Read Online An Obsession with Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 3) by Nancy Haviland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Haviland
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been more curious about anything in his life. Was she requesting this meeting . . . ?
His head jerked up. Speaking of meetings. Shit.
He went back into the club and hid a cringe when he saw Luiz Morales already settled at the large corner booth—the table of which had been removed so no weapons could be drawn without being seen. Tucking his and Sydney’s conversation away to dissect later, Maks came on the scene with a nod to the Mexican and settled next to Vasily. Micha stood behind them, an arm’s length away, and Alekzander Tarasov had shown while he’d been gone and was now at his uncle’s right. Vincente materialized, then, like the Reaper he was named after, and settled into a ready prop against the mirrored wall a few feet over. Shit. Maks had forgotten V had said he was stopping by because he had a meeting in the area with his NYPD contact. Good timing, though. Having the Reaper around was always beneficial when one wanted to make an impression. Vincente glanced at the Tag wrapped around his thick tattooed wrist, his long black hair skimming the cuff of his leather duster. He looked relaxed, almost bored, but that was bullshit and they all knew it.
Focusing, Maks observed Luiz lazily checking out the waitress handing him his drink.
“Thank you, chica ,” he drawled, tucking a bill up the leg of her fitted black boy-shorts rather than handing it to her. Such disrespect.
Asshole. Maks relaxed his curling fists. He might make a healthy living running a club many considered offensive—though why they would he had no idea. He didn’t run whores. Not one bared pussy had ever been flashed. No one had sex on the premises—other than him. And his girls were treated well. Everyone had their reasons for doing what they did in life, and the women who worked for him were no different. Hell, most of them had a child or two they were attempting to raise in situations not ideal, and he respected the fuck out of them for that. Sure, he’d sampled one or twenty over the years, but only when that green light flashed to let him know the interest was there. He’d never treated them as nothing more than pieces of ass, even the ones who saw themselves as such.
Needless to say, he wasn’t fond of watching men like Morales degrade his female employees.
“So, Luiz,” Vasily began, getting right to the point of the visit. “What can I do for you?”
“As I mentioned on the phone, I’d like to discuss the owner of Pant.”
“Sydney Martin,” Vasily clarified.
Luiz nodded. “I’m looking for permission to engage Ms. Martin regarding a business deal we’re involved in. She has . . . been lax in her agreed-upon duties, and I’d like to address that without your organization getting involved on her behalf.”
Vasily swirled his glass. “As you know, the practice of having surrounding businesses under our thumb isn’t what it used to be. But Sydney and her club are most definitely under our protection. For me to grant you this permission, your reasons would have to be considered valid.”
“I understand,” Luiz said, his expression not as amiable as it had been only seconds ago. “Ms. Martin and I have been in business for a year. It was a satisfactory relationship, until not long ago when one of my associates went into her club and requested product.” He paused to flip his phone up when it lit up around the edges. It was resting facedown on the top of his thigh.
Maks wanted to reach across the open space between them and smash his fist into the guy’s face for making them wait even seconds for more details. “Your buddy hit a snag?” he couldn’t help but prod, too impatient to be cordial.
Luiz replaced the phone and looked up. “More like a roadblock. He was told there was no product to be bought and he’d have to go elsewhere.”
“She’d sold out?” Vasily questioned.
The Mexican pursed his lips and shook his head. “A new delivery had been made two days prior. There was no possible way
His head jerked up. Speaking of meetings. Shit.
He went back into the club and hid a cringe when he saw Luiz Morales already settled at the large corner booth—the table of which had been removed so no weapons could be drawn without being seen. Tucking his and Sydney’s conversation away to dissect later, Maks came on the scene with a nod to the Mexican and settled next to Vasily. Micha stood behind them, an arm’s length away, and Alekzander Tarasov had shown while he’d been gone and was now at his uncle’s right. Vincente materialized, then, like the Reaper he was named after, and settled into a ready prop against the mirrored wall a few feet over. Shit. Maks had forgotten V had said he was stopping by because he had a meeting in the area with his NYPD contact. Good timing, though. Having the Reaper around was always beneficial when one wanted to make an impression. Vincente glanced at the Tag wrapped around his thick tattooed wrist, his long black hair skimming the cuff of his leather duster. He looked relaxed, almost bored, but that was bullshit and they all knew it.
Focusing, Maks observed Luiz lazily checking out the waitress handing him his drink.
“Thank you, chica ,” he drawled, tucking a bill up the leg of her fitted black boy-shorts rather than handing it to her. Such disrespect.
Asshole. Maks relaxed his curling fists. He might make a healthy living running a club many considered offensive—though why they would he had no idea. He didn’t run whores. Not one bared pussy had ever been flashed. No one had sex on the premises—other than him. And his girls were treated well. Everyone had their reasons for doing what they did in life, and the women who worked for him were no different. Hell, most of them had a child or two they were attempting to raise in situations not ideal, and he respected the fuck out of them for that. Sure, he’d sampled one or twenty over the years, but only when that green light flashed to let him know the interest was there. He’d never treated them as nothing more than pieces of ass, even the ones who saw themselves as such.
Needless to say, he wasn’t fond of watching men like Morales degrade his female employees.
“So, Luiz,” Vasily began, getting right to the point of the visit. “What can I do for you?”
“As I mentioned on the phone, I’d like to discuss the owner of Pant.”
“Sydney Martin,” Vasily clarified.
Luiz nodded. “I’m looking for permission to engage Ms. Martin regarding a business deal we’re involved in. She has . . . been lax in her agreed-upon duties, and I’d like to address that without your organization getting involved on her behalf.”
Vasily swirled his glass. “As you know, the practice of having surrounding businesses under our thumb isn’t what it used to be. But Sydney and her club are most definitely under our protection. For me to grant you this permission, your reasons would have to be considered valid.”
“I understand,” Luiz said, his expression not as amiable as it had been only seconds ago. “Ms. Martin and I have been in business for a year. It was a satisfactory relationship, until not long ago when one of my associates went into her club and requested product.” He paused to flip his phone up when it lit up around the edges. It was resting facedown on the top of his thigh.
Maks wanted to reach across the open space between them and smash his fist into the guy’s face for making them wait even seconds for more details. “Your buddy hit a snag?” he couldn’t help but prod, too impatient to be cordial.
Luiz replaced the phone and looked up. “More like a roadblock. He was told there was no product to be bought and he’d have to go elsewhere.”
“She’d sold out?” Vasily questioned.
The Mexican pursed his lips and shook his head. “A new delivery had been made two days prior. There was no possible way
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