgan’s pretty face in one of those pictures flashed in his mind.
Ty blinked the horrible image away.
He might not know the extent of Morgan Kincaid’s involvement with the Bratva, but he knew he wouldn’t stand by and let them touch her. He was here to get evidence, sure, but there was no way he could in good conscience let anyone get hurt—or worse—on his watch.
“Hey bartender,” a voice shouted from the end of the bar.
Ty swiveled around toward the guy half draped over the bar, holding up his hand, desperately trying to get a drink. After Ty finished, the door at his side was swinging, and Morgan was already halfway across the dance floor.
***
Morgan walked as fast as her dignity allowed. She needed to outpace her cowardice. She could feel it, right there behind her, telling her to turn the hell around and get back to her office. This was a conversation she could have with her brother later. When the club was closed.
But she’d tried that. And it hadn’t worked. He would just tell her more lies. More assurances that nothing was going on, and everything was fine. That she should mind her own damn business or else.
Well, it was time to find out what exactly or else was.
This was her club too, after all. It might not be the place she’d always dreamed of, but it was still hers…well, half of it at any rate. She deserved answers.
Whatever trouble Gregg had stumbled into, she was willing to bet it had to do with the men he was with now. She’d seen them in the club dozens of times, and every time Gregg bent over backwards to be with them.
It shouldn’t have surprised her. They looked stylish, and rich, and powerful—all the things that Gregg desperately wanted to be. But they were also scary as all hell.
This was the first night that Morgan had been able to work up enough courage to come out and talk to them. Even now she was having second thoughts. These didn’t look like the kind of guys you wanted to mess with.
But she wasn’t going to mess with them. She was just going to say hello. She had every right to talk to the people in her club. Even if they did look a whole hell of a lot like mobsters.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
She was just about to turn back around when Gregg glanced up and their eyes locked. For a brief moment, his face fell and it reminded Morgan of the look he would get when they were kids. Back then, Gregg always managed to pout his way out of all kinds of trouble.
Well, not this time. If these guys were as bad as she feared, then her brother needed her help.
Morgan cleared her throat before she stopped in front of the table. A dozen stony faces stared back at her.
“Hey, Gregg,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. It was nearly impossible to do and still be heard over the music. “Do you want to introduce me to your friends?”
“Morgan,” her brother said, his voice filled with warning.
“I guess not.” She turned toward the man sitting in the middle of the booth. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that, whatever was going on here, this guy was the one in charge. The man practically exuded power. Morgan extended her hand. “I’m Morgan Kincaid. Gregg’s sister and co-owner of Kincaid’s.”
The man looked down at her hand, but didn’t take it. His face was flat, showing no sign of emotion.
“Miss Kincaid,” he said in a thick Russian accent.
Morgan pulled back her hand and rubbed it against her other one. The truth was she was suddenly glad he hadn’t shaken it. She could only imagine that with a stare that icy, his touch was even colder.
“Morgan,” her brother tried again.
“I’ve seen you in here, a few times before Mr…” A long silence hung in the air as she waited for him to fill in his name. Morgan swallowed past the lump quickly growing in her throat. “And I thought I should come over and introduce myself.”
“And so you have,” the man said with a note of finality in his voice. He turned to the slim brunette at his side and started to talk in a language she didn’t understand.
Morgan felt heat creep into her face. Who the hell did this bastard think he was that he could talk to her like that? This was her club. This was her house.
Well, half of it, at any rate.
“I was also wondering what your business with my brother is.”
The Russian stopped talking. He slowly turned toward her.
“Morgan, don’t,” Gregg said, louder this time.
“I have no idea what you mean, Miss Kincaid.” It took every ounce of resolve for Morgan not to wither under his openly hostile stare. “But even if I did, the business would be, as you said, between your brother and I, and no concern of yours.”
Glacial blue eyes burned into hers as he picked up his glass and took a drink.
“True,” she said. “But, like I already said, the club belongs to both of us.”
“Is that right?”