Page 2 of Silenced

Still, he proves that geography never was his strongest subject in school and that he’s twenty-four going on four by perking up at that.

Not for the first time, I regret bringing him to the US when he was a teenager because that impacted his personality and made him, God help me,exuberant.

I decide to deflate his bubble and gesture at the SUV that’s parked behind us.

“No way,” he argues.

It’s these things that irritate the living hell out of me.

“No way.”

When there is a way.

“Totally.”

A horrific adverb.

“Like.”

Always surrounded by, “like,” commas.

“Whatever.”

Without a question mark.

Americans somehow utter a thousand words without meaning any of them, and because he’s spent most of his formative years in the States, he sounds like them, acts like them,andtalks like them.

As much as I prefer my adopted home to the motherland, the depth of his integration is horrific.

Last week, he was even talking about going to fucking therapy because of what his father put him through when he was a boy.

A Bratva soldier. In therapy. Save me now.

I point at the SUV.

“It could be an ambush!” he argues.

I scowl and sign, “Ambush?”

Who the fuck would dare ambush me?

“I don’t care if three-quarters of Miami is terrified of you,” he retorts, his gaze skimming over my fingers and apparently dismissing my scorn. “I’ve got your back! Always!”

The trouble with having a second-in-command who’s a son to you?

Who says things that lower your defenses?

You let him get away with shit.

But he can only test my patience so far.

Eyes flashing a warning, I slice a hand through the air to halt his whining.

He swallows at the sight, knowing that my patience has worn thin.

Instinctively, he tips his throat, exposing the Oskal—a tiger with bared fangs—inked there.

The submissive move is one I’ve trained him and the rest of my men to make, but it stings worse when I pull these stunts with him.

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