Page 76 of Dirty Game
I head into the makeshift office here in the safehouse and barely sit down before my phone goes off.
My phone vibrates exactly four times, the custom ring for international calls.
The name on the screen is enough to spike my blood pressure: Kazimir, Mikhail.
Russian bratva, old world meets new, always with the games.
I answer, but not with words. Whoever speaks first loses. I make sure the call is recording, too, because you never know when you’ll need the evidence.
He doesn’t wait. “Varrick Bane. Or do you prefer ‘King’ these days?” His English is clean, barely a trace of accent.
“I prefer not to waste time, Kazimir. Why are you calling?”
He laughs, ice scraping metal. “Direct as ever. It’s a dying art, you know.”
I don’t bother replying.
“I have something of yours,” he says. “Or should I saysomeone.”
On his end, there’s a background sound—a woman’s voice, muffled, but clear enough to make my teeth grind.
Sienna.
She’s talking, not screaming. I can’t make out the words, but her tone is calm, even bored. Typical.
“If you’ve touched her, you’ll need a new set of hands.”
He chuckles again, this time with genuine pleasure. “She’s fine. For now. She has a sharp tongue, this one. Very difficult to tie down.”
There’s a thud, like a chair hitting the floor, and then the unmistakable sound of Sienna telling someone to fuck off, in Russian.
I know the word, recognize the cadence.
She’s stalling, not pleading.
I picture her: eyes bright with calculation, wrists already testing every knot for weakness.
Kazimir returns to the line, voice softer now, almost intimate. “Actually, I have two someones. Her and a boy. Interesting child. Looksjustlike you.”
My heart stutters, just once. I hate him for knowing it.
“I suggest you come collect your lost property, King. Before I decide to... monetize them.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my reflection in the black glass of the monitor, letting the threat bloom behind my eyes.
For the first time in years, I almost lose control and snap the phone in half.
I breathe.In, out. Slow.
The door opens behind me.
Rosalynn stands there, her hand twisting the hem of her oversized sweater.
Her eyes flick from my face to the phone, then back again.
“Everything all right?” she asks, trying for casualness, but her voice wobbles on the last syllable.
I force my expression to be neutral. “Business.”
