16. Gleb

It's a quick elevator ride down from the third-floor hotel room I booked right off Beacon Street. A rather high-end hotel for what I require. But seeing as I have little reason to spend money these days, I took advantage of the convenient location. Stepping out into the quiet foyer of the hotel a moment later, I head toward the revolving front door.

It didn't take much to find a lead on my brother Sascha's current location—even if my younger brother's address is a little less easy to dig up. But the Lycaon brothers have been working closely with the Kelly syndicate since my father first started his business of breeding and raising soldiers.

As crass as it sounds, that's as good a description as any. I've lost count of how many siblings I have, mostly half-brothers, all born to be molded into highly skilled, emotionless killing machines. Trained fighters. Just like me. I haven't even met the majority of them more than a handful of times.

But not Sascha. He and I grew up together. We went through our father's program together. And while we live states apart, we still keep tabs on each other. Which is why I know he's been itching to relocate for a few years now. And he would make a perfect spy in Mikhail's operation. So, regardless of our less-than-constant level of contact, I'm in Boston to run the idea by him, and it won't take me long to find him.

Without a doubt, the best place to start is Pearl's. Owned by Boston's hotshot Irish mafia boss, it's one of Keoghan Kelly's favorite meeting locations. And if he's not there today, I'm sure a few of my brothers will be.

"Welcome to Pearl's," the hostess says as soon as I step inside the front doors of the burlesque lounge. In a form-fitting dress and heels, she looks the part of a classy greeter for the fine establishment.

"Thanks. I'm looking for Sascha. He working tonight?" I keep it direct and to the point. No sense in being here any longer than I need to be.

"Sascha? No dancers here by that name, honey," she teases, giving me a flirtatious wink.

I give her a cold stare, unamused by her attempt at humor.

She clears her throat uncomfortably, color flooding her cheeks as she straightens. "Sorry. I can't give out employees' personal information."

"So he does work here, then?" I press.

Her blush intensifies as she realizes she unwittingly gave me more information than I had to start.

"I-I-I?—"

"It's fine. What's the cover charge?"

"Fifty dollars," she says, seeming relieved that I'm ready to move on.

I place the crisp bill on her host stand and head inside before she can stop me.

The massive club is filled with music and laughter, and I'm mildly impressed to find it's a full house, even on a Tuesday night. Tiers of table-side seating fill the first floor, with several balconies' worth of finely made dinner tables looking out on the stage as well.

Each one is lit with a dim lamp, allowing just enough light for customers to enjoy their meal. But the real lighting is reserved for the showgirls on stage. Several beautiful women dressed in skimpy costumes dance there now, performing to an energetic song. From the hats and color scheme, I'd assume they're supposed to be sailor girls. But their outfits are little more than themed lingerie, so I can't be positive.

Finding little to interest me on stage, I scan the club for its owner and come up empty. But I do recognize several of his men sitting among the audience—and three of my brothers hidden in the shadows of the stage. No doubt there to keep any rowdy customers from trying to climb up and join the girls.

Making my way to the bar, I lean against the dark-stained wood and catch the bartender's eye.

With a sultry smile, she strides over. "What can I get you tonight, handsome?"

"Sascha Lycaon. He here?"

Suspicion flickers across her face, and she eyes me more pointedly now. "Who's asking?"

"His brother."

The bartender snorts. I'm sure she hears that one all the time. She's probably been trained to take it with a grain of salt.

"Look, if I leave a message with you, could you get it to him?"

After a momentary hesitation, she gives a stiff nod, making the short, dark hair that frames her face bounce.

"Just tell him Gleb's in town. I'm here for a few days and would love to see him. I'm staying at the Beacon, room 303." Leaning across the bar to snatch the pen from behind her ear before she can stop me, I take a cocktail napkin and scribble my cell phone number on it. "If he wants to call me."

She cocks an eyebrow and reaches out slowly to accept the napkin and her pen once more. "You sure this isn't some strange tactic to try and hit on me?" she asks mildly. "Because if it is, it might be working."

"You'll give him the message?" I press, ignoring her flirtation and sweeping my gaze across the space behind her to make sure I'm not missing anything.

"Yeah, handsome. I'll give him the message. You want a shot or anything? On the house. You look like you could use a drink."

Shifting back to meet her heavily painted eyes, I study her coolly. "I don't drink."

"Hmm," she says glibly. "Maybe you really are related." Slipping the pen back behind her ear, she stalks away.

The song comes to an end behind me, and as the live band goes silent, signaling curtain close, I turn around. I think that's my cue to leave. I'm not going to get any more useful information here tonight—not until after the club is closed. I can come back then to speak with my brothers once they're off shift. They'll be more willing to talk.

Pushing off the bar, I give one last sweep of the room with my eyes. And as the soft, crooning notes of the next song begins, the curtain rises.

It's her.

Mel.

Standing before the prop microphone.

The air vanishes from my lungs.

My heart pounds.

Vivid memories flash behind my eyes?—

The petulant lift of her chin as she gears up for an argument.

Onyx eyes that ensnare me with smoldering heat.

I'm stunned. Frozen. My feet lead weights.

What is she doing here?

My eyes travel slowly down her slender body, consuming the sight of her with ravenous need.

Her strapless black velvet cocktail dress hugs every inch of her trim figure.

