Page 19 of Cozen

“You have a mess to clean in the dining area, don’t you?” Jett asked. “Get on that before someone comes back here. Oh,” he added, waving a finger at the bleeding body on the floor, “and this one, too. Make some calls, if you need help.”

The guy glared at Sargon.

Sargon smiled back.

“Where do you come from?” Jett asked once the man was gone.

Sargon leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Born in America.”

“Mmm.”

“My family came over from Iran.”

“Ah, I see.” Jett’s white brows lifted high. “You do not sound like—”

“Raised out west.”

“Ah.”

Sargon shrugged. “I like surprising people.”

Jett passed a look at the body on the floor. “So I see. Shame you killed my man.”

“Shame you killed my boss.”

“Yes, seems you need a job, don’t you?”

“Seems I will.”

Jett sighed. “Lucky for you, a spot with my men just opened up. If you’re interested.”

“That depends on the pay.”

“I will pay you quite well if you assure me you’ll protect me, and only me, for as long as I deem fit. Then, you can safely assume I will not also ask you to answer for … well, this little mess here.”

“Nice trade,” Sargon said. “Being it’s my life, and all.”

“I suppose. And what is your life worth?”

“That would depend on who you ask.”

“I asked you.”

Fair enough.

He pretended like he was weighing his options. He really didn’t care as long as he got the job done.

“My life is worth, well enough, I guess.”

“Your name?” Jett asked.

“Sargon.”

“Last name?”

“Makri,” Sargon murmured.

He knew why Jett asked. The gentleman would crawl through any and all of Sargon’s history to make sure he was who he said he was. That was one thing a person could count on when it came to people in this world—they did their fucking homework, or tried to.