“I’m Freddy.”

“I heard.”

He grins wider, looking back to the boys. “No name, okay then.” He nods his head. “Well, come on, man. Let’s play. I got first game.”

Peeking at Ransom, I’m surprised by his smile. It’s full, and he rubs his hands together, falling in line with Freddy, but not before connecting his eyes with mine.

Something low in my stomach swirls, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. I turn to Arsen. “What now?”

He smiles and leads me to the right while Beretta stays talking to some other person they clearly know.

Arsen steps up to the man with a silver case, and as he pulls his wallet from his back pocket, his entire body freezes.

My eyes dart up to his.

His brows are dug in low, angry, but as fast as the anger appeared, it’s replaced with fear. Worry.

“Arsen?” My voice is an accidental whisper.

But after I’ve spoken his name, it’s called by another.

I straighten as a man with bushy eyebrows steps up to us. He’s in his early forties maybe, a grin hitched high on his face, but it’s one I recognize.

Fake, cunning.

Superior.

He reaches out, gripping Arsen’s forearm, and clapping his shoulder with his other, but slowly, his attention turns to me.

“Well, well, now this is a sight,” he says, facing me, but Arsen gently tugs me behind him.

The man, reeking of red wine and overused aftershave, only chuckles. “So, where’s your little friend, he run into my boss yet?”

But nothing else is able to be spoken as Arsen’s grip falls to my wrist. I’m yanked from the room without a second’s notice, the man’s drunken laugh following our exit.

“Careful, now,” he shouts. “Wouldn’t want him getting into any trouble!”

I flip the guy off without looking back, my head slicing from left to right as we run and finally, I spot Beretta.

I wave as I whip past and he does a double take, shooting to his feet.

He catches up in an instant.

“Arsen?” he snaps, alarm laced in his low spoken demand, but Arsen doesn’t pause.

He keeps forward, toward the direction Ransom was headed, as Beretta looks to me expectantly.

“Some middle-aged guy with full-on Mr. Beans brows walked up and—”

“Fuck,” Beretta spits, cutting me off and yanks his friend to a stop, pushing hard on his chest. “You good?”

Arsen slaps his hand away, meeting his glare with his own.

“Right, yeah, let’s get to him.” Beretta nods, and together, we step around the final corner.

This room has a man at the podium-like desk in the front, a countertop stretching a few feet down and ending where a long, black curtain begins. It’s effective, hiding what lies on the other side.