Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(16)

“Anything?” Yuri asks and places a cup of takeout coffee on the table.

“Someone hired him online,” I say. “He never met the man who ordered the job. Everything was settled via phone. The client wired twenty-five grand before the job, and twenty-five more right after it was done.”

“Who was the target?”

“He doesn’t know. The shooter was to meet the client before the wedding to receive details. The client is the one who arranged to get him inside the hotel.”

“So, we have nothing so far.” Yuri walks to stand in front of the gang leader and cocks his head to the side, inspecting my work. “Is he dead?”

“Just passed out.” I grab the coffee, take a sip, and grimace. “I told you no sugar.”

“Sorry.” He mumbles and pokes the Albanian in the chest with his finger. The man stirs, lets out a strangled noise, then passes out again. “I always admired how you manage to keep them alive for so long.”

“Practice makes perfect, Yuri.”

“Yeah. Remind me never to get on your bad side.” He throws a look at me over his shoulder. “You are one scary motherfucker.”

“No shit.” I lean back in the chair and take another sip of coffee. It’s awful. “Is Anton back?”

“Yeah. We caught another guy from the same gang. Anton has him in his truck. He might know something. How much time do you need to finish with this one?”

I put the coffee down and take the gun from the table. “Move away.”

Yuri takes a step to the side. I aim and shoot the Albanian at the center of his head. “There. Finished. You can bring in the next one.”





Chapter 5





Denis opens the car door for me and rushes to get my bags from the back seat. I try to take them from him, but he hastily moves them out of my reach.

“No. Boss would kill me.” He shakes his head and starts walking toward the building’s entrance.

I look at the heavens and follow him inside. It’s just some cosmetic products and a few pieces of clothing, but he wouldn’t let me touch the bags the whole morning, insisting on carrying them for me. Denis is a nice guy, somewhere around twenty-five, and from what he said, he’s been working for Mikhail since he was eighteen. And he talks nonstop. He gave me the short version of his childhood story, which wasn’t a nice one, then a report on all the girls he’s dated for the past six months. There were at least twenty of them. After that, he gave me a quick lesson on how to change a flat tire. He clearly has no problem with me not being able to contribute to the conversation, because he hasn’t stopped babbling for two hours.

When we reach the top floor, Denis gives me the bags, at last, and leaves. I use the card to enter the apartment and stop dead at the threshold.

“I thought shopping trips lasted at least several hours,” Mikhail says while standing in front of the kitchen sink, pressing a bloody rag to his forearm.

I let the bags fall on the floor, rush toward him, and look over the stuff he has lined on the counter—antiseptic spray, antibiotic cream, bandages, and a needle with a thread. Is he planning on sewing himself?

“Go to your room. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

I ignore him, turn on the water, and start scrubbing my hands with the soap.

“Bianca, leave.”

There is something very dangerous in the tone of his voice, like he is angry at me for some reason, but underneath, there is something else. I can’t quite define it.

Very slowly, I turn toward him and, without breaking eye contact, place my hand over his, which is still holding the bloody rag to his arm. He’s looking down at me, his lips pressed together in a hard line, his blue eye watching me with such intensity that I get the impression he can see right into my soul.

Finally, his grip loosens and he removes the rag. Only then do I notice that he's in a T-shirt, something that I've never seen him wear before. I look down at his forearm and it takes all my self-control not to show any reaction to what I see. The wound itself is not that bad, a few inches in length and not that deep. It looks like a knife wound. What’s really bad is . . . everything else.

The inside of his forearm was badly burned, a long swath of mottled skin running diagonally from his wrist to the inside of his elbow. It looks like a very old scar, just like the others. Long thin lines crisscross his arm in different directions, probably wounds inflicted by the tip of a knife. I allow only a second to collect myself, then I take a package of sterile gauze and the antiseptic and start cleaning the gash.

“I see you’ve done this before,” he says.

Without lifting my eyes from the gash, I hold up four fingers, throw the bloody compress into the sink, and take a new one. Angelo was an idiot when he was younger, always getting into fights, so I received a lot of experience dealing with the consequences of his moronic behavior.

After I repeat the cleaning process several times, I take the needle and start looking for the numbing spray among the stuff on the counter, but I can’t find it. I look up and find Mikhail watching me. Shit, how to explain. I mimic the spraying motion and point toward his wound.

“You can sew it without it. It won’t need more than two stitches.”

He can’t be serious.

“Just do it.” He nods. “I have a high pain tolerance.”