Page 6 of Savage Hearts

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

His green eyes flash. A muscle slides in his jaw. His big hands form fists briefly, then flex open again, as if he needs to smash something. But he controls his anger quickly and sits.

Apparently, he likes being issued orders as little as I do.

We gaze at each other in silence for a while. The clock ticks ominously on the wall like the countdown to an explosion.

He offers no polite greeting. There’s no pleasant small talk, no effort to get acquainted. He merely sits and waits, patient and mute as a sphinx.

I sense we could go on like this forever, so I start. “My condolences for your loss. Your brother was a good man.”

He replies in English. “I don’t want your sympathy. I want you to tell me where I can find the man who killed Mikhail.”

I’m surprised that he doesn’t have a trace of an accent. His voice is low and even, as emotionless as his eyes. Only the pulse pounding in the side of his neck gives any evidence of humanity.

I’m even more surprised that he’d dare to speak to me with such flat disregard.

Few people are that stupid.

My voice as cold as my stare, I say, “If you want permission to operate on my soil, I advise you to show me respect.”

“I don’t need your permission. I don’t show respect unless it’s earned. And I’m only here because I was told you’re the one with the information I need. If that’s incorrect, stop wasting my time and say so.”

Bristling, I grind my molars and consider him.

I’d normally shoot a man for that kind of disrespect. But I’ve already got too many enemies. The last thing I need is an army of Bratva from Moscow descending on Manhattan with the intent of separating my head from my body because I buried the vicious Hangman who serves their king.

Not that they could. Even this enormous, bearded asshole sitting across from me is no match for my skills. If I decided to kill him, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Plus, if he does take out Declan O’Donnell, head of the Irish Mob and a man I’d very much like to see dead, Malek will be doing me a solid.

But still.

My house, my rules.

And rule number one is show me respect or bleed out on the rug, motherfucker.

My voice deadly soft, I hold his gaze and say, “The Irish murdered my parents and both my sisters. So, when I say I know how you feel, I’m not talking out my ass. But if you continue acting like a mannerless cunt, I’ll send you back to Moscow in a thousand bloody pieces.”

A brief silence follows. “You know what would happen if you did that.”

“Yes. Ask me how many fucks I give.”

He examines my expression. Weighs my words. A hint of warmth surfaces in his eyes, but dies a quick death, smothered by darkness.

Solemn, he nods. “My apologies. Mikhail was my only brother. The only family I had left.”

He turns his head, looks out the window to the rainy night, swallows. When he glances back at me, his jaw is clenched and his gaze is murderous. His voice turns rough. “Now, all I have left is vengeance.”

It’s very clear: Malek is going to make Declan O’Donnell wish he were never born.

Cheered by that thought, I smile. “Apology accepted. Let’s drink.”

From the bottom drawer of my desk, I remove a bottle of vodka and two glasses. I pour a measure into each and offer one to Malek. He takes it and nods his thanks.

I raise my glass.“Za zdorovie.”

He shoots the vodka down, swallowing it in a single gulp. Then he sets the glass on the edge of my desk and settles back into his chair, tattooed hands spread over his massive thighs.