22. Gleb

Sitting with my back to the brick-enclosed window of the cafe along Beacon Street, I watch the passersby. A paper mug of black Americano steams between my palms, chasing away the chill of the early morning.

Propped casually against the back of my chair, I won't draw attention from my position, but I can see everything that's happening up and down the busy lane—the pickpocket standing at the crosswalk a block away that just slipped a businessman's phone out of his briefcase as he waited for the light to change; a harried-looking single mother of two children, toddler propped on her hip, dragging the other along as he throws a rather impressive tantrum; the homeless man taking special consideration to fix the blanket his mut companion is curled up under.

Just inside the cafe, behind me, is the faint sound of the manager berating a barista for messing up a customer's order. A hundred tiny details that paint Boston's bustling scene, and I absorb them all, keeping my senses alert, my attention keen.

I feel my brother's eyes on me before I catch his blond head of hair out of my periphery. A second later, Sascha slinks into the chair beside me, a to-go cup of coffee clasped casually in his hand, though we both know he's never touched the stuff. It's strictly a prop he uses to blend in with the crowd—because we've been trained to avoid unnecessary attention, regardless of what we're doing—and it might catch someone's notice if he sat without a drink.

"It's been a long time," he observes, dropping casually into Russian as he settles in his chair so he can scan the street as well.

"Too long," I agree, joining him in our native tongue—or at least, the language we grew up speaking.

Flashing a grin, I catch Sascha's golden-eyed gaze, and he returns the gesture.

"What happened in Chicago? When you left Boston, I thought the plan was to join Kostya and the Shulaya."

"Yeah, it was."

Kostya, Sascha, and I are the only three brothers who possessed the drive to look beyond my father's training, to see what the world had to offer, and want to be better—the only ones who wanted out of his twisted business our old man made of turning his progenies into profitable commodities. So, when I left Boston, I followed my older brother to Chicago.

"Was our cousin not all Kostya cracked him up to be, then?" Sascha presses.

"Nah, Ilya's cool. He and his sister, Bianka, have a great setup there. Some crazy alliance with the Italians that somehow seems to be working."

I snort, thinking about the birth family of Pyotr's wife. Our cousin Bianka married into it, and that seemed to solidify the relationship between my cousin's Bratva, the Shulaya, and the Marchetti family. From what I've heard, Kostya is living a pretty cushy life in Chicago because no one's stupid enough to infringe upon either territory at this point.

"But you didn't stick around to check it out," Sascha observes.

I shrug. "I guess I was still restless. Freedom's no small thing to wrap your mind around. And when I met Pyotr Veles, he just struck a chord with me, you know? He and his wife, Silvia, are people worth following. They have a bigger vision—a war worth fighting, I guess. So when he offered me a job, I thought a change of scenery sounded nice. New York's more my pace, anyway. Kostya's probably in Chicago getting fat and complacent because he's got no enemies to challenge him."

Sascha nods, his golden-brown eyes scanning the street once again. "But you do? Have a challenge?"

"Hell yeah. A good one, too. I fucking love my job. Pyotr gets me. He lets me put my skills to use, and he doesn't treat me like a dog that needs to be kenneled at the end of the day. But what about you? I thought you were leaving Boston the first chance you got. You change your mind about ditching the old man?"

Last I heard, Sascha was tired of being one of our father's soldiers for hire and had no intention of taking a job with the Kellys. So, I was more than a little surprised to find him still in Boston.

"Definitely done with that piece of shit. And good riddance. I look forward to the day I learn he's dropped dead. But he's still going strong. You hear we have two more baby brothers arriving this year?"

I huff. "No surprise there. Wonder how he found the new brood mares. He's pushing seventy by now. You'd think the girls young enough to have his kids would find him revolting anymore."

"Doesn't seem to be slowing him down. Besides, he's got the cash to keep 'em coming willingly. Plenty of girls will carry a baby for nine months if they need the money bad enough. The Kellys pay the old man well for the service he provides, so he probably just counts it as an expense at this point."

I give a single nod. My stomach twists as Mel comes forcibly to mind at the mention of girls selling their bodies. It was agonizing, last night, to hear her contract with the Kellys requires birth control. The thought of why that would be necessary nearly made me lose my mind at the time.

