Page 62 of Twisted Prince

If Mel won’t come to me, I guess it’s time I go to her.

Rising from my chair, I follow the bartender into the coffee shop and get in line behind her. “Looks like you could use a drink,” I observe quietly, keeping my tone low and deep to avoid others eavesdropping.

“No kidding,” she groans. “You buying?” she jokes, turning to face me with a pained expression. Then her fingers wrap around the frame of her glasses, and she slides them down her nose to peer at me over them. “Well, if it isn’t Sascha’s brother. You ever find him?”

Flashing her a smile, I give a curt nod. “Of course. I always get my man.”

She snorts, then groans as she massages her temples. “Note to self, stop after the first bottle of tequila’s done.”

“What do you say I add an extra shot of espresso to that coffee I’m buying for you and we sit down and talk?” I offer.

Quirking an eyebrow, the bartender assesses me for a long moment, then shrugs. We step up to the counter, and she places her order—with the double shot. I flash my credit card, then we step to the far side of the counter to wait for her drink to be prepped.

“So, anything in particular you wanted to talk about? Or is this your new attempt at hitting on me?” she jokes.

“Actually, I was hoping you might get me a bit of information.”

“Again? I would have thought you’d learned your lesson after the first time around.” She accepts her to-go mug of coffee and raises it to thank the barista, then turns to go.

“Yeah, but that was before we became such good friends,” I tempt. “And I bought you coffee.”

“What kind of information are you looking for?” she asks.

“There’s a girl working at Pearl’s, an old friend of mine named Melody O’Mara. I was hoping you might give me her address.”

The bartender stops dead in her tracks, her eyes flashing behind her oversized sunglasses. “You’re joking, right?” she demands. Then it seems to click. “You’re the asshole who jumped Vinny the other night over her, aren’t you?”

Shit. “Look?—”

“No, you look. I don’t know who you think you are, but you’ve got a lot of nerve approaching me, asking for confidential information about the people who work for Mr. Kelly. I’m not about to put my job or my life on the line just because some pretty boy bought me a drink.”

Her tongue lashing brings to mind Pyotr’s old bodyguard, Efrem—someone I don’t often think about anymore. He used to call me pretty boy, too, and just like Efrem, this woman wields the nickname like an insult.

“I think it’s best if you just leave,” she snaps. “Thanks for the coffee, asshole.” The bartender storms across the street with such vitriol, I know better than to follow her.

Sighing, I comb my fingers through my hair and look back at my phone. From what I’ve gathered while communicating with Sascha, he doesn’t know Mel because he hasn’t actually been working as a bouncer at Pearl’s. Keoghan was putting him to better use than that, or so it sounds, so he’s rarely even at the club.

But if I’m going to find Mel before her shift starts tonight, I think he’s my best source of information. Sighing because I know I’m going to get an earful for asking, I bring up his contact information and hit dial.

“Da,” he answers on the second ring.

“I need Mel’s address. Do you have it?”

“Gleb, what you need is to let this go,” he insists. “You’re risking enough dragging my ass back to New York. But taking one of the Kellys’ dancers? When she clearly doesn’t want to go? That’s a good way to end up dead.”

“Sascha, I’m not asking for your opinion. And I’m not going to kidnap her, for fuck’s sake. Just give me an address.” I pace slowly down Beacon Street, trying to keep my impatience in check. It’s been like running into a brick wall at every turn with Mel.

“Well, it’s not like I keep all the girls’ addresses on file in my brain,” he snarks. “But I know some of them board at a house called Madam Kieri’s—at least that’s what they call it.” He lists off the address and follows it up with another warning. “I can’t guarantee she’s even there, but seriously, Gleb, one girl can’t be worth all this trouble.”

“You clearly don’t know Mel,” I state flatly, hanging up before he can respond.

The address was just a few blocks over—in the direction she was walking home that first night. I head that way, keeping my hands crammed in my jacket pockets and my head down to avoid notice.

It’s a redbrick house, fairly indistinguishable from the ones that surround it, and I traipse up the steps to knock on the hunter-green front door. A short, curvy woman with dark hair that’s graying at the temples opens the door. Dressed in comfortable, flowing clothes, she could almost pass for a madam, like the name Sascha gave me for the house. I wonder if that makes this the woman who runs the boarding facility.

“Madam Kieri?” I ask, considering a beat too late that she might not appreciate the name. I have no clue what kind of boarding house this truly is.

Her eyebrow quirks in an expression that would suggest she’s none too fond of the title. “Who’s asking?”

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