Page 6 of Silenced

Unable to see much through the window, I roll my eyes at him and then, pointedly, kick Fuckface between the legs.

“You’re right,” Dmitri agrees as if I spoke to him. “Hewasway too happy to be picking up some random woman. Doesn’t mean he was going to—”

I kick the bastard between the legs again. He turns his regard onto me as I sign, “Since when do these fuckers not sample the merchandise first?”

Grimacing, Dmitri mutters, “If thisisÇela turf then Misha’s gotten you into more trouble than he let on.”

He’s right but I ignore that.

Misha, my reason for being in this dump, and Dmitri are the banes of my fucking existence.

One’s like my son, the other like my baby brother—both are more trouble than they’re worth.

Hell if Maxim Lyanov isn’t as well. But he’s the middle child, capable of more havoc than both Misha and Dmitri combined.

Luckily for me, he’s pouting right now so all’s quiet on the northern front.

“What are we going to do with him?” Dmitri inquires. At my sniff, he sighs again. “We just bought that plane and you want to besmirch it with Kentuckian Albanian asswipes? You know he’ll piss himself when he wakes up. That smell is hard to get out—”

My dour stare is unimpressed and he knows it because he angles his head to the side for the second time since our arrival, just barely gracing me with a hint of the Oskal’s fangs.

When fuckface’s ID is in his hand, Dmitri grabs him in a loose hold before swinging the sack of bones onto his shoulders so he’s wearing him like a scarf.

My men scamper out of the SUV to help while I ponder Cassiopeia’s potential cadaver.

Inexplicably annoyed, I take a step back from the path in front of the motel and beyond, into the lot.

A glance around the shitheap confirms there’s no CCTV anywhere, not as far as I can see.

Hell, there isn’t even a visible alarm system on the walls, never mind anything that could be used against me…

Technically, I’ve only defended myself.

Until things morphed into abduction, that is.

Scratching my chin with the edge of the knife I’ve yet to stash in my shoulder holster, I determine this place is either safe because it’s under Çela protectionorit’s that decrepit no one steals from the poor fuckers who have to stay hereorit’s a known den of vice where people keep to themselves...

“Shit, Niko,” Dmitri grumbles, swiping his hair out of his face as I approach the SUV. “He’s only a fucking Çela too. Igor, tell him what you just told me.”

Igor hands me the ID. “Marku—he’s Çela’s sister’s kid. The heir to the whole of Kentucky once Çela croaks.”

Pursing my lips with interest, I cast a glance at the ID and then at the knot of limbs Dmitri has stuffed into the trunk with Igor’s and Boris’s help.

Altin Marku.

Thirty-six years old.

Reading the rest of the driver’s license, I listen as Dmitri orders Boris and Igor to get back into the SUV.

As their doors slam closed, Dmitri drawls, “You always did hate the Albanians. You regretting not snapping his neck now?”

He’s right—I hate the Albanians because I don’t like chaos, and the Albanians are exactly that.

Each one of their gangs in the US is autonomous so you have to deal with them on an individual basis. That’s a pain in the ass when I’d prefer to confer with a higher power.

And I’m not talking about God.

“You’ve got that look on your face.”

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