The sound of the burner phone cracking in Kaelen's fist was deafening in the quiet of the master suite.
"Kaelen," I whispered, my voice trembling as I pulled the dark silk sheet tighter around my bare chest. "Who is Dmitri Volkov?"
Kaelen didn't answer immediately. He walked over to the fireplace, tossing the broken pieces of the phone into the dying embers. He braced his massive hands on the stone mantle, his head bowed, the muscles in his back corded so tightly they looked like they might snap.
"Five years ago," Kaelen began, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that lacked any of its usual smooth control, "this syndicate belonged to an old Russian named Dmitri Volkov. He was my mentor. He pulled me out of the gutter when I was a teenager, put a gun in my hand, and taught me how to r
