The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

The rear windshield shatters. Clare ducks down, chunks of glass scattered across her hair like diamonds. I brush the glass away, not caring if it cuts my fingers.

“You’re saying Parsons doesn’t mind if I get shot?” she says.

I can see the shock on her face.

She knows the chief of police personally. He attended her birthday party. He probably joked and laughed with her. Might even have called her one of those stupid nicknames the hoity-toity love so much.

A week later, he doesn’t give a fuck if his off-the-books officers gun her down along with me and Yury.

He won’t lose a moment’s sleep as long as the evidence for this whole debacle dies along with us.

“It’s never pleasant to learn who your real friends are,” I tell her.

It’s happened to me too many times to count.

On the other hand, I know who I can trust with my life. It’s a short list, but immensely valuable to me. Yury, for instance. Like I told Clare, I would put my literal lungs in his hands for safekeeping and never worry a moment.

Unconsciously, Clare’s small hand steals into mine.

She wants to feel protected, while the man hired by the city to preserve the life of its citizens tries to shoot her fucking head off her shoulders.

I squeeze her hand tight, silently letting her know that I’ll never let that happen.

“We switch cars up here,” Yury grunts, wrenching the wheel to the right, taking us down a side alley.

My bratoks Czar and Remo are already waiting. As soon as our car passes, they shove a dumpster out into the alley, wedging the rusted metal bin in place. The cop cars brake hard, their doors flying open. Another volley of bullets hits the dumpster, but it doesn’t matter—the bin is wedged into the alleyway like a cork in a bottle. The cops can’t pass, they’ll have to drive around. I hear them cursing, climbing back inside their vehicles, hastily reversing.

I’m already pulling Clare onto the back of Czar’s sport bike.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Clare cries, eyeing the Kawasaki like it’s a bucking bronco. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

“You’ll be fine,” I say, shortly. “I’m the one driving. Just put your arms around my waist, hold on tight, and lean with me into the turns.”

I seize her around the waist, lifting her up and physically setting her down on the seat like an argumentative toddler. Then I take the one and only helmet and shove it down on her head, silencing any further protests.

I take my position in front of her. Her arms wrap around my waist, her head turning so she can press her whole body against my back, clinging on tight.

Good. With that terrified grip, there’s no way she’ll fall off.

“I’ll draw them off, boss,” Yury assures me, staying behind the wheel of the Benz.

“Be careful,” I tell him. “Parsons isn’t fucking around.”

“I noticed that,” Yury grins.

“Should we follow you, boss?” Czar says. He’s climbing onto the back of Remo’s bike now that I’ve commandeered his ride.

“No,” I say, surprising him. “Meet me at the next safe house in an hour.”

Clare and I drive out the end of the alley first, taking a hard right. Yury heads off the opposite direction, where the cops will be speeding around the corner any second, trying to catch up after their unexpected detour.

I can feel Clare’s fingertips digging into the hard muscles of my abdomen as she clutches me with every dip and sway of the bike.

We’re roaring down the dark city streets, the streetlights blurring together into a steady stream of color.

With each corner I take, Clare fights me a little less, learning to lean along with the bike, so that she and I and the raging machine all move as one together.

I’m impressed by how quickly she picks it up. Clare may be sheltered and easily startled, but she has this grit down deep inside of her. When I scratch her deep enough, the steel glints through.

Slowly, her death grip relaxes, and she sits up a little taller, looking around as we speed through the city.

Eventually, she holds on with only one hand, flipping up her visor so she can call out to me, “Why didn’t you bring your men?”

“Because they won’t like where we’re going,” I grunt.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like it either?” Clare says.

She’s right about that.

I pull the bike up in front of Maguire’s pub, right in the heart of Little Dublin.

Maguire’s is no dingy corner bar. It’s a three-story, freshly painted, gleaming establishment, all rich dark wood, tightly stretched striped awnings, and photographs of famous Irishmen on every wall.

Usually it’s packed with people, but the windows are dark an hour after closing. The gold gilt lettering across the glass reads, Desolation’s Original Local, Est. 1829.

The Maguires have indeed been running this place for almost two centuries. You might be forgiven for thinking that old Cian Maguire, Roxy’s great-grandfather, has been occupying his customary window booth for that entire duration—he looks more ancient and well-rooted than the oak bar itself, which he brags was taken from the hull of the ship that brought the first Maguires into New York’s harbor.