“This one went bad, Trace. Now please, just…”
It’s like it happens in slow motion. A man with shoulder-length hair wearing a long dark coat comes around the corner, dragging the dealer’s limp body by one foot.
“Rhys,” I say, my breath escaping me, recognizing Trace’s brother. The assassin.
“Someone running and screaming with a face full of blood captures our attention around here,” Trace says.
Another car pulls up behind his Benz before I can argue and fucking fuck.
I recognize that Wagoneer. The passenger door opens up, and one black beat-up shitkicker hits the damp pavement. Dark hair, sharp jaw, scarred cheek, and sunglasses at night, my brother Lachlan rises to his full terrifying 6-6 height.
His gaze locks on me. While this is a serious fucking situation, Lachlan doesn’t take himself too seriously. That signature grin of his builds on his mouth.
I quickly remind myself that he lobbied to get me out of Dunbar early. Plus, he’s my brother, my blood. He’s not afraid of any man on this planet. But he is afraid of two women.
His wife and our mother.
Lachlan looks me over. He takes in the blood on my face and my scraped knuckles. With a slow head shake, he growls, “Who did this to you, Cormac?”
“I’m thinking it’s this guy,” Rhys says, still holding the limp body’s foot while he lies splayed out on the sidewalk.
Like an idiot, I say, “Shouldn’t you be in Astoria, Lachlan?”
He cocks his head to me. “I called Griffin myself. I’m on his turf with permission.”
I exhale. Griffin Quinlan used to be Lachlan’s second. Even if he wasn’t, the damn Volkov Bratva in Chicago wouldn’t deny Lachlan O’Rourke access.
I can’t blow this off.
“Why are you here?” I ask Lachlan and then turn to Trace. “Are you following me on purpose?”
“Yes,” Trace answers. “So I can look your sister in the eye because I know you’re not dead.”
“And Ma,” Lachlan adds.
“I never worried about either you,” I stupidly argue.
Lachlan and Trace trade looks and then burst out laughing. My brother takes out his phone and shows me a collage of photos of me getting my ass kicked.
Fucking drones.
Lach glances at the man Rhys dragged over. “Is that the man who did this to you?”
I’m shocked this is all happening on a city street. But Trace is unfazed. He has this place locked down under Quinlan Empire control.
“I tracked him to a park across the street.” I raise my aching hands and wiggle my stiff fingers. “He’s a dealer.”
Lachlan stands over me, and one hand settles under my chin. As he turns it to the light, his jaw jumps.
I can only imagine what the hell I look like. “I’m fine.”
“I need to know who that is and where he’s dealing,” Trace says, voice serious.
“I’ll text you the guy’s contact info when I can move my hand enough to type.”
“Ouch,” Rhys says, staring at my bruised knuckles. “This fucker is going to wake up any second. What am I?—”
Lachlan doesn’t wait for Rhys to use his Irish Military tactical skills. He storms up to Rhys and grabs the dealer’s head.