Page 7 of Twisted Prince

The door is open, the bolt is demolished, and several bullets scar the thick wood. Igor slumps lifelessly on the floor, his eyes staring blankly toward the intruder’s point of entry. The house is still—too still—and it makes my stomach knot.

Though I know Mel was upstairs last, I take a moment to sweep the ground floor, ensuring no one is lying in wait to sneak up on me from behind. But the house is empty. Each of the two first-floor bedrooms is in shambles, which tells me they didn’t just come for Mel.

It had to have been multiple men to take out all the girls’ guards.

Focusing on my breathing, I keep my heart rate down as I tread softly through the house. Old houses like this tend to make noises when you least expect them to, but I don’t make a sound.

Neither does anyone else. And that, more than anything, tells me I’m too late. They’re already gone. But I have to confirm it. I check each of the bedrooms, coming to Mel’s last, and as I press open the folding closet door, I find her phone lying useless on the ground.

It looks like she put up quite a fight.

The lamp from her dresser is broken on the floor, a good amount of blood lining one jagged edge, and signs of a struggle mark her carpet and the corner of the bed. Even her doorway.

There’s no doubt in my mind who took her.

Not when Mikhail chose to raid Imperia on the same day. Pyotr needs to know.

This time, the bastard’s actions can’t go unanswered.

Holstering my weapon, I head straight for the Veles house.

It takes a bit longer to get to Brooklyn Heights from Harlem. And by the time I make it to the front steps of their brownstone family home, I’m so worked up, I can’t barely think straight.

I slap Osip’s gun out of my face as soon as I throw the front door open, storming back toward Pyotr’s office in an unbridled rage. With everyone on high alert, I know it’s stupid to be making an entrance like this one. But all I can think about are Mel’s words echoing in my head.

Please stop, you’re hurting me!

I want to kill whoever dared lay a hand on her. I want to rip him limb from limb.

I’m so furious that as I kick open the door to Pyotr’s office, I don’t even hesitate at the sight of my pakhan’s two massive, muscle-bound bodyguards who fill the doorway. Val bristles, his expression holding a fierce warning. Efrem looks ready to shoot me, his hand resting on the gun at his hip. And a spike of irritation lances through me.

I have suspected someone’s been passing information to the Zhivoder for some time now. I can almost guarantee it. And on more than one occasion, I’ve had my suspicions that it might be Pyotr’s blond-haired, keen-eyed bodyguard. I get the distinct feeling he doesn’t like me, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s because he has something to hide.

But the one time I broached the subject with Pyotr, he shot me down immediately. He has complete trust in both his bodyguards. They have proven their loyalty countless times. And though I haven’t brought it up since, I still have my suspicions. Efrem watches me in a way that makes me question him. My gut instinct tells me he and Pyotr are too close for my pakhan to keep an objective mind.

And today, right now, when Mel’s life is on the line, I’m in no mood for Efrem’s stall tactics. He might be big, strong, and fast, but I’m confident I could beat him if I really wanted him dead—no half-measures with the behemoth of a man. I doubt I could simply subdue him, but I could put him down if I needed to.

“Get out of my way,” I growl, my voice low and flat with warning.

That only seems to solidify his determination to bar my entry.

“Let him pass,” Pyotr states evenly from his seat at his desk.

Grudgingly, Val and Efrem share a look before stepping aside. I stalk into the room, my eyes intent on Pyotr.

“What is it?” he asks, his sharp gaze calculating as he assesses me.

Vibrating with tension, I fist my hands to try and regain control of my emotions. It usually comes effortlessly. But not now. I want to shout that they took Mel. But if I start there, I know I’m going to lose it. So, instead, I begin with what my pakhan most needs to hear. “He broke the ceasefire—Mikhail. Zhivoder men just raided Imperia.”

“Blyat.” Pyotr’s cuss is low, his gaze instantly furious. “How bad is it?” he asks, rising from his chair, his sharp gray eyes never leaving mine.

“The men are dead, the product gone. This time, he didn’t bother leaving a note.”

“But you’re sure it was him?”

I nod, thinking of the men he so willingly left behind to serve as a trademark of his handiwork. I can’t wait any longer. I need Pyotr to know just how far Mikhail has gone. “That’s not all.”

“He hit more than one club?” my pakhan asks, his brow furrowing.

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