Silk gloves reach past her elbows.

Her waves of mahogany hair cascade over one shoulder.

And I would recognize those soft, striking features anywhere. Her button nose and heart-shaped face. The tear-drop shape of her eyes. Dark eyebrows arching imperiously over them.

Her full lips part to lip-sync the sensual ballad, and my heart stops. Her eyes are closed, her movements graceful as she plays the part of some 1920s club singer. And she's as stunning as the day I last saw her. Russet skin glowing a soft gold in the bright stage light, she exudes a charisma that captures the attention of everyone in the room.

Then, as the beat drops, her eyes fly open, and her attitude shifts to cheeky spunk. The backup singers I hadn't even noticed before step forward, dressed in skimpy, shimmering bikinis. They each grip a side of Mel's dress, and in one fluid motion, they rip it off her, tossing it backstage.

Now wearing an outfit as glittery and revealing as the other girls, Mel struts across the stage like she was born to it. Her long legs on full display, she uses the space like her own personal catwalk. And before I know what I'm doing, my feet are carrying me forward, down the steps leading into the dining area below her. I can't tear my eyes away.

She's a good dancer. Though, somehow, that doesn't surprise me.

What does is the fact that she's here, in this club, at all.

And anger rises in my chest as I consider the implications of her presence.

The letter she left me three years ago—the one that ripped my heart out and left me little more than a vengeful shell of a human being—said she wanted to get far away from my world.

And now she's not just fully immersed in it. She's thriving. Surrounded by mafia men who have a reputation for being just as ruthless and violent as the Veles, she's put herself on full display. And she appears to be dancing without a care in the world.

I know what the girls who dance here do for a living.

And I know Pearl's reputation.

Which only adds insult to injury. She wanted to get far away from me, but she's willing to dance for these animals? Rage bubbles hot and fast in my chest as the hypocrisy hits home.

Like a slap to the face.

Keoghan might not put a night of pleasure with his dancers right there on the menu, but that doesn't mean they're less than glorified whores. Most sell their bodies for a quick buck on the side—according to the brothers I know who work here. The show Mel's putting on is just the cocktail hour. The private dances the club sells make up the starter course. But the real meal happens after the final curtain call.

That unfamiliar surge of conflicting emotions roars through my chest, consuming me. And I can't stop watching the Hawaiian beauty as she dances around the stage, flaunting her perfect body for a roomful of lewd men to see. It shouldn't bother me. She's not mine to covet. But that doesn't stop my protective instincts from launching into overdrive.

Her path carries her down the steps toward me, but she hasn't seen me yet. One of my hulking half-brothers offers her a well-timed hand, guiding her down the stairs so she doesn't lose her balance as she sashays to the music. I grit my teeth, ugly jealousy choking my throat at the innocuous touch.

Then, with a graceful skip, she moves from the stairs onto the tabletop beside them.

Keoghan's men hoot and whistle as she dances above them—practically on top of them. And when she dips low, spreading her knees in a shockingly explicit crouch, my stomach turns. She makes deep eye contact with one of them as she rolls her hips provocatively, and the crowd goes wild.

One of the men, a blond who leers at her with a sick look of entitlement, rises from his chair as she returns to a stand. His hand finds her ankle and boldly slides up her leg, ending with a sharp slap to her ass.

He says something to her, but I can't hear it over the music.

And all I see is red as Mel freezes mid-performance.

Her muscles tense as she cringes away from his touch.

The space between us vanishes as my rage overcomes my common sense. Vaulting across a table full of diners, I sprint the last few yards to wrap my hand around the bastard's throat. And with a violent snarl, I lift him bodily out of his chair and slam him onto the ground.

He coughs and wheezes, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple as the air abandons his lungs.

"Gleb!" Mel screams, and through my haze of fury, I'm shocked by the relief her voice brings me.

But that's not going to stop me from beating this handsy creep to death. He put his hands on Mel, and I'll kill him for it.

In the back of my mind, I track the screams of patrons who cower around our skirmish. And behind me, a hulking figure looms. I only have a few more seconds to deliver damage before my brothers step in. So, I make each one count.

Two pairs of hands grasp my arms, but even in my bloodthirsty rage, I'm ready for them. Slipping their grip, I shift my position and land two more punches. The blond howls as bones give beneath my fist—his nose breaking.

Then, the hard point of a large knee finds my temple, and I see stars.

In the moment it takes me to regain my senses, I'm hauled to my feet, my arms forced behind my back. My brothers steer me from the club to the cheers of patrons and the faint sound of Mel calling my name.

"Do you have any idea whose nose you just broke?" one of Keoghan's hired muscles growls as they drag me toward the door.

"I think you mean thank you for doing your jobs. Where were you, you slow-ass fucks?" I snarl, struggling—though I know it's futile—because my fury still burns to explode from my chest.

"The boss won't take kindly to you beating up his cousin," the other adds.

They shove me out the door with such force that they launch me past the steps and straight toward the pavement below. I tuck and roll at the last second, cushioning my fall. But the impact still makes my ribs and shoulder groan in protest. Gasping for breath, I look up from the ground, glaring at the emotionally stunted gorillas that are biologically my brothers.

"Don't come back, Gleb. If you do, you'll regret it."