Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

I climbed out, and as soon as the cab door was shut, it drove away. No changing my mind now.

I tipped my head back and took in the three stories of the building in front of me. The entire structure was black brick, with twin black vinyl doors situated front and center and a small light illuminating it. Compared to all the other buildings on this block, it looked totally out of place.

The sign above the door was red neon and spelled out Sdat'sya.

I pulled out my cell phone and sent a quick text to Laura to let her know I was here. Aside from meeting at this place at ten, she hadn’t given me any other instructions.

I wasn’t brave enough to go through those front doors, which by the way were unguarded. Part of me felt a little bit of trepidation about what lay on the other side, as if I’d be walking into hell itself.

I wasn’t stupid in not assuming a lot of Desolation was controlled and owned by the crime syndicate. I knew in Vegas the Italian mafia had a large hand in things. In fact, many cities around the US probably ran the same way. It was just how the world worked, how things were done. And so I tried to keep my head down and my business to myself.

Of course, sometimes that shit hits you right in the face anyway, and there was no trying to come out without being scarred.

Because the powerful controlled the powerless.

So the fact that this particular building, which screamed money and had a illicit air to it, not to mention was obviously Russian owned, told me it was probably controlled by the Russian mafia. The Bratva.

I looked down the street to my left, then to my right. A police car slowly drove toward me, and I stepped farther back, the cold stone wall of the building stopping my retreat. I knew enough about law enforcement in cities like this, ones that were corrupt and twisted, where criminals had the final say and money could buy anyone and anything.

So the men, the law—who would be the likely prospect when you needed something or when running or hiding or begging for sanctuary—they weren’t the ones you’d ask for help. They were the type of men who took cash in back alleys and looked the other way. They were the type of men you ran from. Fast and without looking over your shoulder, because they’d be right behind you.

And as the police cruiser slowed to a crawl as it passed me, the driver glancing in my direction, his grin was big, with all white teeth in a shadowy interior.

A shiver worked through me despite the still air. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me and watched the cruiser disappear down the street.

A second later my phone vibrated with an incoming text, and I looked down to see Laura’s message.

Give me a sec. I’ll bring you in.

I tucked my phone back into my jacket pocket, and a moment later I heard footsteps coming from the side. Laura stepped out from the corner of the building and searched around before her gaze settled on me. She smiled and gestured for me to follow her.

Once I was beside her, we headed down a barely lit alley. “Are you sure about this?” I couldn’t help asking as I looked around the dumpster- and trash-filled alley.

“It’s safe. Don’t worry. The crime around here is nonexistent.” She snorted as if she knew why. I certainly knew the answer to why no one fucked with this place. The mafia.

Even criminals knew when they shouldn’t fuck with the big boys.

We only walked a handful of seconds before she stopped in front of a rust-colored metal door. She pounded on it a couple of times before stepping back. It swung open, the metal hinges creaking loudly and echoing off the buildings.

A big, burly guy with not much of a neck and a jagged scar slashed down the side of his face held the door open. I looked at him hesitantly, his expression closed off and slightly dangerous.

I quickly glanced forward and followed Laura inside. When we entered the anteroom, the door closed behind us with a loud bang, loud enough that I jumped slightly. I blamed my frazzled nerves on the foreign terrain I was currently embarking in, but the truth was closer to the fact that this entire situation just didn’t sit well with me.

And that was probably because I knew the person or people who owned this place weren’t good men. And those are the ones I’m trying to stay away from.

“Don’t worry about Boris,” Laura said and looked over her shoulder. “The doorman.” She tipped her chin to the burly, scar-faced guy. “He’s harmless. At least I assume he is. He rarely speaks and just kind of hangs around in the background. Or he does whenever I’ve worked.”