Page 7 of Unspoken

"Survival?" I scoff, my laugh lacking any real humor. "Is that what you call it? Living under constant scrutiny, flinching at every shadow because one day it might be the one with a knife? Or better yet, a gun. Bang, bang and you’re done. Likeotetzdearest. Executed."

Vlad steps closer, the air between us electric with words unspoken. "It's the world we were born into. But I am trying to keep you out of the worst of it. Can you trust me on this?"

"By suffocating me? By taking me out of uni months before graduation? By putting me in this atrocious house in the middle of the desert?" My hands are shaking, but I won't let him see that. "I'd rather take my chances with the shadows than be strangled by your so-called protection!"

"Dammit, Sasha!" The room seems to shrink as he raises his voice, his frustration matching my anger. "If you will not do it for yourself, do it for your dead friend! He died because—"

"Because of this family!" I cut him off, the statement tearing from my throat like shrapnel. Guilt is there, hot and throbbing and ever-present. "Don't you dare bring him into this."

The ultimatum from Vlad comes like a thunderclap, splitting the tension. "Enroll in college. Get your act together." His tone is iron, unyielding. "Otherwise, you're off to Saint Petersburg. And we both know what that means."

I'm seething. Each word from his mouth is another nail in the coffin of my freedom. "You can't control me forever, Vlad."

"That is not what I am trying to do here."

This is the last thing he says to me before I watch him turn on his heel and head out. His expensive shoes click a rhythm of finality across the floor. The door slams shut with a resounding echo, a grim punctuation to our brotherly love.

"Arsehole," I mutter into the silence.

CHAPTER 3

LOGAN

I steer clear of anything that breathes of the Thoreau family. They are dangerous. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve never been inside Purgatory. I sure as hell heard of this place from my buddies a lot. Best and fanciest place to party in the neon-glittered bloodstream of Vegas.

That is if you have a fat wallet. I don’t. Every penny I make is to cover Ma’s medical bills.

But I guess if you are in my line of work, sooner or later fate sidles up all cheeky-like and drops you face-first into what you've been skipping around.

The club itself sucks up a good portion of Crown Tower’s ground floor. The rest of the building houses the casino and the hotel. This prime real estate on the Strip is just a small portion of what the Thoreau family owns in this city. Real estate moguls in the daytime and shadow lords after the sun goes down.

I step inside, my footsteps lost in the expanse of an opulent void. Plush velvet lounges leer from dark corners like fallen royalty while the scent of expensive spilled liquor lingers in the cool air. Above, a huge shiny disco ball hangs, like a shattered star suspended in time, its fractured light casting prisms on the polished floor. This is the kind of luxury that tells of power andwealth, us common folks, can’t even dream about. How Vlad Solovey wrenched control of this place from The Thoreau no one's saying. But Isaac Thoreau’s sudden disappearance right after Yuri Solovey was shot dead speaks—no, screams—volumes.

I try not to dwell on the details surrounding the strange change of power in Purgatory. My responsibility is to protect my client, not to dig for answers. Sure, old habits are hard to break and my mind enjoys a good puzzle, but I have to constantly remind myself that I'm no longer a cop.

I’m a muscle for hire.

A very expensive muscle who’s good at his job.

"Looking for Ricky," I say as I approach one of the bouncers.

"You have an appointment?" he drawls out skeptically, sweeping me with a gaze colder than the January chill.

"Yeah," I reply, eyes not leaving his. "It’s about a job."

His face is unreadable as he acknowledges my reply with a brisk nod and ushers me across the floor and toward the bowels of the club. He leads me through a labyrinth of corridors until we stop at a heavy door with a signStaff Only. With a gesture, he gives me permission to enter.

I knock. Because it’s a considerate thing to do.

A sound comes from the inside, which I take as my cue to enter. I push the door open and step into the room.

The man who I assume is Ricky is a wall of muscle dressed in a suit behind the desk. First impression: he doesn’t seem to belong to the tight confines of this office. His voice is a low rumble on the phone, words clipped like gunfire. "No, you listen. That shipment needs to be there by midnight, or heads will roll. And I ain't just spitting a metaphor."

Ricky catches my eye, holds up a single finger—wait—and I do, feeling the weight of seconds stretching into more. He rattles off a few unsavory words and then ends the call. The room goes silent for a moment before Ricky turns to me.

"Sorry for the wait," he says, but his eyes are already moving past apologies, sizing me up. "Work." His world doesn’t pause for pleasantries. It moves, it shakes, it commands. And right now, it's commanding me to prove I'm more than just another guy in a suit.

"I understand." I nod. "Logan McKenna," I continue. "Here about the job. Frankie Loose Hands sent me."

---