10. Gleb

Val's posture is tense, his hulking frame oddly out of balance without Efrem standing on the other side of Pyotr's office door. The crutch that rests against the wall behind him reminds me that our pakhan's not just down one bodyguard. Val's been on limited duty since he got shot, which means Pyotr's level of protection is entirely insufficient for the shitstorm we're facing.

"How is he?" I ask, keeping my voice low as I reach the stoic bodyguard.

"Not good," Val says curtly. He knows I'm asking about Pyotr without me having to say. And from the look on his face, I take it we're going to have a rough morning. "Brace yourself," he adds quietly.

That's all he's going to give me. And I'm fine with that. Of Val and Efrem, I've always gotten along better with Val. I think it"s because we're both more on the surly side. Him maybe more so than me, if that's possible. But I relate to him—even if we've shared only a handful of words in the time I've known him. What I like most about Val is that I always know where I stand with him. That's more than I could ever say about Efrem.

I take a deep breath before I knock. Then my pakhan summons me in.

"Where have you been?" Pyotr growls as soon as I enter.

"The girls' house, getting them settled." My voice carries the weight of my exhaustion. It took forever to get them all organized and onto the jet this morning. Like herding cats, I swear. And when we got back to the house, it was still a complete wreck. I had to sweep the building to ensure it was clear, replace the front door, and make sure enough men were in place so we wouldn't have to do it all over again tomorrow.

Pyotr's scowl softens, and he sits back, the tension easing from his shoulders. I sense the tongue-lashing he'd intended to give me won't be happening now. Not that it would do much damage at this point.

I'm spent.

Sinking into a chair on the far side of his desk, I lean my head back and let my eyes drift closed.

I stayed awake for three days straight, searching for that fucking cottage where Mikhail held the girls. And last night, after Mel fell asleep in my arms, I couldn't stop thinking about how close I came to being too late. She told me she was supposed to be auctioned off last night—that Captain Zmeya said as much before he left to handle my distraction.

I almost lost her, and now that I've had all of her—now that I know what it's like to hold an angel in my arms and reach the gates of heaven—I can't lose Mel again.

I'm still coming to terms with how desperately I need her.

I've never felt for any woman the way I feel about her, and now I know she wants me too. I'm dangerously close to losing my mind over her. My concern for her safety is driving me to distraction. Meanwhile, she's so damn intent on going back to life as usual, but it would be too easy for Mikhail to target her again with the state of chaos we're in.

And just the thought of someone touching Mel the way they touched her ever again puts me on the verge of unhinged.

"You look as bad as I feel," Pyotr observes dryly.

I'm so sleep-deprived and tied in knots, that I nearly forgot the reason he called me here early. Sitting up, I pull myself together, scrubbing my face with my palms to bring myself back to life. "Yeah, well, it's been a rough week."

"No joke. At least you got the girls back." His sharp gray gaze follows me closely as I nod.

"Now I just need Mel to stop being so damn argumentative," I state flatly.

Pyotr snorts. "Good luck with that." Then, after a moment's pause, he chuckles.

"What?"

"Just thinking about that first day when I came to see the girls—when they were fresh off the truck. I thought she might actually slap me when I offered to let her stay at my house."

A dark chuckle rises in my throat as I shake my head. "I've suspected she's wanted to slap me on more than one occasion at this point."

"Really? I've always thought she looks to you a bit like… I don't know, a lost puppy might."

I shake my head. "Sometimes, I think she likes to argue with me just to wind me up." She sure knows how to use that tongue of hers as a weapon. "If I recall correctly, when you offered her a roof over her head, she told you in no uncertain terms that she wasn't a prostitute."

Pyotr's lips twist into a crooked grin. "Something like that. Good thing I have a wife and daughter I'm crazy about. That saved my neck right then. Mel's tough as nails, man. But who can blame her?"

I nod. She's survived a lot. From what little she's told me about her past, it was her own uncle who sold her to the Zhivoder clan after she came to live with him in Colorado. Fucking monster. He's lucky I haven't had the time to hunt him down.

I'm not sure why she left Hawaii in the first place. That's where she was living with her dad, but it couldn't have been a good situation if the uncle was a better option.

I respect the hell out of her for standing up for herself. But at times like this, her hard-headedness can be infuriating. I keep debating how far I'm willing to take our argument to keep her safe. Should I force her to comply or give her the freedom she so clearly craves?

As much as I would like to support Mel's hopes and dreams, I just don't have the men to ensure her safety right now. Not to that degree. Because while Pyotr and I were in Upstate New York, getting ambushed and slaughtered, Mikhail's forces in the City have been busy tearing apart the Veles operation.

