33. Gleb

"This is the club you'll find the Zhivoder grunts in," I say, pointing to the image on my computer screen. "Kaleidoscope. They tend to raid the bar and get rowdy after shipments come in. Since it belongs to Mikhail, the bouncers don't really try to stop them. Jump in on a fight, and you'll be their new best friend."

Sascha leans forward on the couch to click on the image filling my computer screen. It minimizes, showing its location on the map of New York City. "And advice on which grunts will get me to the top fastest?"

"Captain Vladimir Zmeya—goes by just Zmeya, sometimes Vova with his closest friends—he's Mikhail's right-hand man and best captain. Though I know he holds a good number of meetings in the back, Zmeya rarely turns up to party at Kaleidoscope. His crew, on the other hand, is there to unwind often enough."

Sascha nods. "How often do shipments come in?"

"The big ones they always need to unwind after come on the second and fourth Wednesday of every month. They're the ones in charge of inventorying the out-of-state shipments that come in. Big deliveries that could be a handful if the transporters don't drug the girls correctly." I would know. Those were the shipments I reconned back in the day before we took one off their hands—the same one Mel was in. My gut clenches as my thoughts turn to her without my permission.

"Pigs," Sascha mutters under his breath.

I huff. "Zmeya handles Mikhail's dirtier dealings in town—sorting the girls, assessing which ones are high enough quality for the VIP clients, you know, checking if they're virgins and whatnot. Real top-notch guy. He's the one who deals with the work Mikhail doesn't want to touch with a ten-foot pole. That way, Sidorov's image remains pristine for all the high-society mingling his target consumer requires."

"And a recommendation from him would go a long way with Mikhail?" my brother concludes.

"If you can get in good with Zmeya, you'll be on the fast track to earning Mikhail's approval."

Nodding, Sascha looks thoughtful as he clicks back to the image of Mikhail and points to the man walking half a pace behind him. "This creepy-ass fucker?"

I chuckle. "That's the one."

"He looks the type. Job sounds easy enough. You have any clue what might be the initiation process?"

"Nothing concrete, but rumors would indicate you have to snatch a local girl for their roster, deliver her without getting busted, and watch the men break her in." I glance sideways at Sascha to gauge his response.

A muscle tics in his jaw, but his face remains calm—just like the old man taught us. He catches my glance and flashes that cocky smirk that accompanies his dry sense of humor.

"Hey, we can't afford to have a conscience in this line of work, right?" he quips. "Besides, what's one beautiful skeleton in my closet me when I would have the opportunity to crush the fucker who sold her—and rip down every last stone in his empire."

I nod, studying his face to find the pain masked behind his snide comeback. But my brother hides it well, his shields impenetrable walls of cold sarcasm.

My phone buzzes, and I frown as my eyes find the clock in the top corner of my computer screen. It's nearly ten o'clock. Pyotr wouldn't call this late unless it's an emergency—even if he knows Sascha and I are working on a strategy. Digging into my pocket, I pull out my phone.

My heart skips a beat when I recognize the Boston area code.

Not the number.

I only know one person who might call me from Boston—aside from Sascha, who's sitting right next to me. And when I glance up at him, he's watching me with a sharp gaze.

"Something tells me you better take it," he encourages with a jerk of his chin.

Rising from the couch, I pace toward the large picture window of my modern yet sparsely decorated two-bedroom Harlem condo. Why in the hell would Mel be calling me? I thought she was done with me. And to be perfectly honest, I'm a little surprised she still knows my number. My burning curiosity makes it impossible to resist answering.

Swiping my finger across the screen, I bring my phone to my ear. "Da."

"G-Gleb?" she sobs, stuttering as her ragged breaths seem to choke her.

Shock radiates from my core at the sound of her tears, making my body numb as my mind buzzes. "Mel, what's wrong?" I demand, grasping the window frame for stability.

"P-Please, you h-have to forgive me," she begs, her words ripping open the gaping wound in my chest once more.

But she sounds so upset, I'm finding it hard to think straight. What the hell is going on?

"I di—I didn't m-mean anything I said l-last night," she rushes.

No shit, Sherlock.I figured that out pretty quick when she booted me out the door as soon as a better offer came along. But why is she calling to apologize? And why the fuck is she crying? It affects me in such a resounding, instinctual way that my muscles vibrate with tension, ready to leap into action as soon as I can identify whatever unknown threat plagues her.

