Page 83 of Twisted Princess

“How so?” I won’t say that I trust my brother, but with him as a guide, it’s easier to let my senses track my surroundings without suspicion of being blindsided.

Harper casts a cold look in my direction. “I’m not doing you a favor here. The Kellys… they’re unpredictable. You should have learned your lesson the first time Mel sent you packing. Keoghan’s as likely to kill you as he is to hear you out.”

I shrug. “Maybe. But it’s worth the gamble.”

Harper shakes his head. Then he knocks on the mirrored wall and waits for the signal granting him entry. The doors swing wide, allowing me into a spacious office with colorful neon lighting. Despite the odd ambiance, it doesn’t mask the color of the wet carpet at my feet.

My stomach knots as I recognize the distinct remnants of blood staining it dark.

It’s fresh.

And I pray that it has nothing to do with Mel.

Because if she’s already dead, this is about to turn into a bloodbath. Regardless of the hell it might bring down on Pyotr’s head.

“Yes?”

The gruff question makes my eyes snap up. And I focus in the direction of the heavy desk that stands at the far side of the room.

An impressive figure sits behind it. A shock of close-cropped blond curls covers the muscular man’s head, though his face is clean-shaven. Colorful tattoos peek out from beneath his rolled sleeves and climb up his neck until they practically reach his jaw. His aura radiates wrath, danger. Every inch of him screams brute strength.

His steely blue eyes are cautious, speculative as they assess me with cold indifference, and he props his elbows on the desk, resting one hand around his other fist as he watches me closely.

Something in the way he assesses me tells me he knows who I am without saying. And the way my hair at the base of my neck stands on end, my follicles prickling, sends me a warning signal unlike any I’ve felt before.

This is the man who makes deals with the devil himself. He owns the most lethal mercenary force on the Eastern Seaboard. And he takes on that contract without a hint of fear of the consequences.

That either means he wields some level of godlike power—or he’s completely insane. Knowing his cousin Vinny, my bet’s on the latter. And suddenly, I fully comprehend what Harper was trying to tell me.

This might just be when and where I die.

Maybe I’m getting sentimental, but it touches me that my brother would even attempt to warn me. With morbid amusement, I glance back down at the blood-stained carpet. It already needs cleaning. What’s the harm in adding me to the body count for the day? Right?

“Mr. Kelly, Gleb here says something of his was stolen,” Harper states flatly.

Then he gives a subtle bow and pulls the doors closed behind me, leaving me alone in the Irish boss’s presence.

“So, you thought you’d just waltz into my club, call me a thief, and see how well it went for you?” Keoghan asks, his blond brow quirking humorlessly. His deep voice holds a level of authority that makes my bones vibrate, and my teeth ache—like it might go against my very nature to question him.

“It’s not you who stole from me,” I say carefully. Because every word counts right now, and I sense my life could be hanging in the balance if I don’t handle this correctly. “One of your cousins took my wife. And now he’s trying to marry her even though our wedding was witnessed by God.”

I let those words sink in because I know how religiously the Kellys follow their faith. They’re true Irish Catholics—baptization, confirmation, confession, communion, Lent, the whole nine yards. And for once, my strongest ally might actually be God.

Keoghan’s god, that is.

The Irishman’s chin tips upward suspiciously. “Who’s your wife? And why should I care that you couldn’t manage to keep her in your bed?”

“She didn’t go willingly,” I say coldly, my temper increasing my temperature until I feel the pressure building to a combustive level. “Her name’s Melody O’Mara. She used to work for you.”

Keoghan’s attitude shifts visibly, and I know he recognizes Mel by her name. It gives me a fraction of hope that he’s at least aware of the situation. Hopefully, he hasn’t already condoned it.

“Alright, Gleb,” he says, emphasizing my name. “I’ll bite. Why would a married woman be willing to wed my cousin? Because I spoke with Mel myself just this morning, and she seemed agreeable enough to the proposal.”

My stomach knots painfully, my chest throbbing with a sudden emptiness, and I grit my teeth as I struggle to keep my emotions under lock and key. “Vinny’s been sending hitmen to New York for weeks. Threatening my life. Her life. The life of her daughter.”

I let that last bit sink in, and the flash of irritation that flits across Keoghan’s face speaks volumes.

“I don’t see that Mel had much choice,” I finish flatly, my fists balling in my effort to stop their shaking.

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