31. Gleb

"Gospodin, this is my brother Sascha. Sascha, my pakhan Pyotr Veles," I say as the two fresh-faced bodyguards pull Pyotr's office doors closed behind us.

From what Pyotr told me, the Matron was in charge of selecting the new guards, just like she picked Val and Efrem years ago—so I'll be vetting them thoroughly now that I'm back from my errand of collecting Sascha.

Not that I don't trust Pyotr's mother, but I'm done putting my faith in anyone else's judgment. I'll draw my own conclusions about whether they're good enough to protect my pakhan.

"I've heard good things about you," Pyotr says to Sascha, rising from his chair and extending his hand across his desk with a cool smile. His sharp gray gaze assesses my younger half-brother, no doubt noting how little we look alike.

Where I'm tall, lean, and pale with dark hair, and green eyes, Sascha's a golden boy in the very literal sense of the word. Strong with a muscular build but not quite burly, he has a short, hectic mane of sandy-blond hair, a distinctly olive skin tone, and brown eyes that are so light they're closer to amber-gold. All compliments of his strikingly beautiful mother.

Kostya's nickname for Sascha growing up was L'venok—little lion. And though he's no longer little, with broad shoulders and standing just a few inches shorter than me, he does bring the king of cats to mind. It might be the hair—or the ever-watchful, assessing gaze.

"Likewise," Sascha says, accepting Pyotr's hand and shaking it firmly.

"Please, sit." Pyotr gestures to the chairs facing his desk.

As Sascha accepts the seat to the right, I settle into the one beside him, intrigued by how the conversation will unfold.

"My brother tells me you have a job I'm going to love," Sascha says, the corners of his lips curling up into a subtle smile. Because, unlike me and the rest of my machine-like brothers, Sascha somehow managed to develop the semblance of a sense of humor despite our upbringing. It might be dry and have a sharp edge, but he seems impressively adept at finding the irony in life.

Pyotr's eyebrow quirks, and his eyes shift to me as he interlaces his fingers, placing his elbows on the desk.

I shrug. "I told you he'd be perfect for the job."

Pyotr locks eyes with Sascha once more, his expression grave. "You understand you would be working behind the lines of our enemy—a very dangerous enemy—passing information about their Bratva to Gleb? I intend to keep him as your only point of contact to minimize your risk of exposure."

Unlike Sascha, Pyotr learned the hard way since coming back to New York that there is no irony in life. Only ugliness and death waiting to swallow you whole if you give it the slightest of openings.

Thankfully, he hasn't lost his wife or children in all this mess with the Zhivoder—not that the bastards haven't tried. But he's sacrificed far too much. Which is why it's time to pay Mikhail Sidorov back for all the devastation he's wreaked on this clan.

Sascha leans forward, his elbows meeting his knees as his smile turns predatory. "That sounds right up my alley," he admits. "I assure you, I haven't just been sitting in Boston, sucking my thumb and tossing drunks out of a nightclub for the past few years. Besides, any job that gets me out of that hellhole will suit me just fine."

Again, Pyotr's eyes cast to me, a silent signal that he'll be digging further into that statement once the interview is over and we're alone. Then, they shift quickly back to Sascha. "We'll find a way to introduce you into the Zhivoder clan authentically, but it will be up to you to go through initiation, to climb the ranks. I want you to make a big enough splash that you catch Mikhail's eye."

Sascha nods, considering the plan. "What's the timeframe?"

"As long as it takes, and as quickly as you can. It sounds like he's permanently shifted his VIP client interactions to his Upstate home. Though he still has plenty of business within the City, we can hit him where it hurts if you're at his estate up north. I know it will take time to get there, and I trust you and Gleb to make it happen without exposing you—or dawdling."

"And by business and VIP clients, you mean…" Sascha glances toward me, that ironic look telling me he's already connected the dots and just wants to hear it confirmed. It wouldn't surprise me if he's dug into the details himself enough to know the kind of shit he'll be involved with.

