Wildblood

Chapter 13

13

Wedged between a pawn shop and an insurance broker, O’Neil’s Florals stuck out like a pi?ata at a funeral. Pink and green signage framed the window display, a jungle of flowers and potted plants lining the shelves inside. For a Siberian tank affiliated with Bratva, Ivan Zverev kept strange company.

Kai gingerly approached the shop and pushed his way inside. An elderly man sat behind the counter, shaving the thorns off a rose stem. The blossom was a deep crimson, each petal lush and silky as though it’d been bred for a bouquet. Kai’s nose tingled from the sweet aroma, leaving him lightheaded. He never fully acclimated to the sheer amount of sensory input he had to sift through, and although the years had taught him to filter most of it out, walking into a hotbox of perfumes still disoriented him.

“Can I help you?” the old man asked gruffly as he smacked his chewing gum, the hints of an Irish accent lilting his question.

There was wariness in his tone. Kai reckoned O’Neil’s was known mostly to regulars, so a newcomer was as welcome as a hot turd on fresh asphalt. “Looking for Ivan Zverev,” he cut to the chase. Even if he was in hostile territory, the old man would think twice before starting shit with someone he didn’t know. The outcome wouldn’t be pretty.

The shopkeeper carefully placed his rose on the counter and sheathed his knife. He was practiced with it. “Does this look like a place for one of yours?”

Kai smiled icily as he leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. “What gave me away? The lack of translucent skin and pretty blue eyes? Or is it the hair? Too black and pointy?”

The old man’s shoulders shook as he laughed like he had pebbles in his lungs. Lifelong smoker, no doubt. “You’ve got the eyes of a killer. Doesn’t matter what color they are.”

“Dark and brooding with a hint of hellfire, I’ve been told.”

An unamused grunt. “You don’t seem very brooding.”

Kai’s lips stretched over his teeth in a baleful grin. “I prefer poorly socialized with a history of violence .”

The shopkeeper hung his head, suppressing a low chuckle. “You’re plucky. I like that.” His gaze lifted, and the humor drained from the runnels of his face. “You’ll find what you’re looking for in the back.”

“That’s it?” Kai straightened, his hands gliding into his pockets. “Why give up the ghost so fast?”

“Vanya’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

“Fair enough.” Kai shrugged. “Try anything and I’ll shove a cactus up your ass.”

“We don’t sell cacti,” the shopkeeper called after him.

Kai rolled his eyes on his way to the back room—a dimly lit office with an exit to a loading zone. The door was jammed open, and after a moment, Ivan Zverev strode in with a giant planter in his arms. His hair was tied up like the night they’d fought, and he’d traded out his tracksuit for a pair of worn jeans and an old T-shirt. His eyes slid to Kai, and he nodded curtly before plunking the impressive basket onto the desk.

“I was wondering when you’d show.” He wasn’t surprised to see Kai. No perspiration, jacked heartrate, or increased blood pressure.

“Didn’t realize you were expecting me.” Kai kept a respectable distance, hating that he felt the need to.

Ivan gave a half-hearted wave. “Just like you, I have a sense about things.”

Kai stomped down the urge to take the bait. He had to focus; he was here for a reason, and it wasn’t to pick Vanya apart. “What are you doing at an Irish florist’s?”

“O’Neil’s a good man, and I like it here,” Zverev said. “Working with flowers keeps me calm.”

A wolf in a fucking flower shop. How quaint. “I thought you work for a Bratva faction . ”

Ivan grabbed a pair of sheers and began trimming the foliage on one of the plants. “Something like that. It doesn’t bar me from being here.”

“What are you to them?” A freelancer, Kai was sure, but he wanted confirmation.

Zverev delicately pinched a stem between his fingers. The leaves bore pink and green splotches, reminiscent of the store’s sign. “Same as you. Just another body for them to get rich on.”

Some of the tension left Kai’s shoulders. “Muscle for hire.” His hunch had been right. “Your loyalty?—”

“Only as good as the money,” said Zverev, glancing at Kai.

A true merc , Kai thought. “The prize we fought over—know anything about it?”

“The forgery…” Ivan chuckled, spinning the basket to examine his handiwork. “Well, you know how it is. People talk louder than they realize.”

A smile tugged at Kai’s lips, and he finally stepped closer. “Any chance you’re in a sharing mood?”

Ivan grinned, though his eyes remained on the planter he was dolling up. “Would it console you for your loss?”

A biting remark. “Spare me the participation trophy.”

Zverev had no stake in what happened to the forgery; he’d already done his job, making him a free agent. More than that, he and Kai were both freaks in a world that held no space for them. If their positions had been reversed, Kai would’ve thrown Zverev a bone. He didn’t like the guy, but they were of the same ilk, and that meant something.

Zverev finally set down the sheers. “The package is with a third party. They’re responsible for brokering a deal with the victor of our contest. Since I won, the prize will be on its way to my employer instead of yours. All I can tell you is when and where the hand off will be. What you do with that information—keep it to yourself. I have no desire to get wrapped up in your crusade.”

Kai snorted. It was hardly a crusade. He only wanted to retrieve what he’d lost to keep Bratva off his ass. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why Pyotr and Zverev’s employer were fighting over something neither of them actually owned. Those in possession of this counterfeit crap were likely the ones who’d found it. For whatever reason, selling it to the highest bidder would offend the other side, so whoever took it needed a legitimate claim—something agreed upon by all parties. And what better way to settle the matter than through blood sport at the Confessional—the only neutral ground in the city?

“Fine,” said Kai. “Tell me where the hand off is.”

“No offer?” Zverev smiled coolly. “This information is valuable.”

“I’ve got nothing to give,” Kai countered. “Unless you wanted a free drink at the Confessional.”

Zverev slapped his bear paw of a hand to his thigh, laughing raucously. “I’d rather have a rematch when you’re at your best.” He bared his teeth. “When you know what’s coming for you.”

Kai’s lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. “You’ll get your rematch.”

“Good.” Zverev nodded. “I trust you’ll be itching for it.”

Now that they were close, Kai caught another whiff of him—that animal scent invading him like an unwanted memory. He ached to ask about the man standing in front of him, but he didn’t dare—not yet. He wasn’t ready to dive down that rabbit hole. Ivan Zverev wasn’t going anywhere, but the life Kai had built with Miya was a burning carriage headed for a cliff. He needed to grab the reins before they slipped out of reach.

The legacy of his kin could wait. The aching chasm in his chest, the thorn worming through his mind—it could all wait.

Kai tipped up his chin. “What’ve you got for me?”