Page 59 of Silenced

I think about the hookers Ilya keeps in his stable who fuck each other for his entertainment, whose sole purpose is that, then after I flick Dmitri a glance, I dismiss the memory and slap my palm against the desk before reaching for my cell.

Ilya is unusual. Americans would say he’s on the spectrum. In Russia, where things are less politically correct than they are here, he’s treated like a freak.

Of course, once Americans realize Ilya has killed more people than Ted Bundy, I think their sympathy would lessen.

Me: Keep to the hunt. I want Rundel brought to me.

Boris: Might need help, Pakhan.

Dmitri swipes his floppy hair aside. “He has a point. If I were Rundel, I’d be getting my ass out of Kentucky fast.”

“If he knows the Albanians didn’t get Cassiopeia, then he’ll want her back.” Just saying the words makes me want to tear Rundel apart.

I blow out a breath and promise myselfsoon.

Rundelwilldie at my hands.

And maybe, to honor Cassiopeia’s father, I’ll use an ice pick…

12

CASSIE

THE FOLLOWING MORNING

You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid - The Offspring

* * *

Yesterday was,in a word, bewildering.

It’s like I’ve been transported to some weird Narnia place where clothes are forbidden, orgasms are compulsory, and food can only be ingested after a hot guy places it on your tongue.

Surreal.

Maybe that’s why, when the window shutters open out of the blue and jerk me from my sleep, I don’t scream in fright.

I just roll over and slur, “Asshole,” into the pillow.

One day in this madhouse and I’m already starting to acclimate.

Of course, that’s more than likely thanks to years of living on my nerves. My stress levels are incapable of surging any higher, not when Nikolai seems to mean it when he says, ‘You are safe now.’

Relatively speaking, no one can get to me. Never mind Harvey. Which means Nikolai is correct—technically, I’m safer than I was a week ago.

Ihave tofind comfort in that. Technicalities are my friend…

When my arms collide with one of the many pillows on the bed, something oddly smooth and cool connects with my fingers, gaining my attention.

Squinting at the bright light pouring through the windows—maybe him shuttering them has nothing to do with locking me in and everything to do with me getting a good night’s sleep—I find an envelope leaning against the indentation on the pillow.

A head-shaped indentation.

Yesterday, I’d noticed the mussed sheets and realized he’d slept there but I’d kind of forgotten in the aftermath of a hand-fed breakfast, orgasm as a reward for eating (not dieting), and a full-on shower experience with a fallen angel who was more than willing to drop to his knees to wash me.

This is starting to drift into the realm of softcore 90s porn-era fantasies.

I’m pretty certain that there’ll be a brothel somewhere filled with male escorts who charge top fees for this experience.

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