Saint:A Dark Mafia Romance(7)

By: Aubrey Irons

She tastes like whiskey and sin, and I want to swallow her down whole.

She freezes, but then suddenly moans as I force her lips open with my tongue. She opens her mouth, letting me taste her deeper, letting me growl into those lips. I kiss her hard enough to make sure she remembers this, and then I pull away.

She pants, her eyes wide as they stare up at me.

Any other night, and I’d be into this conquest. Another night, and I’d see how bad this good girl wants to pretend she is tonight.

But this is a work night, and I’ve got to get to it.

Suddenly, before I can even open my mouth to tell her to go get him, she whirls. And quicker than I can blink, she scampers away through the crowd.

Well, that was interesting.

“Mr. Roarke.”

I pull my eyes away from her ass disappearing into the crowd at the sound of the thickly Russian voice behind me.


“Glad you could show up,” I mutter. I glance back, hoping for another glimpse of her, but she’s gone.

I turn back to the tubby Russian, glancing down at my watch. “Let’s go.”

“We have time for a quick drink first, yes?”

I stare at him. “No, we don’t have time for a fuckin’-” I sigh. “Let’s go do this thing so you guys can stop shooting each other in my goddamn neighborhood.”

Over the years, I’ve picked up a sixth sense for bad shit. When you’ve been in it enough, you start to get the hang of feeling it before it hits the fan.

Every hair on my neck raises the second we step through the door into the back room.

Oleg Liski, who I know as Anton’s right-hand man, and some Ukrainian dude in a tracksuit I don’t know, scowl at me and then hiss at Mikhail as we walk in.

I want to roll my eyes.

This whole thing stems from the Ukrainians being butt-hurt about the Dark Saints being chummy with the Russians these days. The thing is, “chummy” is a good thing. “Chummy” means friendly crime factions, which means we all get a piece of the pie. It means we divvy up who gets which part of the city, which part of the docks - all of it. The Russians stay happy in Roxbury, the Saints stay drunk and rowdy in Southie, and the Ukrainians?

Well, that’s part of the issue. The Ukrainians aren’t fucking happy anywhere they are, so as long as there are Russians literally anywhere else in the city.

Obviously, this presents a problem. You can’t fix the permanently ticked-off.

“So, can we do this now?” I growl. “Let’s all shake hands and kiss and make up like big boys, and then we can all go off and do whatever the fuck else we all actually want to be doing with our Friday night. Sound good?”

Oleg grins that crooked, yellow smile of his. Him I know, at least vaguely through reputation. Scummy, unhinged, liable to start fights, and a bit of a drinking problem.

You know, the perfect fucking guy you should be sending to peace negotiations with your sworn enemies.

But Oleg I can understand. Him, I get, because understanding people - even the fucking crazy ones - is what I do. It’s his little friend in the tracksuit that’s throwing me off, because him I don’t know. My eyes flick from Oleg to tracksuit again, and I frown.

He’s sweating. Profusely.

My jaw tightens.

His eyes twitch, and I can fucking see the thud of his pulse in his neck.

Yeah, this ain’t good.

My eyes drop down further, and I suddenly freeze.


Oleg’s been saying something completely condescending to Mikhail about being “pussy enough to come begging for a truce”, but I cut that shit off as my voice booms through the room. Mikhail, Oleg, and the tracksuit guy freeze.

The Ukrainian sighs heavily. “What’s the problem, Irish?”

“I’d like your friend to take his hand out of his pocket.”

The smile drops momentarily from Oleg’s face, and I tense up, very aware of the weight of the gun beneath my jacket in the side holster under my arm. The one that’s already got the safety off and the holster unhooked.

I’d like to say I’m a cautious man, and I am. But in this case, I just plain don’t trust these assholes.

I’m also a calculating man, and I’ve calculated this one already. I’ve already figured out the variables, and right there in that room, with the shady guy with his hand still in that pocket, I’m recalculating those variables.

“Five seconds,” I say evenly, with an edge to my voice. “Five seconds, and if slim over there doesn’t show his hands, we’re-”

It all happens in slow motion.

The room freezes, everything moving through space like we’re underwater going at one-quarter speed. I watch as the tracksuit guy’s arm flexes, his hand making a fist in that pocket as he starts to pull it out. I see the flash of black and silver, and I see Oleg reaching behind his back.

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