12
Lyon exited the elevator and stepped into a well-appointed lobby, complete with expensive minimalist furniture and a younger man in a suit wearing a headset and sitting behind a long walnut counter.
Lyon hesitated, then approached the counter and waited while the man finished his call. When he did, he looked up at Lyon.
“Can I help you?”
“Lyon Antonov here to see Ronan Murphy,” Lyon said gruffly.
He didn’t know what he’d expected from the man running the Syndicate’s Chicago operation, but it wasn’t this.
The man stood, and Lyon caught a glimpse of the weapon holstered at his side under his suit jacket.
Interesting.
He disappeared down a hall that ran away from the lobby, and Lyon clocked his movements. The athletic grace with which he moved screamed American military, and the pieces started to slide into place.
Ronan Murphy had been a Navy SEAL before he’d started hiring himself and his brothers out as assassins in Boston. That had been an easy connection for Lyon to make, although admittedly, it had been harder to connect the dots between that venture and Ronan’s more recent appointment as head of the Chicago Syndicate.
The man returned a moment later. “Follow me.”
They made their way down a long hall with several open doors and Lyon caught sight of a couple other people sitting behind desks or on the phone. There was even a woman, a rarity in their business, although Lyon didn’t have time to catch more than a head of sleek copper hair.
The muscle-disguised-as-a-receptionist stopped in front of a set of open double doors and gestured for Lyon to enter.
“Thank you,” Lyon said, moving past the man’s bulk and into the room.
Ronan Murphy stood behind a large modern desk wearing jeans and a black long-sleeve T-shirt that made it clear he was still in good shape. His dark brown hair was thick over the blue eyes Lyon remembered from the family party he’d attended a couple of months earlier. Ronan’s brother, Declan, had eyes that were the same startling shade.
“Lyonya, come in,” Ronan said. They shook hands and Ronan gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Please, call me Lyon.” It was the name his friends and acquaintances used, and it wasn’t lost on him that he’d given permission to use it to a man who might be considered his rival.
Strange times when Russia was the enemy and the Syndicate was a friend.
Lyon looked around while he got settled, took in the semi-generic furnishings, the modern desk and accompanying credenza, the sofa that ran along one wall, the rugs that softened the look just enough to let someone know that whatever this place was, Ronan was in charge of it.
A laptop was closed on Ronan’s desk, nothing but a cell phone next to it,
“What do you think?” Ronan asked.
“It’s very… corporate.” Lyon said.
Ronan tipped his head back and laughed. “Unconventional for our business, I know.
Lyon had found that he liked the man, although he knew it would be a source of contention with the shadowy figures in Russia looking to unseat him.
The bratva was meant to be rivals with the Syndicate — as well as the Irish mob and the cartels — but Lyon was beginning to see a way in which they might profit from working together.
Some of the time, at least.
“Unconventional is one word for it,” Lyon said.
Ronan grinned. “Humans are creatures of habit. This is what I’m used to. Luckily it’s aligned with the Syndicate’s’ vision.”
Lyon could see it. Ronan had fronted his assassin-for-hire business in Boston with a corporate “information and security” front, and the Syndicate had changed dramatically since its takeover by Nico Vitale and a handful of other men nearly a decade earlier.
No longer run by bosses in leather jackets trafficking women and pushing drugs to kids, it was now an international enterprise raking in hundreds of millions of dollars a year even with the limitations set by the new leadership: no human trafficking, no pushing to kids.
“Seems to be working for you,” Lyon said.
Ronan nodded and took a seat behind the desk. “What can I do for you, Lyon?”
“Word is you have a cyber lab.”
“We have a certain level of digital expertise,” Ronan said, clearly choosing his words carefully.
“I need information,” Lyon said. “I’m willing to pay for it.”
He respected Ronan, even liked him, but they were still competitors. He would have no favor between them if it could be avoided.
Ronan studied him. “Why would I give you information that might help you gain more power in our shared territory?”
Lyon was prepared for the question. Ronan Murphy was pleasant, but he was no fool.
“Because the information I need will allow me to retain control of the bratva in this city, and that will be better for your business than the alternative,” Lyon said.
Ronan leaned back in his chair. “Or maybe the alternative will mean weakness for the bratva, a chance for the Syndicate to expand its territory here."