Page 39 of Twisted Prince

I take a second to study him—strawberry-blond curls, blue eyes, and a hint of scruff that tells me his beard would likely grow in red if he had one. He’s not ugly, by any means. And he’s got a decently muscular physique beneath his fine clothes. But something about his eyes puts me on edge. The tension in their corners holds a kind of malice I’m all too familiar with. It’s an easy kind of mean to recognize when you have a history like mine.

His eyes scan us with open appreciation, and when they land on me, he licks his lips suggestively. I lift my chin ever so slightly but offer no other sign that it bothers me. I’ve learned over the years that the less defiance I demonstrate, the more likely they are to overlook me.

Today, I’m not so lucky.

“I’ll have her.” Stopping in front of me, he presses a finger to the glass, pointing at me like an animal at the zoo. He smirks as the other spotlights vanish, leaving me as his sole source of entertainment.

The other girls filter out of the viewing room as I open the door to my glass cage and step inside. Lit along every edge, the space is just wide and tall enough for me to reach each transparent wall if I tried. And though the cage always makes me feel a little claustrophobic, at least it’s made of glass—that makes it feel less confining.

The music starts, a slow, sensual number to get me warmed up as I work the silk robe over my shoulders like Kitty taught me to when I first started three years ago.

“You are perfect, aren’t you?” my viewer murmurs as I let the robe fall to the ground in a pool of soft fabric.

He never went and sat in one of the chairs provided—like customers normally do. Instead, his hands are pressed against the glass of my cage, fingers splayed as if he would like nothing more than to touch me. His proximity makes my confined space feel even smaller somehow, and my skin crawls at his unusual way of watching me.

Closing my eyes, I block him out so I can focus on the music.

“Why don’t you turn around and bend over for me, love? Shake that perfect ass for me,” he suggests lasciviously.

For private dances, the dancers are expected to obey customer requests—within reason. We don’t ever have to dance completely naked or perform sexual acts. Nothing as crude as that. But if a man requests a certain dance move, we’re supposed to oblige. So, as loath as I am to do it, I turn around and bend in half.

“Mmm. What I wouldn’t give to fill that tight ass,” he groans. “Come on, love. Give us a peek. Let me see that pretty little cunt of yours.”

Heat radiates up my chest and into my cheeks, and I whirl to glare at him, straightening to my full height as I stop dancing. “Maybe you misunderstood the rules, or perhaps they slipped your mind, but Mr. Kelly does not run a strip joint where you can pay for a little extra on the side,” I snap. “Show’s over, asshole. Hopefully, the next time you ask for a dance in this establishment, you’ll remember that.”

Stooping, I snatch up my robe and storm from my cage. I’m through the door of the viewing room before I can slow down enough to shrug my robe back on. And I fume the entire way back to the dressing room.

I can’t believe that prick’s related to Mr. Kelly. He couldn’t be more different from the lounge’s owner if he tried. And suddenly, I recall why I was so reluctant to take this job in the first place. I hope I never have to see the sick fuck again.

Thankfully, I rarely have to endure interactions with members of the Kelly syndicate. Sure, they come and watch the shows on occasion. Some even pay for dances, like Keoghan’s revolting cousin. But usually, I can get away with pretending I don’t work for the mafia for weeks at a time.

Still, I can’t deny the fact that, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never escape this world. Even hundreds of miles away from New York, Colorado, and all the men who tried to sell me off to one criminal franchise or another, I still wound up in their hands—different family, different game, same result.

At least I can thank Mr. Kelly’s strangely devout sense of Irish Catholic mercy for keeping me literally out of their hands. I’ve learned he has an unusual tendency to take in single mothers—something about the Virgin Mary and how no one should turn away a woman in need. That’s what the girls say, anyway.

The same cannot be said for any man who gets on Keoghan’s bad side. Those men find a very different kind of Kelly mercy—or so I’ve heard. So many rumors around the Irish mafia boss, and yet, for all the times I’ve seen him since I started working for Mr. Kelly, he might as well be a ghost. On the rare occasion that I do see him, it’s often from my place on stage while he’s holding a meeting at that same back-corner booth where I met him.

Still, I can’t help but wonder where on the spectrum of Keoghan’s odd moral compass his cousin might end up if Mr. Kelly got wind of what he said to me—and where I might end up if Keoghan learned what I said back.

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.

---