Precious Legacy (The Notorious Legacy #1)

Chapter 22

TWENTY-TWO

H aldon slices his hands through his hair, resting his elbows on his desk. I’ve never seen the guy look so out of place. He’s the joker, the one to lighten the mood in any situation, yet right now he’s irritated, fuming in fact.

“What’s happened?” I ask, walking towards him.

Varo is already here, leaning against the wall-to-ceiling window that lines Haldon’s office, looking a little perturbed.

“They’re fucking retaliating,” Haldon grumbles exhaustedly. “Deliveries were due yesterday and they didn’t come.”

I look at Varo in the hopes he might have something to say about the situation, but he keeps his mouth shut, shaking his head at me.

“Maybe it’s a misunderstanding,” I suggest, but even I know I’m clutching at straws.

Since the Russians are still waiting on an answer from us about the docks, I’m assuming this is their way of pushing boundaries, forcing our hand perhaps. I’m smart enough to recognize that this act is them sending a message, but that only worries me more at what else they might have up their sleeve. A simple misdelivery can be handled, but how far will this go before blood is being shed?

“I won’t fucking stand for this!” Haldon bellows, unable to keep his cool. He slams his fist onto the desk so hard that his whiskey tumbler flips on its side, rolling towards the edge of the wooden surface. I catch it before it smashes to the ground, placing it as far out of his reach as possible, which just so happens to be the liquor cart. If there’s one thing I know about Haldon, it’s that nobody messes with his clubs, and this might be the start of a war if we’re not careful.

Haldon has always been great at keeping his emotions in check. He knows how to take care of most situations, and in turn, it makes him reliable. He thinks things through. He’s logical, but not cold. I trust him with my life, and as one of my best friends, I know how to calm him down when he can’t calm himself. All he needs is a solution; something for him to focus on.

“We’ll smooth it over,” I tell him confidently, because we will.

We’ve held off on giving the Russians what they want because we’ve been confirming our mole was in place. Since my uncle reached out today, we’re confident we can get intel on what the enemy is up to, so it was decided we would set up a meeting with the Russians this week.

One day . That’s how long they had to wait, but instead, they wanted to test our patience like we’re just kids playing games. It crossed my mind that’s exactly what it looks like from their perspective, but I sense one of the Bratva brothers might have had a part to play in this latest attempt to piss us off.

From what I know of the brothers, Konstantin seems a little more approachable and reasonable. I wish I could say the same about Vadim, but his demeanor at the docks the other week was off. He’s not only testing our limits, but his brother’s, too.

“We need to,” Haldon grumbles. “Otherwise, I’ll need to pay off my suppliers again.”

Grabbing a bottle of whiskey, I pour a heavy measure into Haldon’s glass. I offer one to Varo, but he shakes his head, moving towards the couches. “Milo is our best bet,” I suggest. “We’ll speak to him, and he can relay our message without causing too much mess.”

Varo kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, linking his hands behind his head. “Oh yeah,” he huffs. “And who’s going to do that?”

I lift a brow in his direction. Like he doesn’t already know the answer to that question.

As much as Milo is our best chance at having a calm conversation, Varo is also the only person that I believe he will talk to. I don’t know much about Kyrovsky, but between Varo’s mood swings and threats, he’s never once caused us to question whether we’re in danger by being around him. Usually, I’d find that just as intimidating, but something about Milo has me questioning why I don’t. If anything, I find it more suspicious and I always follow my gut when it comes to uncertainty.

“No,” Varo growls. “I’m not fucking doing it!”

“Don’t pretend that your dick isn’t hard for the guy,” I tease, pouring my own drink into a tumbler.

Varo’s eyes narrow and his lips thin. “Fuck you,” he sneers.

“Nah, I prefer your sister.” I take a measured sip from my glass, winking over the edge of it.

I get the reaction I was hoping for; an angry rumble of disapproval and irritation. Teasing our best friend has always been mine and Haldon’s favorite pastime—next to our annual baseball torture session, of course. It’s almost too easy to piss Varo off. It’s also really funny to wind up the guy who insists he can take a joke when, infact, he’s the most reactive when he’s the target.

“You’re a prick,” he mutters. “I see why Alanis hates you so much.”

Rolling my eyes, I resist the urge to answer back with another jibe that involves me and his sister. While I know he’s totally on board with our relationship—or whatever you want to call it right now—I know it bothers him if I start spouting off details. Nobody wants to hear about their sister getting railed, and I respect that. It’s a line I won’t fully cross. I say fully because I still enjoy making Varo uncomfortable, and I’ll do whatever it takes just to get a rise out of him.

Finishing off my drink, I place it back on the cart. “So, are you gonna speak to him, or do I need to find someone else to suck his dick?”

Varo pushes up off the couch, grumbling something inaudible, then finishing with some creative expletives that leave me and Haldon both a little shocked. “You fucking owe me,” he barks over his shoulder before leaving the office, slamming the door behind him.

“I’d rather not,” Haldon murmurs under his breath, and I can’t fight the smile curling my lips.

