Page 98 of Silenced

“Grief doesn’t stop. It just gets easier to handle,” I counter, not signing since he can read my lips. “How old were you?”

He doesn’t answer, which is an answer in itself.

Not wanting the conversation to end just yet after days of continued silence, I pepper, “Where did you get your scars from? Your father?”

His expression doesn’t grow tense, but his lips purse in irritation. “After their deaths—” Hold up.Theirdeaths? “—I was placed in an orphanage. I was there until a fire tore through the building. It definitely would have failed the building code in the States. Hell, it probablydidfail the local code as well,” he grouses, the motions of his hands brisk as if this is an old annoyance. “It’s so corrupt over there that nothing would have changed even if it hadfailed.”

“You got caught in the fire?”

His eyes shutter. “In a sense.”

I don’t understand why, but Ihaveto know more. I just have to. I need to get a better read on this man who’s brought me here, who does the things he does, who says the things he says.

Maybe he sees the plea in my expression because he heaves a sigh. “One of my brothers was caught in the blaze. I saved him.”

That has me sputtering, “You saved him? And…” I frown. “You have a brother?”

He dips his chin. “Not by blood, but yes. Two. I took them from the orphanage and raised them.” His lips twitch at the ends—my God, is that a smile? “They’re listed as dead in Russia.”

“The officials think they died in the fire?” I screech.

“Yes.”

“Damn,” I mumble. “Are your brothers still over there?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “They live in New York.”

“Are they in the same business as you?”

As if he senses my hesitation over that choice of word, ‘business,’ the curve of his lips deepens. “Yes.”

“Are you close?”

When he doesn’t reply, and knowing I’ve pushed his conversational abilities as far as they’re likely to go, I don’t press him about that. Instead, I trail a finger over the scar on his face. He doesn’t flinch, just stares at me.

“How did you get this one?”

“From a CIA operative.”

My brows lift. “Who won?”

His smirk turns surprisingly cocky. Well, surprising for Nikolai. “I’m here and not in jail, aren’t I?”

“True. What happened?” I ask, not expecting him to answer.

“She was trying to stop a shipment of drugs from leaving a port in Antwerp.”

“And she failed?”

He shrugs. “No. The drugs didn’t leave Antwerp, but I did. At that point, I was just grateful not to be hauled into a black site. We didn’t expect the drugs to be tracked by the CIA, just local law enforcement.”

He signs the words so easily, but they’re terrifying to a boring civilian like me.

“Your life is like something from a TV show,” I mutter, unease dripping from every word.

He snorts. “More glamorous.”

Though I smile, I’m still a little freaked out. I don’t know what I expected when I asked about his scars, which was undoubtedly naive of me, but I got more than I bargained for.

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