Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1)(11)

At least they were getting their money’s worth for the entrance fee.

After a short walk through a back hallway, Violet and her friends were shuffled into an office that was far bigger than what she was expecting, considering how it looked from the outside. There was a couch along the back wall, two stuffed armchairs, and a large mahogany desk that dominated the space. Bookshelves were built into the walls with rows of books and tombs on various subjects lining them. Though the decor was understated, there was definitely a masculine feel to it.

The man who had stopped them earlier waved at his counterparts, and the three men who had escorted the girls into the space disappeared before the office door shut. Amelia had been placed on a couch, and Nicole moved to sit beside her.

Violet figured her friend had Amelia handled, so she faced the man who wouldn’t let them leave.

“I—”

“Quiet,” he uttered. “What did she take?”

Violet clenched her teeth. “I don’t know. That’s why we were leaving.”

“Does she need a hospital?”

“She needs a bed and water,” Nicole interjected.

“You need stitches,” he said, glancing down at Nicole’s arm. “You’re bleeding all over my couch.”

Nicole just glared.

Violet held back her grin, knowing it wasn’t the time.

“We’re really sorry,” Violet said, hoping to appease the guy so he would let them go without any more trouble. “We just wanted a good time—this club is supposed to be the hottest thing on Coney right now, and someone must have spiked our friend’s drink. We don’t want problems. We really don’t want the cops involved, so if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be.”

The man’s lips drew into a thin, grim line as he looked the girls over. “I will make sure you all get home safe and sound.”

Violet didn’t like that idea at all. She could still hear her father in the back of her head, repeating his warnings. Keep out of Coney Island, don’t go too deep into Brooklyn, and stay the hell away from Russians.

It was more likely that whoever this guy was didn’t have anything to do with the kinds of Russians her father demanded she stay away from, but Violet knew where the lines were drawn with Alberto Gallucci. She often tested them, occasionally even jumping over them when her father wasn’t looking.

Russians were not one of them.

“We can take a cab,” Violet said. “We took one here.”

The man didn’t look all too impressed with that idea. He opened his mouth to speak, but the office door opened from behind Violet, stopping whatever he was going to say.

“Everything good, brat?”

Violet turned fast on her heel at the new voice.

And froze.

He was tall—over six feet—and built like he ran a ten-K every day. The black suit he wore hugged his frame, but the jacket was left unbuttoned, showcasing a white silk dress shirt that was pulled taut across his chest.

The man was cut.

Violet swallowed hard and met the man’s stare.

Gray eyes, like the other man’s but more intense, looked her up and down with a slow, predatory fashion. His face was framed by a strong jaw dotted with a couple days’ worth of scruff and sharp cheekbones. His lips, full enough to draw in her attention, curled up at the edges into a grin of sorts.

She thought it looked more like a smirk.

He raised a hand and ran it through his short, dark hair that was tapered at the sides but a little longer down the middle.

But it wasn’t so much the action that caught her attention, but the black ink marked on his hand. An upturned spider that looked to be crawling up under the sleeve of his suit jacket rested upon a web.

Her gaze cut back to his when he dropped his hand back to his side.

He looked familiar. She was sure that she should know him, but in her semi-drunken state, she was coming up with nothing.

The man’s smirk quickly faded into a mask of cool, calm nothingness. He looked past her to the man behind her and said one word that chilled her entirely.

“Gallucci.”





“Someone’s on the wrong side of the bridge,” Kaz said casually, almost smiling at the way her mouth twisted. Turning his attention to his brother, he switched to Russian, ensuring that the Gallucci girl and her friends wouldn’t understand. “What’s the damage?”

“Fuck the damage,” Ruslan returned in the same tongue. “She needs to leave. Now. I have enough problems without having to worry about who else is going to show up at my door looking for her.”

He had a valid point. There was a reason for the lines that divided their two organizations, and Kaz didn’t doubt that she knew where those boundaries lay—she was the only daughter of Alberto Gallucci after all. There was no doubt that the Italian boss wouldn’t look too kindly on his daughter and Kaz being in the same room together.

Glancing over at her, he had to wonder if that was what she’d wanted by coming here tonight. There was always the chance that she hadn’t known who this club belonged to, but what were the odds of that?

And if she did … well that made her a little more intriguing to him. It made him wonder what other lines she was willing to cross.

“Don’t worry, brother.” Clearing his throat, Kaz switched back to English. “Nathaniel is going to take you …” He gestured to the girl with the bleeding arm who was actively scowling at him.