Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(26)

Oh God. I close my eyes and shake my head. The long sleeves, the distance he’s been keeping, all those hot and cold signals . . . Things make much more sense now.





“Sergei!” I hit the door with my palm the third time. “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down.”

The alarm buzzes and the lock clicks. I grab the handle, open the door and step inside.

“Don’t you dare shoot at me!” I yell into the empty living room. “And rein in that beast of yours.”

“You can’t break a reinforced door that costs more than a car, dickhead.” I hear Sergei’s voice from the kitchen and head that way, then stop in my tracks at the threshold.

Sergei is sitting at the table in the middle of the kitchen, with a disassembled sniper rifle in front of him, polishing one of its parts and whistling. The whole surface of a six-seat table is piled with weapons of various kinds. Guns, knives, automatic and semiautomatic rifles, and God knows what else is there.

A few feet away, on a folded blanket next to a wall, lays a black dog the size of a small calf. It watches me for a few moments, then looks up at Sergei and goes back to sleep.

I take the phone from my pocket and call Roman.

“When and where is the meeting with the Mexicans?” I ask the moment he takes the call.

“They will be at Ural around eleven.”

I look at my watch. Half past eight. “It will probably be me going to the meeting. Let Pavel know.”

“Fuck! How is he?”

“I just got here. I’ll call you later.” I cut the call and take a seat across from Sergei.

“Pakhan sent you?” he asks without looking at me and continues to polish the rifle part.

“Yes. You weren’t answering your phone. He worries.” I nod toward the table. “Doing inventory?”

“Kind of. Can’t sleep.” He places the polished piece into a box that is sitting at his feet and contains the rest of the sniper rifle parts, and closes the lid.

“Since when?”

“I stopped counting. Three days. Maybe four.”

“Jesus, Sergei.” I shake my head. “Have you been eating?”

“I think so, yeah. I have some cans in the pantry.”

I turn around, looking for his seventy-year-old butler-gardener-cook. “Where is Felix?”

“I sent Albert to a hotel for a week.”

Ever since I’ve known Sergei, he’s never called Felix by his actual name. It’s always Albert. I have no idea what the deal is with the two of them, but Felix has been living in a small apartment above the garage since Sergei bought the house and joined the Bratva four years ago.

“Why send him away?” I ask.

“He was getting on my nerves. I was afraid I might kill him by accident.” He snorts, reaches for the gun closest to him, and starts disassembling it.

“Maybe you should go visit a shrink?”

He looks up at me, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms. “For the shrink thing to work, Mikhail, you need to actually talk to the guy about the things that trouble you. For most of the things that bother me, I signed documents saying I’d keep my mouth shut or end up in jail. Or worse.”

The most dangerous thing about Sergei is that most of the time he doesn’t look crazy at all. His eyes are clear, his movements controlled, his voice is steady, and to someone watching from the outside, he seems like a perfectly balanced person. Until he starts killing people. Even now, if it wasn't for the weapons scattered around the table, the only thing anyone would see is a clean-cut guy in his late twenties. Relaxed. Just chatting away as if nothing is bothering him.

“What about sleeping pills?” I ask.

“Don’t you think I already tried those?” He sighs and resumes cleaning the gun. “It doesn’t work. Nothing fucking works.”

“Did you consider quitting? Leaving the Bratva and going to some deserted island or whatever?”

“Yeah, it wouldn’t do it for me. Without work, I would probably flip completely.”

And God save us all if that ever happens. If Sergei does flip at some point, someone will have to put him down like a rabid dog.

“How about swapping with Pavel? You could take the clubs. Less stress there.”

He looks up at me and bursts out laughing. “Can you imagine our polished put-together Pavel negotiating with Mendoza? Don’t get me wrong, Pavel does a great job with the clubs, but Mendoza would eat him alive. We would lose millions.”

We probably would. I still find it hard to understand, but Sergei is exceptionally good at what he does. It seems that in order to do good business with unhinged people, you need to have your own lunatic who speaks their kind of crazy.

“And what about the meeting with his men tonight?” I ask. “Can you handle that, or should I go instead?”

He looks up at me and smiles. “You hate meetings.”

“Yeah, well, Pakhan’s orders.” I shrug. “So?”

“It would be best if you go. I’m not sure how much shit my sleep-deprived brain can deal with at the moment. Roman doesn’t like my way of showing displeasure.”

“Like trying to cut off Shevchenko’s hand when he asked for better terms?”

“What he asked for was a steal.” He reaches under the table, takes out a big metal box that looks rather heavy, and places it on the table. “Do you know what they do to thieves in some countries? They cut off their hands. I like that practice.”