The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“Right.”

“And since you believe my father was the one who framed you, you’re going to want to start asking some questions.”

“I don’t believe so, Clare. I know so.”

I don’t respond to that. He’s far more certain than I am. I like to think my father’s innocent still. I like to think we have a chance of him not dying by Constantine’s hand. The very thought makes me sick.

“You’ve come to make inquiries or something, I’d guess?”

“Yes. I have to prove to the Irish more than I have to prove to the justice system that I was not the one responsible for Roxy’s death. The Irish will kill me before I’ll ever be taken into custody again.”

“So what happens if… if you get the… justice you seek.” My stomach roils. “And you are vindicated by whatever organized crime rings threaten you.”

“Yes?”

“What then?”

He shakes his head. “You should know one thing that differentiates the two of us, Clare. People like you—well-to-do, wealthy, born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

I inwardly cringe.

“Their lives are planned out for them. Their parents know what schools they’ll go to before they’re born. They know they’ll go to college, and in some cases, who they’ll marry, and the list goes on. People like me?” He shakes his head. “We live day-to-day. I haven’t given any thought to what happens next, because the light in front of me only goes as far as my next step. My next step is entering that club and vindicating myself.”

Any day could be the last day he lives. I wonder if he finds the concept terrifying or freeing. Perhaps both.

“Stay in the car until I come to your side to get you.”

Wow. He doesn’t even want me to open the door and exit the vehicle alone? Lovely.

I don’t even think about disobeying him. Right now, my very life depends on obeying him.

I flinch when the passenger door opens.

“So easily startled, little bird,” he says with a sad shake of his head. “Don’t you know you’re safe with me?”

“Safe with the man who kidnapped me? No.”

But I’m lying. I’ve never felt so safe in my life. Walking next to Constantine is like walking next to a demigod—I’ve never seen someone of his size and strength, his ferocity. Though he’s a magnet for danger, I can’t actually imagine him hurt or killed. By extension, I feel just as invincible.

He slows his pace so I can keep up, otherwise I’m nearly sprinting because he’s so much taller than I am. “Stay by my side and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

“That sounds very medieval. Am I your serf?”

“You are adorably nerdy is what you are.”

“Aww. No one’s ever called me that before.”

He gives me a crooked smile, a bright flash of teeth before he quickly sobers. “I mean it, Clare. Stay by my side. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t answer questions. You’ll shadow me here so I can keep you safe.”

I nod. “Got it.”

The Pit has the same vibe as the sex club, only when we go in, it’s nowhere near as opulent. Instead, it’s as grimy inside as it is outside. Dimly lit, it smells faintly of sweat and rubber, like a well-used gym. People walk past us oblivious to who we are, dressed in everything from torn jeans and faded tees to heels and miniskirts.

“Jesus, motherfucker.” Someone comes up next to Constantine and smacks his back. “Heard you broke out, heard you took Valencia’s daughter? Unfuckingbelievable.”

Constantine bumps the guy’s fist, then drags me along. I’m guessing that as Valencia’s daughter I might not be the most popular person in here.

All around us, people congratulate him, greet him, welcome him back like he’s a soldier back from war. It’s a little awe-inspiring. He’s clearly a man of stature here.

“Mr. Rogov, Petrov sends his warmest greetings,” a large, beefy blond guy says when we reach one of the crowded rings. “He’s otherwise occupied tonight, but says he’ll catch up with you soon.”

Constantine nods. “Tell Petrov I’d like that.”

The look on his face tells me it’s a lie, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Any man who runs a place like this must be ruthless and cutthroat.

But there I go making judgments again, and so far, that’s been a really shitty decision.

There’s a snack bar along one wall with large tubs of popcorn and frothy beers, and along another wall, a long bar where bartenders serve drinks.

“Where are the fighters?” I have to practically scream above the noise of the crowd.

“We’re in between fights. Wait and see.”

I blink, surprised to find us in a room unlike the main arena. I hear some men and women speaking Russian in one corner, and in another, strings of Italian. I imagine this is a meeting place of sorts for the underground network of criminals.