Sergei slipped out of the passenger side of the SUV, gesturing for his man to stay in the car. “Zhdi zdes'. Eto ne zaymet mnogo vremeni,” he told him. It wouldn’t take long because he only needed two words to speak to the Mexicans—cash and MacFarlane.

He walked to the door of the auto body shop and pounded. When it opened, a stocky man in chains and leather greeted him.

“You need somethin’?” he asked, blocking Sergei’s entry to the small office beyond.

Sergei could take the guy out with one well-placed punch, and his fingers itched to do it, but he controlled himself.

“I need to see your new boss. Tell him the Bratva would like to discuss some business we previously had with Vasquez.”

The man nodded, whispered something to someone standing behind his left shoulder, then continued to block Sergei’s way.

In a few moments, Sergei heard someone say, “Toma sus armas. Déjalo entrar.”

“He says—”

“I know what he said,” Sergei snapped. He removed the gun beneath his left arm and dangled it in front of the guard. His gaze dared the man to try to check him for more. The guard shrugged, then stepped aside.

Fool, Sergei thought. He still had a knife in one boot, a gun in the other, and a syringe in his back pocket with enough heroin in it to send Consuelos to his grave in about five minutes.

He was led by a second guard to the work bays for the repair shop behind the office. The odor of motor oil was strong, and Latino rap vibrated around the concrete room that housed some tools, a lowrider with the hood open, and Consuelos with two more guards. Sergei tried not to smirk. He’d come in alone, and Consuelos still felt the need to keep a small army around.

“I wondered how long it would take you to show up,” Consuelos said, lounging against the door of the lowrider. The orange flames that decorated the trunk contrasted violently with the glittery green paint. Sergei couldn’t help but wonder why the Mexicans couldn’t drive Third World dictator cars like everyone else in the business.

“Good to see you again, my friend.” Sergei gave him a slow grin. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Consuelos shrugged lightly. “It’s sad but true. My cousin Alejandro has disappeared, so until he resurfaces, I’m doing what I know he would have wanted and stepping into his very large shoes.”

“How kind of you,” Sergei murmured. “Word is you have the support of the MacFarlanes.”

Consuelos nodded. “I’ve met with Cian MacFarlane. He and I have an understanding.”

“And does that understanding involve anything your cousin and I had previously arranged?” Sergei’s tone implied it had better not.

One of the men in the room shifted, and Consuelos stepped away from the car, walking slowly to where Sergei stood. Consuelos leaned forward and gave him a feral smile as he quietly spoke in Sergei’s ear. “Our understanding is simply that things remain status quo. I won’t ask questions about where my cousin Alejandro has gone, and MacFarlane supplied me with the name of someone who might not be loyal to mi familia.”

Sergei nodded. “I see. As long as we’re discussing things that will remain status quo, I assume you know the details of my arrangements with your organization?”

Consuelos nodded.

“I expect those to be honored,” Sergei demanded, his voice as cold as he could make it.

He had to hand it to Consuelos, the new leader was tougher than Vasquez had been, not as ego driven. His response was murmured so the men in the room wouldn’t hear all of it, but his voice was strong and his intentions clear.

“I very much want to honor them. However, given the newness of my position, I’ll need some assistance in return.”

Sergei cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

“As I said, Mr. MacFarlane was kind enough to tell me there is a rat in my house. While I normally would dispose of the rodent myself, it would be better right now if I didn’t create any dissension among the men.”

Sergei nodded. Transfers of power were never easy or simple.

“I would like you to take care of the problem for me; then business between us can resume as it was under Alejandro.”

Sergei wasn’t often pleased. He wasn’t often much of anything, but this pleased him, because it was easy, and not many things in his world were. Making one Mexican mobster who’d been informing disappear? Piece of cake.

“Give me the information,” Sergei said, removing his phone from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “It will be done in twenty-four hours.”

Consuelos flashed him a mouthful of white teeth. “Thank you.” He snapped his fingers, and one of his men produced a cell phone. They traded numbers, and Sergei quickly received a text with the name Juan Vasquez along with an address. He nodded to Consuelos.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, yeah?” Consuelos said as Sergei strode toward the door.

“You’ll see me when you see me,” he answered.

As Sergei climbed into the car, he looked at the name and address Consuelos had texted him and sighed. He swiped the screen of his phone and held it to his ear. “I’ve just met with the new leadership of our friends from Mexico. You have a something to take care of it.” Then he disconnected and sent the name and address on.

As he settled in for the drive to his Gold Coast apartment, he sighed in satisfaction. Sergei liked easy solutions, and this had been one of the easiest.

* * *

The bottle crashed against the wall as Robbie MacFarlane took a menacing step toward Cian.

“Pop,” Liam said quietly, warning in his tone.

“Get out,” Robbie growled, his face red with rage.

