15. Mel

"Look, Gabby, Matty's already here," I say, bouncing my little girl on my hip to help bolster her excitement.

"I don't want play today," she pouts, tucking her dark head of curls into my neck as she hides her face shyly.

"But you'll have so much fun!" I insist. "And Miss Kieri is making pizza for dinner."

Gabby perks up a little at that, wrapping her arms around my neck as she looks at me. She has her dad's intelligent green eyes that never fail to make my heart squeeze, and I smile when her eyebrows lift with anticipation.

I swear, the way to my little girl's heart is through her stomach.

"Mama stay with me?" she insists in her toddler's English.

Nearing three now, Gabby's getting better at communicating—though I've never struggled to understand what she means. But I know part of her shy tendencies come from the impatience some of her playmates have shown when they can't decipher what she's trying to say.

"Mama has to go to work, keiki. But I'll be home later, okay?"

"For snuggles?" Gabby asks, worry filling her innocent face.

"For snuggles," I agree, giving her a honi.

She returns the gesture with adorable enthusiasm, pressing her forehead and nose to mine and breathing in deeply. Her tiny hands fist in my hair like she won't let me go. And when she does, it almost breaks my heart to put her down.

"Bye, Mama," she says quietly.

"Be a good girl for Miss Kieri, Gabby," I say, running a finger under her soft, round chin, and she toddles off to find her little blond friend Matty.

Kieri comes to stand next to me, crossing her arms over her full breasts as a knowing smile curls her lips. "You know I'll take good care of her."

"Tuesdays are the worst because I just got a whole day of her to myself. Now I have to give her up again."

"She's sad when you leave, but I promise it's not hard for her the whole time," our dependable in-house nanny reassures me, bringing me a modicum of relief.

The seven other single mothers who live with me at Kieri's boarding house have taken to calling the affectionate yet hawkeyed landlady "Madam Kieri." I find it both hilarious and highly ironic, considering the extensive contract we all signed agreeing that we wouldn't bring men home with us. Kieri runs just about the farthest thing there is from a whorehouse, even if the girls call her our madam.

"Thanks, Kieri." I squeeze her shoulder affectionately and give my little girl one last look of longing before slipping from the room before she has time to miss me.

I never imagined that the hardest part about being a single mom could be going to work every day. I have so many blessings to count—a roof over my head, a good income to provide any comforts we should need, a woman I trust to take care of my heart and soul while I'm earning money. I couldn't ask for a better situation, and I have Keoghan Kelly to thank for the opportunity he's given me.

But this is not the life I would have chosen for either of us. Because it still means performing a job I would hate if I dared to let my principles rise from the dead. And it takes me away from my baby girl for far too many precious hours in a week.

Still, I can't complain. The people who work at Pearl's have been nothing but good to me. And as long as my daughter is happy and healthy, so am I.

It's a short walk around the block from home to work. And the busy sidewalk of Beacon Street makes me feel safe, even as the sun is setting and the bustling nightlife has begun. Tourists filter from the hotels and restaurants, their excited chatter distinguishing them from the locals, who tend to hunker down and keep to themselves.

Slipping down the alleyway to the back entrance of Pearl's, I sling my bag higher on my shoulder and smile up at Viktor, one of Mr. Kelly's countless bouncers.

"Hey, Vik," I greet brightly, and his familiar grunt of a response follows as he opens the door to let me inside.

Why the Irish mob boss has so many Russians on his payroll, I've never had the courage to ask. Especially when his guards' primary forms of communication seem to be grunts and dead-eyed stares. But it didn't take long for me to realize nearly half the men who work for Keoghan aren't official members of the Kelly syndicate. They're hired muscle.

What I do know is that they're about as deadly as they come and downright terrifying, which means that no one messes with the girls who dance in Mr. Kelly's lounge.

"Mel, there you are. I've been looking all over for you," Kitty says as soon as she spots me coming down the hallway. Grasping my arm, she hauls me toward the dressing room. "We have a VIP requesting a lineup, and your first number doesn't start for an hour, so you're in it."

I hate when my shift begins with a private dance, and I bite back a sigh as I follow her into the chaotic communal space where the girls get ready each night. Vanity station upon vanity station lines the walls, mirrors reflecting my image back at me twenty times over. Brilliant bulbs frame their borders for optimal prep lighting.

"Help me with my hair?" I ask Kitty as I snatch a random outfit from my rack of costumes and toss it onto my vanity table.

"Obviously," she says with an eye roll.

Shrugging out of my light trench coat, I strip my dress in one fluid motion and settle onto my chair so she can get to work. I make a practice of dressing light when I come to work. It makes getting ready that much easier once I'm here.

Focusing on my eyeshadow, I let Kitty fiddle with my thick locks. She's an artist when it comes to hair, and I'll be ready in no time with her help.

"Done," she declares triumphantly less than ten minutes later, and I flash her a smile as I add a third coat of mascara to my lashes.

"Thanks, Kitty."