"I'm talking about human trafficking, selling women and children to all the sick fucks willing to pay hundreds of thousands to work out their kinks without sullying their prestigious reputations or high status in society." Pyotr hisses the last of his sentence, the vitriol blatant in his tone.

I respect how Pyotr wears his anger-like armor. Unlike my training, which tells me to show no emotion that might reveal weakness to the enemy, my pakhan wields his emotion like a weapon. It makes him nearly invincible without being emotionally stunted.

"So, if you take this job, it means you'll be expected to look the other way. To allow plenty of sick, twisted shit to happen. You might have to do something you find abhorrent to maintain your cover. Because I don't intend to relieve you of your task until we've brought down Mikhail's entire empire. You think you have the stomach for that?"

Pyotr's laser gaze remains fixed on Sascha, and my brother studies him closely, that same subtle curl to his lip despite the weight behind my pakhan's words.

"Perhaps my big brother has failed to fully enlighten you on the extensive training we go through at the Lycaon House, but I assure you, I can stomach just about anything. So, if you're done grilling me, when does the fun begin?"

Sascha's grin spreads, eliciting a smile from Pyotr as well. And my pakhan looks over to assess me one more time. I give a subtle nod. I wouldn't trust a single soul with infiltrating the Shivoder more than I do Sascha. And Pyotr reads that in our silent exchange.

"You're right, Gleb. He's perfect. Welcome aboard, Sascha."

We all rise as they shake hands one more time, and I walk my brother to the door of Pyotr's office.

"Meet you back at my place?" I offer him my key, and he takes it with a single nod. "We'll hammer out the details tonight."

"Looking forward to it." Sascha flashes me a cheeky grin and slips through the door without a sound.

Turning back to my pakhan, I sink into my chair once more, my posture settling into a more familiar, relaxed position now that business is finished. I knew Pyotr would be satisfied with Sascha as our spy. My brother is sharp, perceptive, and has an unwaveringly steady hand.

"You're confident he'll stay loyal?" Pyotr asks, his gaze level as he searches my face.

"He's got a dry sense of humor, but I assure you, he won't side with the Zhivoder when he sees what they are. And he's like a dog with a bone, once you give him a mission. He won't leave us hanging."

Pyotr nods thoughtfully, reading the subtext—it's not necessarily about loyalty with Sascha.

My brother lives by his own code. And while yes, I trust him to be loyal to me because of our shared history, that's not what will motivate him.

What's going to drive Sascha toward the same goal as the Veles is that he loathes men like Mikhail—men who earn their lives of luxury and comfort through the subjugation and suffering of others. Plain and simple.

For Sascha, that shit's personal.

It is for me, too, I suppose.

I'm sure Sascha will see plenty of other shit he won't agree with while working for Mikhail. But he can be impressively cold-blooded when it's a means to an end. It's why he's made a good secret weapon for the Kellys—and now he will for us.

He'll endure the unsavory stuff to ensure that, by the time he's done with them, the Zhivoder will never sell another soul.

"If you're that confident in your brother taking this role, then what's got you out of sorts?" Pyotr asks, cutting through the silence.

His gray eyes search me with an intelligence that's served him well since taking over the Veles at a young age. He rarely drops that severe role as pakhan, even for me. He saves his softer side for his wife, Silvia, and their two children.

But every now and again, he sets that aside to delve into my state of mind—usually when I'm in as much emotional chaos as I have been since leaving Boston. And try as I might to hide my struggles, I must be wearing it on my face—a mistake I'm growing more prone to the longer I'm exposed to the heart and soul behind the Veles.

Shaking my head, I lean forward, planting my elbows on my knees and interlacing my fingers to trap my temples between my thumbs. "Is it that obvious?"

Pyotr shrugs. "I've known you long enough to see when something's on your mind. And it's clearly not Sascha."

"I saw Mel. In Boston," I state flatly, dropping my hands to look him full in the face now.

Pyotr releases a low whistle. "How is she?"

"Fuck if I should know. She's working at a burlesque lounge owned by the Irish mafia that all but owns Boston."