Moving to the couches, I relax back into the leather. We’ve got another fight coming up this Friday, and while it’s sold out already and we have the lineup of fighters confirmed, I’m still a little apprehensive.

There’s been a lot of talk about the fights—mostly good—but it’s dangerous. I knew what I was getting into when I set this venture up. I knew it was high-risk. But the more talk there is, the more attention we’ll get. Like Black Jack, I’m considering the option of relocating the fight night, sort of like a pop-up event. It’s way less risky when only a limited number of people know the location, and the mystery will probably draw a lot more interest; enough to get another night running.

I still need to run the idea past Haldon since I’m utilizing his resources and talent to find discreet spots and market the nights. It’ll take more planning and a hell of a lot more money and resources, but it’s totally doable.

Haldon vacates his desk and comes to join me on the couches, taking a seat on the one opposite me. “What’s on your mind?” he asks.

It’s almost concerning how quickly he switches emotions, but I’m used to it after twenty years of friendship. His ability to school his emotions and refocus his energy is impressive, to say the leas. It’s probably why he’s been so successful in taking over his father’s businesses.

Kicking up my feet on the coffee table between us, I sift through my thoughts. “I think we should move the fight nights,” I divulge.

“Is that all?” he quizzes.

No. “Yes,” I grit out. The truth is, I haven’t been able to think straight since I asked Cillian to locate Ashton Greedy. My palms are constantly sweating and I’m ready to explode at any point. I’ve tried to mask it with the guise that my fight nights are growing increasingly more popular, but in reality, that’s something I could handle blindfolded.

The real mindfuck is waiting around for my uncle. He’s good, but if someone doesn’t want to be found, it can take time. Time is something I definitely have plenty of, but not what I want. I can be a patient person, but the need for violence crawls under my skin like an addiction.

“Well, I can?—”

A knock sounds at the door, cutting Haldon off. His uncle Caleb peers through the door before stepping in fully. He’s worked for Haldon’s dad, and in turn, Haldon himself, for years. Apparently, a lot went on between Hunter and Cori, to the point that Hunter felt responsible for her brother and gave him a place to live and a job. I would say Haldon gets his generosity from his dad in that respect, but his mom is equally compassionate.

“You have a visitor,” Caleb announces, his British accent toned down with an American lilt. He glances at me with a smirk. “Downstairs.”

Haldon and I both hold a questionable expression on our faces because we weren’t expecting anyone, but then it clicks and I’m pushing out of my seat and pacing towards the door. I’m practically itching with potent violence as I march down the stairs, ready to unleash it. Haldon and Caleb are close behind me, and when I reach the door to the basement of The Ravenite, Cillian is leaning against the wall, lighting up a cigarette.

“He’s in there?” I ask him, trying to tamper down my eagerness.

Cillian offers me a nod of affirmation, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Fucker has security around him twenty-four-seven,” he remarks. “But I worked around that small issue.”

I don’t ask for more details. I’m more than appreciative of his skillset and what he’s done for our families. He gets the job done, rarely asks questions, and his ethics are… well, I don’t question them because he doesn’t seem to have any.

“Who is it?” Haldon asks, coming down the last of the steps to join us.

Turning, I pull my brass knuckles from my pocket and slide them down my fingers. “It’s best you don’t know,” I tell him. “This is just something personal I need to take care of.”

With a quick nod, he makes a hasty exit. “Let me know when you need a cleanup crew,” he throws over his shoulder.

I smirk at Cillian as he pushes the door open. “I think we’re going to need more than that,” I comment.

We step into the cold room, a single light hanging from the ceiling and highlighting an angry Ashton Greedy. Cillian’s already tied him down to a chair, bound and gagged like the fucking piece of shit he is.

My uncle locks the door and leans against it, pulling out his blade and flipping it in the air with a deviant glint in his eye.

I turn back to Greedy, watching his eyes squint up at me as I reveal myself from the shadows, my figure towering over him.

Even tied up, it’s easy to see he boasts a height of six-foot-three, resembling a wall of muscle. I’m certain in a fight I’d be taken clean out. Nobody gets to where he is by being weak. Lucky for me, this won’t be a fair fight. It seems only fitting that I give him the same opportunity he gave my girl.

Usually, a man of his stature would have a presence that commands attention, but not here. With light brown hair and matching eyes, tattoos that look like a mismatch of bad decisions inked on his arms, I can see the appeal with the ladies, but that’s where I draw the line at compliments because I have no doubt he uses it to his advantage.

That one thought spurs on a whole torrent of images I have no business thinking. In a split second, I crack my fist against his cheek, the steel duster slicing straight through the flesh.

He groans through his gag, which surprises me. I’d have thought he’d be used to taking a few hits, but apparently not. He forces his head back up to meet my glare, his eyes round with fear.

“Do you know who I am?” I taunt, circling his chair.

He nods, slowly but confidently.

