Page 8 of Kidnapped Bratva Toy
I froze midstep, knowing how serious he was without looking at the guy. This wasn’t good. We couldn’t keep the doors closed for that long. The club proper wouldn’t survive, and we’d have no revenue to hide the smuggling. Dammit. Just had to go the fucking legal route.
Spinning around to face him, I level Emiliano with a glare. “You come at us, don’t expect we won’t do the same. And me, I’m personally a big fan of going the old-school route. Enjoy the cigar, fucker.”
Turning on my heel, I left him standing there as I headed to the car. “Do call. I’ll call you.”
“You can’t just ignore me, Pietor!”
Flipping him off as I walked away, I called over my shoulder. “I’m not ignoring you. I just have body detail, and if I don’t go to the pick-up, I’m just going to busy myself in your daughter’s pussy.”
Cursing something, Emiliano’s shoes clicked on the floor as he huffed off in the other direction. I really did have a body to retrieve for Lev, and right now, that seemed more pressing than listening to that fucker pontificate. They needed to get a handle on this, thought—and fast.
***
Five fucking days. I’ve been dealing with this bullshit for a business week. That damn lawyer isn’t dropping it, which, of course, means Emiliano isn’t dropping things. Yeah, we left the meeting on rocky terms at best, but come on, didn’t the guy have anything better to do?
Clearly, he does not.
One of Emiliano’s men had tried to reach out to me, and I’d responded with the appropriate threat to both his manhood and his boss, but the usual stuff wasn’t working, which sucked. I did not want to be involved with a legal battle, but Sergey wasn’t willing to drop it and give up the club, and yeah, I got that. Lev was doing his best with the Unholy Trinity to get deetz on Emiliano. Still, the fucker was proving to be damn elusive.
That left me. Me and my increasingly short patience.
I spun the spinner ring on my middle finger, easing my nerves with the comforting twirl of the metal humming through my skin. The gentle whooshing sound was enough distraction to pull me out of the repeating circle of thoughts I’d been stuck in.
“I need a new tactic. The threats aren’t working. Emiliano clearly doesn’t like his men enough to be concerned, and he thinks he’s invincible.”
Halting my pacing, I looked down at the stack of documents I’d fanned out across my bed. The guy had gotten an education in how to draw up charges, that was for sure. I might have known how to fight against him if I was some hot-shot lawyer. However, the lack of legal skills was an unfortunate fact.
“Legal skills. Wait.”
I shuffled through the papers, reaching for the first email the guy’s lawyer had sent.
“Yes. Billie Pearce.” I flicked the printout with my finger. “Maybe it’s time for a visit, Ms. Pearce. Hmm… What’s it going to be, sweetheart? Payoff? A few scare tactics?”
Reading over the email again, sort of absently without truly ingesting the words, I scanned to the bottom. “Oh, and you even put your work address there at the bottom for me so that I don’t have to search for it. Ugh, thank you.”
I let the paper fall back down to the bed. It was still early, so I had time to shit, shave, and shower. Even if only one of those was really on the list. I’d already had the coffee, so we were good with the first one, and I never bothered with shaving unless it got terrible. Good old electric razor scruff was the way to go.
“So, on to the shower.”
I kept it military-grade, rinsing, soaping, and then rinsing again before stepping out and toweling off. Going to a fancy law office required a more polished look, but I was about as far from polished as you could get. I yanked on a pair of black boxer briefs and then the only pair of black slacks I owned.
A simple black button-down, no tie and absolutely not buttoned up to my fucking chin, was next, and I still pulled on my leather jacket over the top of everything. That was a staple that I wouldn’t be caught dead without.
Grabbing my keys off the nightstand, along with my phone. I’d already memorized the address, and before I left, I snagged my sunglasses from the chair near the door. Locking this up, it was straight to the garage and downtown. Cohen & Mark. Attorney Fucks at Law.
***
The four-story building downtown was one of the originals in the area—a relic of the way Chicago used to be before modernization. There was limited parking, so I pulled into an alley alongside the building, trusting the bulletproofing and tinted windows to keep the SUV safe.
Walking to the main entrance, I pushed through a heavy glass door. The building had clearly been industrial at some point, and the ancient wood ceilings and exposed wiring had all been painted over with white. Beyond that, the previously open interior had been divided into rooms using thick black metal and glass walls, sliding doors separating offices and conference rooms from the hallways.
You could still see everything through the dividers, and I shrugged. Seemed pretty fucking pointless to install a transparent wall.
I headed to the main desk near the front, deep wood accented by a matching wood panel behind it and the firm’s name displayed in backlit metal letters. A woman in her upper twenties, maybe thirty, sat behind the desk, answering and redirecting calls.
“Hello. I’d like to see Ms. Pearce, please.”
She startled before looking up at me, and I offered a slight smile. The woman’s mouth fell open slightly, and she quickly worked to school her expression.