The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

People cheer when Constantine comes in, and someone smacks him on the back again. I’d be black and blue after all that back smacking, but he only smiles and greets everyone. They all seem genuinely happy to have him back.

“So glad to see you got out,” a petite little blonde wearing death-defying heels says. “I knew you were innocent.”

Constantine nods. “Thank you.”

“We’ve told everyone we know,” a tall, thin, but lethal-looking guy from another corner says. “We’re spreading the word of your innocence.”

“The only ones you need to watch are the goddamn Irish,” a hefty guy with a white scar across his chin says. “They’re out to kill, brother.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to get to them first,” someone else supplies. I don’t even know who it is. “You’re safe here.”

“I heard Petrov kept the Irish out.”

“Some Irish. McCarthy’s allowed in when he visits the States.”

Constantine nods. “Of course.”

So it seems there are good Irish and bad Irish, in his eyes. In all their eyes, really.

“I’m sorry about what happened to Roxy,” a pretty redhead says. “That was awful.”

“It was,” Constantine replies. “The person responsible will pay.”

Affirmations go up all around, cheers and agreement from all sides.

My stomach clenches.

If what he says is right… that my father, the man likely responsible for sending some of these people here to jail… is actually guilty of framing Constantine? He’s dead. There’s no way he’ll escape from a literal ring of underground vigilantes.

“There you are, boss,” one of Constantine’s men says, catching up with us. It’s Yury, the one practically soaked in ink, the one who hated me on sight because of his brother. I was terrified when Constantine left him to guard me, but I shouldn’t have worried—his men seem too loyal and too well-trained to disobey his orders. And he’s made it clear that no one is to lay a hand on me.

A second soldier joins us a moment later—this one tall and dark-haired. He gives me an appraising look that I don’t particularly enjoy, his eyes crawling over my body in the ridiculous hot-pink T-shirt.

“Oh, cousin,” he chuckles. “Now I understand why you had to take the girl along with you in your jailbreak…”

Constantine frowns, resting a heavy hand on the small of my back. The possessive gesture makes me feel oddly comforted in this tight press of criminals and gangsters.

“Be quiet,” he says to his cousin. “I don’t want to draw attention to her.”

An irritated look flashes across the cousin’s face, but Constantine either doesn’t see it, or doesn’t care. His attention has been drawn to a stocky man in a pinstriped suit with a bald head as polished as a bowling ball.

“Watch her a moment,” Constantine says to Yury.

Without waiting for a response, he shoves his way through the crowd, planting himself in front of the bald man before he can make his escape. And escape is precisely what the man seemed to intend—I watch surprise, anxiety, and desperation flit across his face, before he smooths those emotions away and greets Constantine with a phony grin.

“There you are, my friend! I didn’t expect to see you out and about, with every cop in the city looking for you.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Constantine growls. “You’ve been avoiding me, Ilya.”

“Not at all, my friend! But you know, things are so delicate at the moment with the Irish and—”

“I’m perfectly aware of how delicate it is. What I want to know is why. Who knew about our deal? Who was asking around? Everyone comes to you, Ilya, don’t you fucking stonewall me—”

“You know I would never breathe a word of your business to anyone—”

“Unless the price was right,” Constantine snarls.

I don’t witness Ilya’s continued protests, because Constantine’s cousin steps in front of me, cutting off my view. It doesn’t help that the first match has apparently started in the adjoining room—over the cheers and howls of the crowd, I can no longer eavesdrop either.

“So you’re a shrink,” the cousin says.

“I’m a psychologist, yes,” I reply, shortly.

“Analyze me, then.”

“Emmanuel…” Yury says in a warning tone.

Emmanuel ignores him, his dark eyes fixed on my face with equal parts mockery and challenge. His face is flushed, and I think I see the tiniest dusting of white powder around his nostrils. I know what that means—taking a bump in the bathroom was as common as swapping a tampon with the girls I grew up around.

“Psychological analysis is not a party trick,” I say. “It can take years to drill down into someone’s psyche, and that’s with the full cooperation of the patient.”

“That’s funny,” Emmanuel says. “‘Cause I can size you up in five minutes flat. Guess I shoulda been a shrink.”

“Oh really?” I say, coldly, trying to peer around his shoulder to see if Constantine is coming back. I don’t like how close Emmanuel is standing, or the way he grins maliciously as he looks down at me.