But the ugly truth of it is, I'm likely the threat that's got her in tears.

Sighing, I fight to get my emotions back under control. "Look, Mel, I get it. I'm gone," I say flatly, the words like poison on my tongue. "And you don't need to apologize. I got the message loud and clear this time. I won't bother you again, so why are you crying?"

"N-No, that's n-not w-what I…" Mel takes a deep, shuddering breath, calming herself before she hyperventilates. And when she speaks again, she seems to have regained a semblance of control. "Please, Gleb, I need your help," she whispers, the panic and desperation in her tone flooding through the phone.

My heart stops dead in my chest as the hairs rise on the back of my neck.

Fuck.She's in trouble.

"Where are you?" I demand. Any consideration for the pain of my loss and rejection vanishes at the thought of her being in danger.

"In the girl's bathroom at Pearl's," she says, drawing in another ragged breath.

"Are you hurt? Are you alone? Did someone touch you?" Fuck, why does it feel like pulling teeth to know what kind of help she needs? The wood protests beneath my fingers, and I release the window frame before I rip it clear off the wall.

"No, I'm fine. I'm fine," she rushes. "I'm alone. I came in here to c-call you because I d-didn't know what else to do."

She sounds like she's on the brink of falling apart again, and if she does, I might just lose my mind.

"Breathe, Mel. And tell me what the fuck is going on."

"V-Vinny came to see me at work tonight…"

I swallow hard, my eyes closing as I try my best to ignore the meaning behind those words, to suppress the thought of them together, of what he might have done to her to launch her into such a panic. And suddenly, I'm blatantly aware of the fact that she didn't answer my question about whether someone touched her.

Fucking animal.

I'm going to tear him apart.

"H-He said he would p-put Gabby up for adoption as soon as we got married," she breathes, and the tears come hard and fast once more.

Christ, I can't recall ever hearing Mel cry before, and having her fall apart over her daughter—when she's hundreds of miles away, and I can't do anything to comfort her—is beyond agonizing.

"I c-can't marry him, Gleb. I can't. I could never g-give up Gabby, but h-he won't let me b-bring her w-with me." Another sob rips up her throat, but she presses on, determined to get it all out. "I'm terrified to tell him. He's Mr. Kelly's c-cousin and… and I think he might be crazy. I don't know what he might do if I don't marry him…"

Heart slamming against my ribs, I turn and make a beeline for the door. Sascha simply watches me go, his golden gaze knowing. And as I snatch my keys from the bowl beside my front door, I almost miss Mel's next words.

"P-Please forgive me, Gleb. I'm so sorry, and I r-really need your help."

Though I'm confident she's only saying that because she's desperate and concerned for her child's safety, I can't turn her away. I could never turn my back on Mel.

"I'm on my way," I promise. "But it's going to take me some time to get there. And I'll need to pick up a few things on my way. Are you in any immediate danger?"

"N-No, I don't think so."

"Vinny didn't threaten you? Does he suspect you don't want to marry him?" I press.

"No, I was too scared to tell him. I told him I needed to use the restroom before my break was over. Then I came in here to call you."

"You did good, Mel," I assure her. "Can you pull it together enough to finish your shift?"

"Yeah," she says confidently, though I can still hear the tremble in her voice.

"Good. That will buy us some time. If no one thinks anything's wrong, they'll be less likely to keep an eye on you. Think you can have yourself and Gabby all packed up and ready to go by tomorrow morning?" My feet pad quickly down the concrete steps of my condominium, carrying me to the underground garage and my bike parked by the door.

"I'll make it happen," she assures me.

"Good. I'll be there as soon as I can to pick you up. In the meantime, tell no one about any of this. You understand?" Reaching my Triumph Daytona, I sling a leg over and kick up the stand.

"Yes," she murmurs. "I've got to go. My break's over."

"You've got this," I assure her.

"Gleb?"

"Mmm."

"Thank you," she breathes.

I swallow hard, beating back the wave of emotion that threatens to consume me. "Of course."

As soon as the call ends, I'm on the phone again, eager to get on the road as soon as I can.

"V chem delo?" Pyotr answers, his tone gruff. What's wrong? he asked in our mother tongue. He knows I wouldn't disturb his precious family time if it weren't important, so he cut right to the point.

"I need to borrow a car… and a car seat. And if you're feeling generous, I could use some advice."