Page 77 of Twisted Prince
“Really?” Wait, it’s not a problem to take it slow? I feel suddenly thrown off balance by the crazy Irishman. Nothing about him says patience, and I’m pretty confident I saw a glint of disgust in his eye when I mentioned being a mother.
“Of course, love. You’re a fit bird. I don’t think having a kid has done any permanent damage. And besides, that’s what adoption is for.”
I think I might be sick. The blood drains from my face so quickly that I feel lightheaded, and I sway as his words hit me like a physical blow. Put Gabby up for adoption? He can’t be serious.
“But I?—”
“As my wife,” he cuts me off, his strides carrying him closer until my back is pressed against the break room door, “you’ll need to focus your energy on pleasing me.” Hot breath washes across my face as he leans in close, trapping me between his arms.
Hair prickling across my scalp in warning, my body screams for me to run. And at the same time, I want to lash out and slap him for even suggesting I let someone else raise my little girl.
“You won’t have time for a child anyway,” he promises, his lips hovering far too close to mine. “I promise I’ll keep you plenty busy. And when we’re ready—after I’ve made good use of all your lovely holes—you can have as many of my babies as your pretty little heart desires.”
Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick.
“But I won’t have some other man’s child living under my roof with us.”
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.
