Page 33 of Silenced

I purse my lips as I consider whether or not to tell him I have her under my roof.

Misha Babanin is not my blood, but heismy brother.

As is Maxim Lyanov.

We were three orphans subsisting in a Muscovian orphanage before I hit fifteen when my arsonist brother started a fire there, making the hellhole a literal one.

In the aftermath, we ran away together and took to the streets, which were more of a home than the slum we left behind.

They’d been with me in Florida for years until Maxim and I had an argument when I’d been named Pakhan—the youngest in the brotherhood’s history at the time—and he lit out to New York, taking Misha with him.

My relationship with Maxim has yet to recover.

Not because he was a jealous fool over my promotion, but because I picked Pavel Oborin as my Obschak and not him.

The distance between Maxim and me is one of the few things I actually regret. It’s also why, when Misha asks for help, I tend to offer it without argument. Something that floods Dmitri with envy…

Sometimes, I feel like a father to them all. I certainly deal with their tantrums enough.

Misha: And? I have to tell the Irish what happened to her. Give me more than ‘she’s well,’ Niko, please.

Ah, yes.

Rescuing Cassiopeia was technically a favor for the Irish Mob with whom Misha has become entangled…

Stranger things have happened in our lives, but this is infinitely more bizarre than usual.

Misha is somehow dating the sister-in-law of the head of the Irish Mob in New York City, and yet he still breathes.

Bizarre is an understatement.

Me: What were the terms of the offer of rescue?

Misha: Are we being recorded for a deposition?

My lips quirk.

Me: No. I just want to know the parameters of the offer.

Misha: You’re a piece of work, Niko.

Misha: I just said I’d send you to help save her from her husband. Savannah, Aidan O’Donnelly’s wife, believed that Cassiopeia’s ex would hurt her.

She wasn’t wrong.

Me: And that was it? No promises of Rundel’s death?

Misha: Nyet.

I hum.

Savannah O’Donnelly likely expects to hear from Cassiopeia, however, which is a kink in my plan.

Fucking with the Albanians is one thing. They’re a two-bit gang with no wider ties. The Irish, on the other hand, not only rule over the northeast but are certifiable.

Aidan O’Donnelly Sr., the one-time leader of Manhattan’s Five Points’ Mob, might be dead, but that doesn’t mean his version of insanity has fallen far from the tree with his sons.

I’ve no desire to poke that particular bear, not when Maxim’s position as Pakhan of the New York Bratva is still precarious and my actions could lead to instability on his home turf.

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