I mean, he did ask me not to make a mess.
I’m on my way out of the Black Swan when someone catches my eye in one of the side poker rooms: Arian Kirakosian, sipping a glass of something, a grimace on his face.
Just leave, idiot.
I exhale with a groan.
In many respects—okay, in just about every respect—Bianca has been a one-thousand-percent net positive influence on my life. I’m noticing the goodness in the world. I sleep better at night. My…and my beast’s…need for bloodshed and violence is certainly tempered.
Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve killed at all since she crashed into my life like a goddamn basket of daisies and kittens. Tim just now doesn’t count. That’s his fault for running like a fucking idiot.
But there’s one side effect of overdosing on Bianca that’s a pain in the ass: I’ve got this thing now where I care.
It’s a habit I can’t seem to shake these days, and it’s a thorn in my fucking side. Every logical thought says to just walk the hell out of this casino right now. To leave well enough alone when it comes to Arian and the Albanians. And yet, even as I’m telling myself to walk the fuck away, go figure, my feet are carrying me into the room until I’m standing right in front of Arian.
The Bianca Effect, ladies and gentlemen, in all its chaotic glory.
Arian arches a brow as I stop in front of him.
“My condolences for your loss, Arian,” I nod stiffly. “Your father was a good man.”
He smiles wanly at me, but he nods back. “I appreciate that. He was short-sighted, maybe a little naive at times…” He shakes his head. “But thank you, Kratos.” He clears his throat. “I, ah, didn’t know you played cards.”
“I don’t,” I rumble. “Just here tying up a loose end.”
He smirks. “Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you need to piss anytime soon.”
He gives me a curious look. Just then, someone shoves me in the back, hard.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” a voice slurs.
I turn. When my gaze lands on Grisha Lenkov, swaying on his feet with a drink in his hand and a snarl on his face, my eyes darken.
“You wanna go another round, you fuckin’ bitch?” Grisha mumbles, breathing pure vodka in my face.
Goodness, that sounds like a fantastic idea.
Grisha’s eyes go wide as I grab him by the throat and wind my other hand up to smash his face in on principle. Suddenly, someone grabs my arm.
“Mr. Lenkov is a guest of mine tonight, Kratos,” Arian hisses, eyeing me coldly.
I’m about to make a sharp reply when I realize that just about every other guy in the room is looking at me with their hands hovering near their hips or the fronts of their jackets.
“I’m guessing these fine gentlemen are all with you?” I mutter at Arian.
“You guess correctly. Let him go, Kratos.”
“Yeah!” Grisha slurs, shoving at me. “Take your fuckin’ hands off me!”
I don’t mention that he was the one who suggested going another round. Instead, I just turn back to Arian, my hand still at Grisha’s throat.
“I think you need and deserve a better class of friend, Arian.”
“Kratos…” he warns.
With a grimace, I let the Russian shit-stain go. Ignoring his mutters and insults, I turn fully to Arian, my brow creasing.
“I didn’t realize Te Mallkuarit did business with the Bratva.”
Arian lifts a shoulder. “Who says we do?”
“Your questionable choice in poker buddies for the evening.”
Arian just shrugs again, not confirming or denying a thing.
“So, are you?”
“Am I what, Kratos.”
“Friends with the Russians.”
“I’m friends with lots of people.”
“How about this fucker’s boss. Boris Chernoff.”
Arian smiles thinly. “I didn’t come to a casino tonight to be interrogated, Kratos.”