When I meet his gaze again, the fear is evident. He’s blinking rapidly, his chest heaving in a panic. If it weren’t for the gag in his mouth, I’m sure he’d be pleading for his life, but he never granted that small mercy for Alanis, either.

Every detail she divulged is seared into my mind. I’ll never get those images out of my head, like demons haunting every inch of it.

“Then you know what this spells for you,” I state, examining the blood spots on my knuckles. “I’ll be honest, it’s not looking good.”

The guy seems confused as hell, but I like that every second he spends at my mercy fills him with more terror and doubt than he’s probably ever felt. It says something about the man currently pissing himself when a guy like me—that he could easily take out—is the reason.

“Sorry, I should have said why you’re here. Where are my manners?” I laugh, glancing at my uncle, who has the same smile as me plastered across his face. “Oh, that’s right. They’re probably in that fucking alley where you left my girl to die!”

I slam my fist into his face again, slicing open the previous cut even further. Blood oozes down his cheek and stains his crisp white polo shirt. Fucking preppy shitstain in his stupid outfit. I don’t know why, but the sight of him makes me angrier and lunge at him once more, breaking his nose with a sickening crack.

Blood sprays everywhere; over his face, his neck and shirt. His whimpers fill the small space, muffled cries following as he pleads with me.

“Sorry,” I say, cupping my ear. “I can’t quite hear you.” I tear the gag from his mouth and his pained words come flooding out.

“You have the wrong person!” he cries out. “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Taking a step back, I tug the brass knuckles off and deposit them on the small table by the door. The clink of metal on metal echoes in the silence as Cillian hands me his blade. “Well, this is awkward,” I say, sarcasm dripping in my tone. “We’ve got the wrong guy, Kill.”

I turn to survey Ashton. He’s nowhere near as broken as I want him. I’m prepared to go to hell and back, taking this fucker with me just so I can make him feel real pain. “Guess we’d better let you go…” I move toward him, his shoulders relaxing, and that’s right where I want him. I throw the knife, perfectly piercing his left shoulder.

“Fuuuuck!” he screams out, face scrunching as he tries to coil forward. The pain and binds prevent him from getting anywhere, so his struggle only heightens the agony he’s undoubtedly feeling.

“Something you should know, Ashton. My uncle never gets the wrong person.” I reach for the second knife on the table. It’s rustier, but still sharp. I throw it forward, the weapon effortlessly landing on his right shoulder. His shirt is a pretty shade of red, the same shade I love to see on Alanis. My dick twitches at the memories of her in that sinful red dress on her birthday.

I make a mental reminder to get her to wear that again, preferably while I’m fucking her—because there’s just something about that color that makes her look dangerously sexy.

“Genovese,” Ashton groans. “I swear, I haven’t been near your girl.”

Cillian remains silent in the background. I never gave him the full story about what happened to Alanis and he never questioned it. The way we work is simple and suits us fine. But as I glance back at him, I can see his own face contort with the same rage I’m trying to keep a control of.

It’s why I don’t hesitate to step forward, twisting the knife in his right shoulder as I get in Greedy’s face. “Five years ago, you dragged a defenseless woman into an alleyway of this club and beat the shit out of her.” I twist the knife further, his shirt glistening with the amount of blood pouring from his wounds. “And as if that wasn’t enough,” I growl, yanking the knife out and slamming it into his thigh. “You fucked her like she was yours.”

His screams are filled with terror, tears now streaming down his face as I pull the second knife out of his shoulder. I let the blood-soaked blade drag across his jaw as I circle the back of his chair, painting the untouched skin a scarlet red.

“But she wasn’t yours.” I lean down so he can hear my words, loud and clear. “You might not remember that night, but she sure as shit does. The ironic thing is, she’s still willing to grant you mercy. After what you put her through, she wants to take the moral fucking high ground.” I dig the blade into the side of his face, drawing it in a downward motion until blood pools down his face and into his shirt. “Unfortunately, you get me tonight.”

“Please!” he begs.

I rock back to look at him, a smirk coming to my lips. “Tell you what. If you tell me the names of the other two fuckers who were with you that night, I’ll consider letting you go.”

He swallows thickly, nodding as fat tears roll down his cheeks. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.”

Violence simmers in my veins as I wait for him to continue.

“Scott Bryon,” he says on a ragged exhale.

The name doesn’t ring any bells.

“And the other?” I ask, arching a brow.

Greedy shakes his head. “I don’t know his name. We just met him that night. Said he was a cop.”

I nod curtly and step around him, bringing my blade back to his face.

“Wait!” he shrieks, panicking. “You said?—”

“I said I’d consider letting you go,” I reply coldly. “I’ve considered, and the only way you’re leaving here is in pieces, shithead. Nobody touches what’s mine.”

I get to work on his ear, sawing the rusted knife back and forth until it drops to the ground, swimming in his blood. His pained cries grow louder, but I’m nowhere near finished with him. I’m going to draw out every last second until he’s nothing but flesh and bone. I want to create a massacre, a creation of my own violence, because that is what Alanis does to me.

That is what she’s worth.