Page 100 of Silent Ties

I shift the phone to my other ear. “And miss the meeting Dad called?”

“Your father’s not even here yet,” Uncle Dima says.

He’s right about that. After a morning of studying, I’ve sat in Elijah’s office waiting for an appearance from our father. He sent a text wanting to meet all three of his sons.

“Seriously, Maxie.” There’s little room for argument in Dima’s voice. “Come outside.”

I open the office door and find Roma outside.

“You owe me fifty bucks.” Elijah tilts back dangerously in his computer chair.

“Did you guys bet I wouldn’t come?” Roma asks.

“In my defense you rarely do.”

“That’s also what all the girls say,” Elijah adds, snickering.

I leave Roma to deal with him, trekking downstairs. Knowing Dima, I exit into a back alley. Trash stinks and a rodent scurries away at my appearance.

Dima casually leans against a brick wall. To his right stands a woman.

I categorize the details: white, blonde, blue eyes. Appears to be my age. Hair tucked into a high bun. She keeps her hands in the pocket of her hoodie. She’s not going to win any fashion awards any time soon. Her style resembles my uncle's and that’s not a good thing.

As a rule, Dima doesn’t like people.

It’s why my dad always did the talking and he hovered in the shadows. He stands easily with this girl and that’s enough to know he’s impressed by her. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be happening.

“This is Isolde,” he introduces, the heel of one of his feet digging into the wall. “I found her wandering outside.”

Another thing that tells me Dima’s intrigued by the girl. He called me directly, bypassing the guards, instead of letting her continue to run around.

“Ren sent me,” she says.

I feel my brow furrow as I try to understand her words.

“She’s from the north,” Dima explains.

“Of where?” I ask.

“England.” A bored expression never wavers from her face.

Right, and people complain about Russian accents being too hard to understand.

“Why’d Ren send you?” I curiously glance at Dima.

“Because she can’t stand your fucking face, can she?” Isolde replies to my question.

More like my brother’s face, but I understand the point.

“All right.” I motion for her to continue.

“Hardin Davison.”

I shrug, not caring.

Dima explains on my behalf. “My nephew doesn’t deal with such unknown lowlifes as Hardin Davison.”

I’m not so sure Uncle Dima knows the name either.

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