Pyotr stays silent, seeming to detect the bitterness in my tone. Try as I might, I couldn't say it without the pain seeping through.

"Seems she's more drawn to the lifestyle and not so much to me," I add caustically.

"I'm sorry to hear that, brother," he murmurs, his eyebrow buckling into a deep frown.

I shrug. "It is what it is. She's got a little girl—cutest fucking thing I've ever seen…" I swallow hard, thinking about Gabby, the way she pressed her forehead to mine, like she might breathe in my very soul through the exchange. I shake my head to rid myself of the emotion-inducing memory. "And Mel's soon to be married to Boss Kelly's cousin."

Pyotr looks struck by that revelation. "I don't know why, but I never pictured her doing any of that. Maybe becoming a mom someday. She was so young, though, when we took her in. I figured a modeling career, independence, then maybe a normal life with… I don't know, a different husband?" He doesn't expound on the statement, but his eyes hold a level of pity that almost feels like it's directed my way.

It grates.

"Yeah, well. I think what bugs me most is that she ended up in Boston. With the Kellys of all fucking people."

"Your old stomping grounds," Pyotr observes.

"Not just that, the family with close connections to the bastard that calls himself my father."

My pakhan remains silent for a long moment as his head tilts thoughtfully. "I know you don't like to talk about it," he says finally. "But with your brother coming into the picture now, too, I need to know. There's clearly a bigger story behind your upbringing."

I shake my head. "It's not much of a story. You know my brother Kostya—the one you met in Chicago? You remember what he told you at dinner that night we met?"

Pyotr chuckles. "That your father was ‘spawning an army of mindless drones' that you and he were lucky enough to escape before you lost your souls."

I stare at him flatly, my lack of a smile telling him just how close to reality that is.

The smile falls from Pyotr's face, his eyes turning sharp as he seems to read my unspoken confession. "Wait, like literally spawning…?"

"To my knowledge, I have well over thirty siblings at this point, most from different mothers. We're taken from our mothers at birth—some contract he makes with the women that give him sole custody for a price. We're raised by wet nurses, and begin training at age five," I state, giving a quick, emotionless synopsis.

"Training?" Pyotr presses.

"Weapons and combat, how to read body language and assess people's motivations, weaknesses. At age twelve, endurance of torture—both physical and psychological—becomes a part of the grueling regiment. We eat, sleep, and breathe the life of soldiers, killers, weapons honed into intelligent, emotionless tools. And at age eighteen, he sells us off as mercenaries, serving as bodyguards, bouncers, bruisers—spies. Whatever area we excel at."

The stricken look on my pakhan's face tells me he hadn't realized just how dark my past was. I never told him before, and when he asked, I simply shrugged it off. But thinking of Mel in that world now, I'm consumed by the filthy blackness of my background and the family so closely tied to my own.

"To my father, we aren't human but rather commodities, and the Kellys are my father's best, most reliable customers. I likely would have ended up working for the Kellys myself if I hadn't followed Kostya out of that cesspool we called home."

Pyotr's scowl returns in full force as my story draws to a close. "And that's the family who Mel's not just working for but marrying into?"

I nod, my gut twisting painfully.

"Wouldn't it be better to get her out of there?" he presses gently, his own concern rising.

Scrubbing my face with my palms, I rise from my chair to pace, my emotions boiling to the surface. "Don't you think I tried?" I demand.

Clenching my jaw, I bring my temper quickly back under wraps. "I did my best to bring her home. But short of throwing her over my shoulder and physically removing her, I couldn't get her to leave, and I'm done trying."

I take a deep, steadying breath and force myself to stop and talk to Pyotr like a reasonable person—not a love-plagued soul, tortured by the rejection of the only girl I've ever wanted.

She has to pick her own path in life, and she clearly doesn't want my help. I would do anything for Mel, but I won't force her. That's what men have been doing all her life, and I can see now that the harder I push, the more she wants to run away—even if I have her best interests at heart.