Page 3 of Silenced

Dmitri may not be my blood, but he’s my son nonetheless.

He should know not to test me.

He just forgets his place sometimes.

Discipline is vital in my life, not just my ranks, and he knows that better than anyone. So when I point at the SUV for the third and final time, twice more than I’d allow any of my other men, he slouches his shoulders and trudges over to our ride without further complaint.

The healthy dose of fear and respect I inspire in my men is why I’m in the position of Pakhan; it’s a mindset I’ve spent a decade cultivating.

Now that he’s stopped chattering in my ear, I revisit the gruesome scene in the bedroom.

Squinting through the murky glass, I examine the motionless form lying on the rug—my reason for being in this godforsaken town on the outskirts of Louisville.

She hasn’t moved once since we arrived at this motel that makes a crack house look homey.

My frown deepens as I study her.

She’s in a bra and panties, so almost every part of her is on display, and through the filthy windows, she isn’t a blurred mass of purple and red from bruises and blood as I’d anticipated finding.

I thought she’d be like my mother—a battered wife beaten to death by her fucker of a husband.

The comparison was subconsciously made. But even though I’ve gone through worse since the day I found her body and am no longer affected by the memory, I can’t help but remember howshewas as still as Cassiopeia currently is.

My fingers clench with remembered hatred for the man who spawned me.

My first kill.

Fond memories of his death allow me to return to the matter at hand.

Is she dead, then?

As I reach for my lock-picking kit, deciding that she’s worth the effort of breaking and entering, I hear the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk in front of the building.

Turning at the annoying whistle that accompanies the stranger’s presence, I study the designer ‘beat-up’ leather jacket, faded jeans, expensive cowboy boots, and cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, and immediately catalog him as a set of ‘fists.’

Though I can’t deny that he’s an unusual one. His outfit looks rough and worn but each item is expensive.

Too expensive.

Curious.

When he sees which room I’m standing outside of, his stroll speeds up into a lackluster jog as he bellows, “Who the fuck are you?”

In answer, I simply angle my head to the side and, dismissing him, peer into the bedroom again to see if the woman reacted to his shout.

No dice.

Is this Rundel?

Is he the reason why the woman is lying as still as a corpse on that disgusting rug?

“Well?” he demands as he comes to a halt outside room fourteen. “You’d better not be here for Harvey Rundel. My boss owns—”

So, not Cassiopeia’s husband, then.

Before he can finish that sentence, I grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall as, with my other fist, I punch him in the solar plexus. Once, twice. He might not be Rundel, but fuck if I don’t need to let off some steam anyway.

Goddamn wife beaters—they all belong in Hell.

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