"Yeah, yeah. Lineup's in room three. Get your fine ass in there. Now."

With a quick nod, I shimmy out of my bra and undies, pulling on the even skimpier lingerie connected by strings of rhinestones and beads. Strapping on my stilettos, I give myself a quick once over, then shrug on the silk robe that offers me a comically small amount of modesty.

Stalking down the hall, I open the door to viewing room three and join the lineup without a word. The lighting shifts a moment later, casting me and four other girls in brilliant spotlights so the patron on the other side of the glass can see us.

I recognize him. He's one of Keoghan's men, and I'm a little surprised he counts as VIP—though I think he might actually be related to Mr. Kelly. A cousin, if I recall correctly, fresh off the boat from Ireland. So perhaps that gives him a special privilege.

I take a second to study him—strawberry-blond curls, blue eyes, and a hint of scruff that tells me his beard would likely grow in red if he had one. He's not ugly, by any means. And he's got a decently muscular physique beneath his fine clothes. But something about his eyes puts me on edge. The tension in their corners holds a kind of malice I'm all too familiar with. It's an easy kind of mean to recognize when you have a history like mine.

His eyes scan us with open appreciation, and when they land on me, he licks his lips suggestively. I lift my chin ever so slightly but offer no other sign that it bothers me. I've learned over the years that the less defiance I demonstrate, the more likely they are to overlook me.

Today, I'm not so lucky.

"I'll have her." Stopping in front of me, he presses a finger to the glass, pointing at me like an animal at the zoo. He smirks as the other spotlights vanish, leaving me as his sole source of entertainment.

The other girls filter out of the viewing room as I open the door to my glass cage and step inside. Lit along every edge, the space is just wide and tall enough for me to reach each transparent wall if I tried. And though the cage always makes me feel a little claustrophobic, at least it's made of glass—that makes it feel less confining.

The music starts, a slow, sensual number to get me warmed up as I work the silk robe over my shoulders like Kitty taught me to when I first started three years ago.

"You are perfect, aren't you?" my viewer murmurs as I let the robe fall to the ground in a pool of soft fabric.

He never went and sat in one of the chairs provided—like customers normally do. Instead, his hands are pressed against the glass of my cage, fingers splayed as if he would like nothing more than to touch me. His proximity makes my confined space feel even smaller somehow, and my skin crawls at his unusual way of watching me.

Closing my eyes, I block him out so I can focus on the music.

"Why don't you turn around and bend over for me, love? Shake that perfect ass for me," he suggests lasciviously.

For private dances, the dancers are expected to obey customer requests—within reason. We don't ever have to dance completely naked or perform sexual acts. Nothing as crude as that. But if a man requests a certain dance move, we're supposed to oblige. So, as loath as I am to do it, I turn around and bend in half.

"Mmm. What I wouldn't give to fill that tight ass," he groans. "Come on, love. Give us a peek. Let me see that pretty little cunt of yours."

Heat radiates up my chest and into my cheeks, and I whirl to glare at him, straightening to my full height as I stop dancing. "Maybe you misunderstood the rules, or perhaps they slipped your mind, but Mr. Kelly does not run a strip joint where you can pay for a little extra on the side," I snap. "Show's over, asshole. Hopefully, the next time you ask for a dance in this establishment, you'll remember that."

Stooping, I snatch up my robe and storm from my cage. I'm through the door of the viewing room before I can slow down enough to shrug my robe back on. And I fume the entire way back to the dressing room.

I can't believe that prick's related to Mr. Kelly. He couldn't be more different from the lounge's owner if he tried. And suddenly, I recall why I was so reluctant to take this job in the first place. I hope I never have to see the sick fuck again.

Thankfully, I rarely have to endure interactions with members of the Kelly syndicate. Sure, they come and watch the shows on occasion. Some even pay for dances, like Keoghan's revolting cousin. But usually, I can get away with pretending I don't work for the mafia for weeks at a time.

Still, I can't deny the fact that, no matter how hard I try, I'll never escape this world. Even hundreds of miles away from New York, Colorado, and all the men who tried to sell me off to one criminal franchise or another, I still wound up in their hands—different family, different game, same result.

At least I can thank Mr. Kelly's strangely devout sense of Irish Catholic mercy for keeping me literally out of their hands. I've learned he has an unusual tendency to take in single mothers—something about the Virgin Mary and how no one should turn away a woman in need. That's what the girls say, anyway.

The same cannot be said for any man who gets on Keoghan's bad side. Those men find a very different kind of Kelly mercy—or so I've heard. So many rumors around the Irish mafia boss, and yet, for all the times I've seen him since I started working for Mr. Kelly, he might as well be a ghost. On the rare occasion that I do see him, it's often from my place on stage while he's holding a meeting at that same back-corner booth where I met him.

Still, I can't help but wonder where on the spectrum of Keoghan's odd moral compass his cousin might end up if Mr. Kelly got wind of what he said to me—and where I might end up if Keoghan learned what I said back.