Page 4 of Silenced

As he struggles for air, I tighten my grip around his throat, squeezing at him like the stress ball his windpipe is to me.

I snag the knife from my alligator-skin holster and press it into the softness of his stomach before dragging it down his abdomen in a line that scores his shirt and leaves a cut in his skin behind.

When he realizes my intent, his eyes widen to a comical degree and his fingers cease scrabbling at mine for possession of his throat as he hesitates over his decision—to protect the family jewels or his airway…

Hobson’s choice.

“Who the fuck’s he?”

Well accustomed to Dmitri’s timely interruptions, especially with questions he knows are rhetorical, I remain silent as the stranger chokes out, “I-I’ll leave!” He gasps as I burrow the edge of my knife into his dick. The imminent threat to his manhood has him squealing, “Lem-me g-go!”

As my ‘translator,’ Dmitri pops up beside me while I hold the stranger in place.

“Who are you?” Dmitri demands.

“Who areyou?” the guy sputters, his face bright pink. As my grip tightens again, he quickly barks, “I work for Çela. I’m here for Rundel.”

The Albanian Mob?

My brows lift in surprise but I dig the knife’s edge into him some more.

Albanian trash.

How the fuck did Harvey Rundel get involved with them?

Luckily for me, years spent together means that Dmitri is not only my translator, he’s also my radar—he always knows which questions I want to ask.

“How the hell did Rundel get involved with the Albanians?” he demands, his own shock clear.

“That’s my boss’s business.”

Dmitri’s grin is like his Oskal’s—feral. “You ever heard of Nikolai Veles?”

“‘Mute?’” The prick’s eyes bulge as he stares at me, dread filtering into his expression. “Y-Yeah, I’ve heard of M-Mute.”

I don’t bother stiffening at the combination of title/insult/instiller of fear that is ‘Mute.’

I’m too fucking old to care what my contemporaries think about me.

All that matters is they fear me, and between my alligators, my twitchy trigger finger, and a penchant for twisting the knife when I stab someone, my rep has long been established.

Dmitri looms between us and chuckles when he finds what he’s looking for. “Guess who’s got you by the balls?”

I dig the edge of my blade deeper into his crotch, the threat of spearing his cock with my knife ever-present. I almost smile when the stranger yowls like a cat in heat.

“My boss is Adrianu Kadare,” he splutters around a panting breath as he tries to squirm away from me.

The Çelas deal predominantly with gambling, but Kadare is their man on the streets for anything narcotic—prescription or recreational.

In these parts, Kadare’s God.

Dmitri, as if he read my mind, states, “Rundel’s into drugs?”

“Likes little blue pills but don’t wanna pay for ‘em,” he wheezes.

My brow furrows.

Rundel stole Viagra from the Albanians after he imprisoned his wife in this shithole?

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