We're hemorrhaging, and if Pyotr and I can't stop it soon, we might not survive this time. We need to salvage what little of our Bratva we have left. And I've already spent too many precious resources to protect the girls. But they've already endured too much brutality as it is. I couldn't live with myself if they got taken again.

"Mel's smart," I state, as if to reassure myself. "She'll come around."

Pyotr nods. Then his eyes flick toward the door I closed securely behind me. "I called you in early to talk about the leak we seem to have sprung," he says, dropping his voice to a low register that only I would hear.

I nod. "It's at the top of my list."

"Do you have a plan for how you're going to smoke him out?"

"Well, I would have picked up the trail with the last bit of bad information we were given—about Mikhail leaving town with just a few men?—"

"But that was Maks who told us."

I nod. "And he didn't make it out of that bloody fucking massacre."

"Sooo…?"

"So it's unlikely he was the rat—unless he stayed behind intentionally. But I doubt Mikhail would want to lose such a valuable resource until he's put you six feet underground. So I think it's safe to assume it wasn't Maks."

"That means someone fed him bad information," my pakhan observes.

Pyotr's quick. It doesn't take much for him to catch on. It's one of the things I respect and appreciate most about him. I might have been trained to think strategically since I learned to talk, but he's a natural.

"And we won't know who that someone is because the one man who could tell us is likely feeding the crows on Mikhail's estate," I say darkly.

"You think the rat was there with us? Maybe he made sure Maks didn't come home?"

"Could be, but I've already jumped on the wrong bandwagon once, so I'm keeping my mind open until I find solid proof." That's as close as I'll get to apologizing for misjudging Efrem. Because the man I owe that apology to will never get to hear it.

And now that I have no fucking clue who the rat is in our clan, I'm back to considering anyone and everyone a suspect. Even Val, though it's hard not to trust the older bodyguard when he's about as reliable as it gets. In his early forties, he's been with the Veles clan for years and has never questioned an order. Dependable, even when it means taking a bullet in the thigh to protect his pakhan's wife.

"So, where will you start?"

"Hopefully, Maks's men will know something. Maybe Maks told one of them where he got the information. We'll see how it goes from there."

Pyotr nods. "Find him, Gleb. This bastard's responsible for Efrem's death. I want him to suffer for all the men he's betrayed, all the good men who have died because of him."

"I won't stop until I find him," I assure my pakhan.

"Good." His eyes shift to his watch as he cocks his wrist. "Time for our war council," he says dryly.

I'd hardly call it a war at this point when we're so short on men we can barely afford to protect our remaining establishments. Right now, we need a plan of action that will simply keep us afloat.

Rising from our chairs, we head out the door and down the hall to the meeting room. There, Pyotr's most trusted advisors are already waiting. The Matron, former head of the Veles Bratva and Pyotr's mother, is one of the sharpest women I've ever met. She's the reason Pyotr's as good at strategizing as he is, and I've never known someone with such ice-cold convictions.

Yuri Pachenko, CFO of Veles Transportation Inc.—one of the companies that serve as a cover for the true Veles business—manages the finances of their empire. And he's about as far from the Matron as a person can get. Ever nervous and constantly sweating in the commanding woman's presence, he looks a bit like a weasel. But he's smart with numbers and has a good head on his shoulders.

"Pyotr," the Matron says as they both rise when we enter. She steps around the table to grasp her son's shoulders, and he stiffens.

I don't know the history behind their relationship, but I'm well aware that Pyotr and his mother butt heads more often than they agree. She won't be thrilled about the results of our attempt to overthrow Mikhail. I think she might want the head of the Zhivoder clan dead more than any of us. And that's saying something.

"I'm glad to see you both made it back alive," she says, her sharp gray eyes—much like her son's—unusually soft as she inspects us both.

"Thanks to Efrem," Pyotr states, his tone bitter. "But then, he wasn't lucky enough to make it home. Or didn't you know?"

The Matron pales visibly, her hands dropping from her son's shoulders.

Silence permeates the room as no one moves. It's no secret that the conflict between the Zhivoder and the Veles began with the Matron. And in many ways, it has ruled Pyotr's fate. I don't doubt he resents her for it. And he clearly holds her responsible, at least in some small part, for the death of one of his closest servants—a man he thought of as a brother.

Back stiff, the Matron ends the standoff by returning to her chair, and we all settle in for a long and painful tactical meeting.

"So, shall we discuss how we're going to get out of this shitstorm now?" Pyotr offers.