Unbeloved (Undeniable #4)(13)

What in the holy f*ck had he just witnessed?

Seeing his former brother like this, a man who’d once been so damn easygoing, always had a grin on his face and a joke to tell, turned into a ghost of his former self, a stone-faced killer . . .

Well, it didn’t exactly leave him feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. Quite the f*cking opposite, actually. And he might have just continued to stand there, staring, leaving him vulnerable to ZZ noticing him if Hammer hadn’t grabbed him, yanking him backward into the crowd. The cheering people swarmed around him, hiding him from sight just as ZZ straightened and turned to face his fans.

He spared them only a quick glance before abruptly turning away. Outside the cage, ZZ took a wad of cash from some greasy-looking *, grabbed a jacket from a nearby chair, and then he was on the move, shoving off the poor souls who dared to approach him before disappearing behind a door Hawk hadn’t previously noticed.

“Follow him!” Hammer shouted. “I’ll head back upstairs and cover the front!”

Cursing, forcing himself into action, Hawk started maneuvering his way through the throng of people, heading for the exit ZZ had taken. As soon as he passed through the open door, he slipped his hand inside his cut and pulled his gun free from its holster.

He was only a few feet inside the dark hallway when the door behind him suddenly closed with a loud bang. He spun around, his trigger finger ready, only to find Hammer and two of his men standing there.

Confused, he lowered his gun. “Why aren’t you . . .”

He trailed off as something hard and cool, undoubtedly the barrel of a gun, was pressed against the back of his neck.

“You thought you had the drop on me, huh?” ZZ’s tone and the laugh that followed were so cold and devoid of emotion, chills went skittering down Hawk’s spine. But even worse was Hammer’s refusal to meet Hawk’s eyes.

Well . . . shit. You really couldn’t f*cking trust anyone, could you? There was no loyalty among criminals. The only man he’d ever met who’d been the exception to that rule had been Deuce.

The barrel of ZZ’s gun dug deeper into his neck. “Drop your f*ckin’ piece.”

Thumbing the safety, Hawk opened his hand, allowing the weapon to fall. It clattered onto the floor with a sad, slapping thud that echoed throughout the empty hall.

Grabbing hold of his arm, ZZ roughly turned him, shoving him face-first into the wall. Without having to be told, Hawk assumed the position. After placing his palms flat against the wall, he then spread his legs apart.

ZZ’s pat down was quick, yet thorough, and within moments both of Hawk’s blades and his phone had joined his gun on the floor.

Hawk blew out a silent, frustrated breath. It was just a phone, but it contained the only photos he had of his son. Living life on the road didn’t allow him the luxury of keeping anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Not that any of that was going to matter if he didn’t make it out of this warehouse with his brains intact.

“Whatever you’re gonna do,” Hawk said quietly, “you best do it now. If not, I got places to be.”

“Yeah?” ZZ snorted. “More fool’s errands for your prez?”

“He was your prez once too.”

“He’s out for my blood, meanin’ he ain’t jack shit to me.”

“You shot Cage,” Hawk said, “meaning you shot us all. Your brothers. You can’t be dumb enough to think that shit was gonna fly with Prez.”

“He pulled on me!” ZZ yelled.

“Enough!”

Hawk turned toward the voice just as Hammer and his men parted, allowing four more men to enter the hallway. Dressed in expensive suits, their hair perfectly styled, these men weren’t more of Hammer’s crew.

The lead man, a good twenty years older than Hawk, judging by his white hair and wrinkled skin, stopped directly beside Hawk and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile but a vicious one. It was a smile that niggled at his memories.

“Luca,” the old man said, his voice heavily accented. “Is good to see you again . . . alive.”

Hawk blinked. That name, his name, his real goddamn name and that thick Russian accent. Which meant . . . this man was mafia. Cut from the same damn cloth Hawk was.

Behind him, ZZ burst out laughing. “To think all those f*ckin’ years I was livin’ amongst mafia royalty.”

Hawk said nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, too busy trying to compute what was happening. Or better yet, why it was happening.

“You no remember me, do you?” the old man asked.

Hawk stared at his face, his features, trying desperately to place him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t. Not until he looked directly into the man’s eyes, such a dark shade of brown that the pupil was virtually indiscernible from the iris. Not only were they a mirror image of his father’s eyes, but of his own as well.

“Yenny,” he said flatly.

As the man’s smile grew, so did Hawk’s anger.

Yevgeniy Polachev was Hawk’s uncle and had been his father’s second-in-command. Hawk had been under the impression that Yenny had died along with everyone else in his father’s company.

But Yenny hadn’t died, he’d lived, and from the look of his expensive clothing and the armed men behind him, had prospered.

“You,” Hawk spat. “You turned on my father, didn’t you? You took everything he’d made for yourself!”