Page 75 of Silenced

Untangling myself from her is difficult, but I do it because I can’t be seen to change my routine, not for a woman my men are clucking about like Siberian hens.

If I alter my routine, it could be construed that I have a weakness to be exploited.

I have no weaknesses.

Only strengths.

And I include her in that mix too.

Retrieving my keys from the safe room that’s activated by my palm and a passcode, I leave the bedroom and head next door, where my closet was temporarily moved, and pull on a pair of workout shorts.

Heading downstairs, I train for a couple hours, switching between a reread of Dostoevsky’sWhite Nightsand the broadsheets over in the UK which I find to be more informative and less US-centric.

Clued in on the world’s events, reminded of the value of human life even though it means less to me than I’m sure Dostoevsky would approve of, I tip my chin in greeting when a yawning Dmitri makes an appearance.

“Thought you’d still be in Miami,” is all I say.

He shrugs. “Bad night. Woke up, came here early, and had Nicoletta make me blinis before I crashed in my room.”

He’s been plagued with night terrors since he witnessed his mother’s brutal murder on the streets of Moskva.

I clap him on the shoulder before signing, “Did you wipe me out of beluga?”

Sheepishly, he grins at me, and it takes me back to the days of laundering crusty socks and always running out of food because he ate me out of house and home. “Maybe.” Patting his abs, he drawls, “Figured I’d get in a workout before our meetings today.”

Nodding my understanding, I leave him to burn off his anxiety through exercise like I taught him to and go use the shower in the gym.

Once I’ve dressed in a suit, I head for my office, scan the emails that have flooded in while I slept, wait for Dmitri to show up and for the early morning meeting to start.

Evidently wanting to flirt with death today, one of my Brigadiers, Pavlivshev, demands, “Why are we meeting at your estate, Pakhan? Why the change in routine?”

In answer, I simply settle my attention on him.

Just like that, he angles his head to the side.

When I see the Oskal’s fangs, I glance away and point at Dmitri who, as always, is far too amused when I make my captains submit.

A simple look is all that’s required nowadays but that’s forged on years of brutal task-mastering.

I’ve cut out the tongues, chopped off the hands, and sliced the throats of those who don’t understand that an order from me might as well come from God himself.

Because I trust the men sitting around my table, I offer them more leeway than the averageboyevikbut that can only be taken so far.

Rocking in my seat, I rest my hands on my abs as Dmitri states, “I got final confirmation in the early hours—every ounce of coke B4K had in the city is now either in our command or destroyed.”

The announcement has everyone cheering. I’d call Nikita for vodka but we’ve barely started.

“The pushers you kidnapped, Pakhan, are dead?”

Pavlivshev again.

“Vasily’s purring,” is all I sign without deigning to look at him.

“Is that why we’re here?”

“Is this Jeopardy and no one told me? This hole sits between two cheeks and wears too much Prada cologne?” Dmitri snarks. “What’s with the twenty questions, Pavlivshev?”

Only a year older than Dmitri, Iosif Arsenyev starts cackling then immediately hides his grin when Pavlivshev glowers at him.

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