Page 64 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

Storm waits in the shadows where I positioned him, a lethal sphinx ready to pounce at my command.

“Let’s roll.”

We set out walking, my stride purposeful. The weird fury at Dardan still pulses through me. The thought of him even looking at her makes my blood boil. I didn’t know she was yours, he was going to say.

Storm cocks his head at a sound in the distance, then dismisses it with a barely perceptible shake of his head. We continue, comfortable in our silence, the city parting before us like we own every inch of concrete we cross. In many ways, we do.

Orton and I first liberated Storm from a terrorist bunker near Moldova. He was chained like an animal, but even restrained, you could see the killer in him. We weren’t being merciful when we freed him. We were recruiting excellence. That’s what separates a true kyre from the pretenders—recognizing raw talent that can be molded into something lethal.

I’ve got a midnight meeting with a financial guy a few blocks up. The kind of meeting that happens off the books, where the real millions are made. After that, I’m seeing Edie.

The smart play would be to send her away. In this business, she’s a liability. A transaction, not a relationship. But some things aren’t about being smart.

We round a corner, my territory unfurling before us.

“Heard a rumor today,” Storm suddenly says, breaking character. He’s a ghost most days, silent as death.

“Yeah?” I don’t break stride.

“Somebody saying you’re not a true blood Zogaj.”

“Let them talk.” My voice is casual, but my mind is already calculating who needs to disappear.

“They’re looking for your DNA to prove it. Someone wants your throne. I don’t like it.”

“Nobody gets my DNA without losing their hands.” I scan the street as we walk, marking potential threats, escape routes, vantage points. Always calculating.

“But if they do? And if the testing goes a certain way that we both know it could go?”

We cross to the unlit side of the street, darkness enveloping us.

Storm knows what my brother said before I put him in the ground. He’s not superstitious like Orton. He’s not even Albanian. But he sees the world as it is.

“There are people who will feel moved to kill you,” he points out.

I laugh, the sound hard and cold. “People always feel moved to kill me.”

He slants me a glance.Orton, he means, as well as half the Ghost Hound Clan. “If somebody gets your DNA, we gotta shut that shit down, even if it means moving on some lab. It’s a hit on you, same as if they had a gun to your head.”

All of this chattiness is unlike Storm. I stop walking, turning to face him fully. “If somebody steals my DNA and brings it to some lab, I will fucking burn that lab to the ground with everyone inside it. Nobody takes my throne until I’m good and fucking done with it. Understood?”

Storm nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He’s seen me take over entire garrisons singlehandedly. Watched me put down arevolt with nothing but a knife and my reputation. An American lab wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Still.” He takes a sandwich bag from his satchel and tosses it toward a garbage can.

And misses.

He stops, retrieves it, and throws it in properly. This small disruption in his usually perfect coordination sounds alarm bells in my head.

“You okay?”

He grunts. “Just... off.”

My senses go on high alert. Storm is violence personified. If he admits weakness, something is seriously wrong.

“Off how?”

“Just... off,” he says, his usual economy of words failing to mask the gravity.