Page 208 of Indulge
“Well, tell me.”
“It’s easier for you to see than me to tell. I’ll send you an encrypted file. It’ll show you all the girls in that second club you mentioned. And the men running it. They’re from Abram’s old crew.”
Abram’s name lands like a stone. I feel the air go thin.
I pause, shaking my head. “Abram’s dead? We fuckin’ did that years ago.”
That was before I started working for Vlad. Before Charlotte, before any of this.
“Yeah, well, he had sons. And they’ve been enlisted in the US.”
My jaw ticks.
“So The Preacher is Russian?” I ask.
He tuts.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. There are links. Most dead ends. But, we’ve got some names to work with. I’ll get on the ground here in Moscow. You’ll have to work on the US side. But I need you to promise me you’ll keep Lily close.”
“What does this have to do with Lily? Is she at risk from Abram’s family?”
I don’t see how. I carefully keep her out of hands that bite. Lev is a ghost now, shadowed and silent, and technically, so is she. Lily’s mom fled after the incident, probably out of guilt. And it left Lily all by herself. It fucking hurt me to watch that from the sidelines. How she put herself back together, with the help of Hallie. But even then, she kept everything close to her chest. Like the true mafia princess she is.
And I do my duty. I stand in the shadows, making sure she doesn’t crumble. Because she’s not just part of my job. She’s my best friend’s only daughter.
“It’s deeper than that, Drago. Just please, trust me for now.”
This man taught me everything. He’s my oldest, meanest friend. I answer the only way I know how.
“Sure.”
“Email is coming through now. It will give you names to go after; I think hunt the Russians, it’ll get you closer to the top.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
Even as Lev talks, I can’t stop a small ache: why won’t he tell Lily he’s watching her? They haven’t spoken in years. Even before that night. Since her mom moved her here.
I’ve worked for a lot of families, but mine and Lev’s network is still top of the list. Priority. Always.
I pull up the message and open the first attachment. Pages and pages roll out—names, faces, a catalogue of girls who look like they’ve already been hollowed. It’s the kind of dossier that makes the stomach flip.
I keep scrolling. Hundreds of pages. Each snapshot a small, dead eye. They make me sick.
Then I stop.
A pair of wild eyes stares back at me—and my chest drops.
It can’t be… can it?
I bring up the Inferno roster and search Lyla’s name, then compare the two images side by side.
Bingo.
Fuck.
The twins.
I dial Reggie. No answer. Rowan—same. So I call Declan.
