Page 45 of Twisted Princess

GLEB

If anyone pulled us over, Lev and I would be screwed, because there’s no good excuse for carrying an oversized corpse in the back of an Escalade. Even if he’s wrapped in a waterproof tarp to avoid making a mess of Pyotr’s trunk.

Good thing Lev’s an excellent driver.

And when we pull into a back alley just a few blocks from Pearl’s, the tinted windows keep our secret safe until we find Vincent Kelly.

“I’ll ask around at the club,” Lev says. “See if I can’t dig up any information on where he is.”

I nod, glancing back toward the trunk. It’s a good plan, considering the Kelly men all know what I look like.

“I’ll stay close. Call me if you need backup.” I don’t like sending Lev in my place, but I don’t really have much of a choice this time. If they’ve put a bounty on my head, nowhere in Boston is safe for me.

Lev is out of the driver’s seat and around the corner in a matter of seconds, and I pull out my phone, ready to jump into action if he needs me.

As the minutes tick by, my thoughts wander back to Mel. I know Denka will keep her safe. He’ll hide her and Gabby well. But that doesn’t make me worry any less. And I can’t get that look of betrayal out of my head—the one Mel flashed me before going into the guest room to check on Gabby. She’s not happy with me.

I just hope she’s smart enough to prioritize their safety over running away from me this time.

Sighing, I slap my phone against my thigh.

I can’t fucking stand sitting around, waiting.

Pulling my dark hood up over my head, I slip on a pair of sunglasses and ease out of the passenger-side door. And I stalk to the entrance of the alleyway. Phone in hand in case Lev calls me, I shove it into the oversized pocket of my hoodie and slouch, blending in with the people who mill about on the sidewalk along Beacon Street.

And I watch.

The coffee shop where I met up with Sascha not so long ago is bustling with activity, making me wonder how he must be doing in Mikhail’s operation. I haven’t heard from him since the night of his initiation, and it makes my skin itch to think about it too hard.

But he’s a good fighter.

And he knows how to take care of himself.

The hair raises on the back of my neck as a familiar head of strawberry-blond curls exits a building nearly two blocks away—across a corner of the Boston Common. Cold blue eyes flash my way, but they look right through me.

Vincent Kelly tugs on the lapels of his finely tailored suit, and he glances up and down the sidewalk before picking a direction and walking away from me.

Blyat.

The luck of spotting him randomly on the street is beyond comprehension. But Lev’s inside Pearl’s, potentially going toe-to-toe with one of my brothers, and I can’t just walk away.

Adopting a casual stroll, I keep Vinny in my peripheral vision as I walk perpendicular to his direction. That way, I can get a better vantage point and have an idea of where he’s going. To my relief, it’s not far. Pulling open the front door of an Irish pub called Fitzpatrick’s.

It’s a bit early to get started on drinking in my mind—not quite two in the afternoon. But at least that will keep him occupied.

Snatching my phone from my pocket, I send Lev a quick text. Out front. Now.

Then I glance sidelong at Pearl’s to watch for him.

Lev’s out the door in less than a minute, and he falls seamlessly into the flow of the pedestrian traffic that will carry him right past me. As he does, I join him, keeping my eyes forward.

“You spot him?”

“He’s in Fitzpatrick’s. It’s too public for a confrontation, but it’s more effective to tail him than to track him back down.”

Lev gives a single nod and keeps walking.

When we get to the pub, he bounds casually up the three steps to its entrance while I keep walking. He’s inside by the time I double back to the alley behind the bar. And there I wait in the shadows, watching to see if anyone comes out the back door.

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