“I know a spoiled little rich girl when I see one,” Emmanuel says. “Trying to inch away from me. Wishing you didn’t have to breathe the same air as us peasants. Well, you’re in our world now, princess. And you’re gonna learn the hard way that we’re smarter than you, stronger than you, and we can do whatever the fuck we want with you…”
Yury clears his throat, another warning that Emmanuel ignores.
Constantine is still talking to Ilya.
It’s funny—Constantine likes to remind me that I’m sheltered, but it doesn’t bother me so much coming from him. Maybe because he doesn’t vilify me as one of the elite. Whereas Emmanuel looks like he’d like to peel my skin off with his fingernails.
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and look right up into his face.
“If that’s the best you can do, you better stick to your day job,” I tell him. “I’m perfectly happy to be here tonight—in fact, I’m rather enjoying it. From a clinical perspective, there’s a fascinating array of socio-divergent behavior on display. You, for example—you seem to be overcompensating for feelings of physical inadequacy, which is understandable with all these powerful men around you. Yet you turn that aggression on me, one of the only women present. Which makes me think you may be compensating for sexual inadequacy as well.”
Emmanuel’s face goes rigid and pale with every word that flies out of my mouth. It doesn’t help that Yury lets out a soft but discernible snort of amusement.
“You filthy little bi—” Emmanuel starts, before Constantine rejoins us and he falls instantly silent.
“What did Ilya say?” Yury asks, swiftly changing the subject before Constantine can notice the spring-loaded tension among our little group.
“A pack of bullshit lies,” Constantine says. “Call Remo. Tell him to get over here and track Ilya everywhere he goes. Stick on him like a shadow. If he meets with anyone, if he makes a phone call, even a text, steal his fucking phone and see who he’s warning. I shook the tree—he’s gonna drop some fucking apples.”
“You got it, boss,” Yury says, ducking out to call this Remo person.
Constantine throws a sharp look at Emmanuel, like maybe he didn’t miss the tension between us after all.
“Go get us some drinks,” he commands.
I can tell Emmanuel doesn’t like being ordered around like a waiter—not one bit. But he simply nods and heads off toward the bar.
“My apologies,” Constantine says. “We’ve missed the first fight. Don’t worry, I have excellent seats for—”
He’s cut off when someone slams into him from behind. He rocks on his feet but doesn’t lose his footing. He comes up swinging, fighting the men who swarm him from every direction.
Before I can scream, before I can even open my mouth, Constantine shoves me hard, pushing me back into the crowd, out of harm’s way.
The move costs him a moment’s attention that he pays for with a brutal slash of a knife across his bicep. Blood spatters the cement floor like a Pollock painting.
“Constantine!” I shout wildly, trying to see through the crush of bodies much taller than me.
I can’t tell who’s fighting him, who’s helping, and who’s trying to get away before they catch the edge of a knife. I see at least three blades, slashing at him from every direction. Constantine ducks and wheels with an agility that hardly seems possible for a man his size.
One of the men slashes at Constantine’s face, howling curses, and Constantine chops his hand down hard on the man’s arm, sending the knife clattering away across the floor.
“Feckin’ Rogov,” one of the attackers growls. Irish? Have the Irish infiltrated the fighting ring?
Constantine flings one of his attackers into another, but two more barrel forward, howling like demons. My God, they’re relentless.
Any minute, I expect him to kill them. To shoot, or slice their throats, or at the very least land a blow.
But he doesn’t.
He deflects every strike, dodging and weaving expertly, his eyes darting away from his attackers once more to find me in the crowd.
I’m fine, I want to tell him. Focus on you.
He dodges again, then rolls on the floor just as the youngest of the men stabs his knife down toward his chest.
“Constantine!” Yury bellows, shoving his way through the melee and barreling into the attacker. Yury hits him from the side, knocking him flat. Constantine dives on him, wrapping his thick arm around the man’s neck, putting him in a headlock.
By this point, several more burly, bouncer-looking types come charging in, bellowing, “Fucking Irish. Alert Petrov!”
The attackers scatter. I’d imagine they’re dead if Petrov catches them here. It’s so crowded in here, so loud, that nearly all escape, except the one caught dangling like a mouse in a trap by Constantine’s beefy arm.
It’s only then that Emmanuel rejoins us, holding a bottle of beer in each hand.