Liam started to protest, but Cian interceded. “It’s okay. Pop and I need to talk in private,” he said, never taking his eyes off the old man.

“You sure?” Liam asked.

“Yep. Go see if Mom has any dinner cooking. I’ll be out in a bit.”

Liam muttered something about being close by and shuffled out of the office.

The minute the door closed, Robbie was on him. His fist connected with Cian’s jaw, snapping his head to one side. He had to hand it to his father, he knew how to throw a punch. But Cian was a pro at taking them, and he gave himself a thumbs-up for not letting it knock him off his stance.

“You done?” he said blandly as he stared at his father.

Robbie shoved a finger in Cian’s chest. “I told you to make fucking war,” he snarled.

“And I decided to avoid killing off a bunch of our employees, including possibly your own sons, and negotiated a peace that cost us nothing. No territory, no business, no lives.”

Robbie’s finger continued to press into Cian’s chest, and he smothered the urge to grab the old man’s hand and crush it like a piece of newsprint.

“You didn’t gain us anything either, which is the point of the war. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to gain new territory and slow down the competition. You want a prize for leaving us no worse than we were yesterday?”

“Actually, I want a prize for putting up with you,” Cian snapped. He hardly ever let his father bait him, but damn, this was over the top.

Robbie’s eyes grew feral with rage. He took the last step, putting himself chest to chest with his oldest son. “You’ve been a pussy your whole life,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You proved to me how weak you were that night, and you still are.”

“Yet, you turned over the business to me,” Cian replied, as he held his hands out to his sides the way he always did to keep from hitting his father. He’d promised his mother years ago he wouldn’t kill the old man, and he kept his damn promises. It was the only honor he had to hold on to at this point.

“And I can take it back.”

“Can you?” Cian stepped away and moved to lean a hip against his father’s large desk. He’d never pushed this far before, but the stress of the last forty-eight hours and the absence of Liam’s moderating presence was making him feel reckless.

Robbie didn’t say anything, but his face was mottled red and his fists opened and closed at his sides.

“I think you realize you couldn’t take things back even if you had your health. The men are happy, everyone’s profiting, things are safer than they have been in years.” He stared at his father the same way he’d stared at Consuelos a few hours earlier. “I’m a better boss than you could ever hope to be, and that’s what this is really about.”

Robbie strode back to his desk and sat, a hard glint in his eyes.

In spite of his best efforts, Cian felt the sting of bile in his throat, a foreboding spreading up his neck like lightning.

Robbie slowly slid open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out an eight-by-ten photo, looking it over for a moment and smiling before he slid it across the desk.

“See, you may think you have the loyalty of the men and your brothers, but you don’t have the balls to do what it takes to stay in control.”

Cian looked at the photograph, and his heart froze. There, clear as day, was Liam, straddling a body, blood staining the dead man’s chest, a gun in Liam’s hand as he pointed it at the corpse and stared down.

“I have others. Of all your brothers,” Robbie said smugly. “Photos of Liam carrying out a hit, or Connor handling a packet of product, or Finn meeting with one of the FBI’s most wanted. It doesn’t much matter which one hits the feds, it’ll bring it all down around your head.”

Cian had known a lot of cruelty from his father over the years, and until that fateful night when he was eighteen, he’d endured it and worked twice as hard to be what his father wanted. As in many families, he’d gotten the worst of it as oldest son, but as a child, he’d only wanted to make Robbie proud, so he’d doubled down every time, vowing never to disappoint Robbie again.

Then on his eighteenth birthday, it had all come to a head in one blood-filled night. That was the night Robbie had pushed Cian too far. The night Liam had started on the path to becoming an enforcer. The night Cian had vowed he’d end Robbie MacFarlane if it was the last thing he ever did.

But while Cian was accustomed to Robbie’s cruelty, he’d never dreamed Robbie would do anything to risk the business. And make no mistake, his sons and the business were one and the same to Robbie.

“You’d send your own sons to prison just to prove a point?” Cian said in shock.

“No, I’d send ’em to prison because they’re your weakness, and I know it. It’s my insurance policy. The kind of insurance you never saw coming because you think if you wouldn’t cross that invisible line, then no one would. It’s the kind of insurance policy you’ve always been too scared to take out yourself.”

“And what the hell do you want?” Cian asked, his voice raspy in the quiet office.

“You’ll do what I say when I say. I don’t give a damn about the day-to-day. I’d have never handed it over if I did. But when I say go to war, you go to war. When I say expand territory, you expand. You don’t ever dare defy me again, because you may think you’re running this ship, but I can sink the whole motherfucking thing.”

Cian’s lungs were tight, and keeping his breaths even was a challenge, but he’d be damned if he’d let the bastard see him fall apart. He could do that later when he was alone. For now? For now, he’d play along, but tomorrow, he’d figure out a way to put an end to this thing with Robbie. It was past time he took care of the biggest loose end his life had.