But today, thinking about the alternative, the possibility of how she could be making money—at least I can have the peace of mind that she's not bearing my father's children or something. I shudder at the notion.

"So, what the hell are you still doing here?" I ask to force the dark thoughts from my mind. "Is the Kelly money that tempting?"

"It does soften the humiliation of my life a little bit, but that's not what's keeping me. Removing the Kellys' hooks in me is proving harder than expected. After you and Kostya left, I guess they reworked the contract with Dear Old Dad. They pay him a disgustingly large advance with the assurance that we'll earn it back."

"Which means?" I frown.

"Which means, according to the contract, that they have every right to send men after me if I leave town before that advance is paid back." Sascha gives me a wry smirk, one eyebrow quirking ironically.

"You still owe money based on your contract, then?"

"Technically. But I've been paying the Kellys back out of my paycheck to shorten my remaining time."

"And what would you say if I had a job that might make you disappear for a while?" I can't think of a better reason to stick my brother behind enemy lines than to watch the Kellys hunt for a man who no longer exists.

"I'd say, when can I start?" That smirk spreads into a cocky grin, and I chuckle darkly.

"You haven't even heard what the job is yet. It would be dangerous. You'd be posing as a member of a Bratva that Pyotr and I intend to take down. Passing inside information so we can crush them from existence." I eye Sascha carefully, reading the impassive expression that every Lycaon soldier wears by default. "You really want to risk your life like that?"

"If you're trying to talk me out of it, you shouldn't have pulled out the trump card right from the start. I'm so ready to get the fuck out of Boston. I want a taste of freedom. To do something because I agreed to do it. Besides, I like a challenge—and you've got me green with envy bragging about your life working for Pyotr Veles in New York." Sascha's golden gaze flashes.

I snort. "My life is hardly worth bragging about. And this gig would be completely different than mine. You'd be working daily with scum-of-the-earth bastards who make money trafficking women. But I'd be your contact, and with your talents, you'd be perfect for the job."

"I'm in," Sascha says again. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as I stop by Pearl's this evening. I have some unfinished business there." My eyes flick automatically in the burlesque lounge's direction. Though I know Mel's shift won't start until the club opens, I intend to wait until she shows.

"You? Have business at Pearl's?" Sascha asks, his voice suddenly dry.

"Yeah." Because despite how Mel left things last night, I'm not going back to New York without speaking to her once more. I may not understand Mel's determination to run from me, but she can't be happy in her life. Just based on the little bit of her backstory I know, I can be confident of that. And I saw how excited she used to be about modeling. So, I sure as hell don't intend to leave her behind.

"Gleb?" Sascha waits until my eyes shift in his direction, and he holds my gaze, silently demanding an explanation.

He's always been good at that, cutting through the bullshit to dissect my brain. And he has the patience to wait as long as it takes to find what he's looking for. Always so calm and steady. It's partly why I'm confident he'll make a perfect plant in Mikhail's operation. It's the ones who get nervous that blow their covers. But Sascha has nerves of steel and more patience in one pinky than I possess in my entire body.

Sighing, I raise my black coffee to my lips and take a big gulp. "Fine. There's a girl who works there. I saw her last night when I went in looking for you." I give a brief synopsis of the fight that followed, then delve into the conflict between the Zhivoder and the Veles and how that led to finding Mel in the first place. Glossing over the emotion that drives me—and completely skipping the heated confrontation she and I had after she got off work—I go on to explain how, after Mel vanished, I hadn't anticipated finding her here.

"When I thought she'd gotten away from that life, I could live with not knowing where she was. But now that I know who she's working for…?" I shake my head. "I'm taking her with me when we go."

A long silence stretches between us, and when I glance at Sascha, he's frowning.

"You should leave her be," he says finally. His eyes meet mine with a gravity my younger brother doesn't usually possess.

But rather than convincing me to let her go, it triggers a sense of foreboding in me that only strengthens my resolve. "Why?" I ask darkly, wanting him to confirm my suspicion.

"She belongs to the Irish mafia now, brother. You'll only be stirring up trouble."