Page 1 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER ONE

ESPI

Two hundred dollars. Who would have thought you could put a price on one's soul? But, the four crumpled bills lying at the bottom of my med kit are proof enough of the bargain basement price of mine.

Was it worth it? Maybe not. So much for buying a plane ticket out of here any time soon—Hell, I’ll be lucky to afford my rent next month.

I just hope my landlord accepts blood money.

Literally. Red drops splatter across everything in my kit as I toss a pair of tweezers onto the top rack and slam the lid down.

“Here.” The punk beside me shoves another wad of cash into my hand, which I don’t bother counting. Tattoos streak his fingers, marking him as a gangbanger, though I’m not sure where from. That’s probably a good thing. “Man, thanks. You don’t even—”

“Don’t mention it,” I say over him, rising to my feet. “Seriously.” The way I cut my gaze in his direction makes him back up a step. “Don’t.”

I sidestep the only other person in the room—a man moaning on a cot set up at the back of a narrow apartment.

The place is a mess. Old takeout everywhere and lines of coke in plain view on the plastic card table that serves as one of the few pieces of furniture.

It’s a stash house, picked more for its obscure location by the docks than anything pretty.

“The stitches need to come out in ten days,” I tell the man beside me on my way to the door.

Whether he listens or not doesn’t really matter. My payment only extends so far. For some reason, I find myself pausing near the door anyway to fish my cell phone from my pocket. A message waits for me, floating on the screen. It’s from Arno.

Don’t forget. Moe’s tonight. Keep him guessing. I’ll pay double.

Great.

I swipe the text aside and rattle my number off to the punk watching me. “Give me a call,” I say. “The price is the same.”

“Thanks, man.”

That word haunts me as I leave the apartment building and step out onto the street.

Thanks. A small consolation considering that the guy on the cot has a gunshot wound the size of a nickel.

Chances are he didn’t get that injury from a harmless accident, and the remaining possibilities aren’t that innocent.

An ambush by a rival gang? The police? Maybe he was one of the punks featured on the news last week who held a family captive or robbed that liquor store. He probably got what was coming to him.

I didn’t ask.

I never do.

I never dwell, either. Instead, I smother the guilt with a lit cigarette and inhale so hard that my throat hitches and I wind up coughing.

Not many people crowd the streets this time of night, but those who do shoot me sideways glances.

It’s the med kit drawing their attention, mainly the blood glittering on the side of it.

I wipe off what I can on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and then toss the clothing into the trash, walking the rest of the way wearing only a shirt.

I stick to the alleys, weaving in and out of the puddles of light cast by street lamps.

This part of the city has a gritty atmosphere that is impossible to ignore.

You’re in hell without having to glance at a street sign to know it.

Half-naked women huddle on the corners, showcasing gaunt limbs for the cars that cruise by.

One of them, in particular, leans against a dumpster just beyond the next block I cross.

Her eyes meet mine for a split second, and then she sinks into the shadows, crooking her finger for me to follow. The moment I draw even with her, she blows out a breath tainted with vodka and only god knows what else.

“You’re late,” she says. Her words run together, exaggerating her Russian accent, as blue eyes accusingly meet mine. “They don’t like that, you know. It makes them nervous.”

“I got held up,” I say, lifting my med kit. “I’m here now. Tell me what’s up. But first things first.” I take a few bills from my pocket and press them against her palm.

Instantly, the tense line of her jaw relaxes a little. She almost looks her age—too damn young to be wearing the skimpy, black dress displaying a swath of pale skin. Ratty, brown hair brushes her shoulders but doesn’t offer much cover on its own.

After a wary glance behind her, she leans in.

“Piotr’s gone. You’ll meet with Vlad tonight.

He thinks you’re an easy mark, so he’ll try to win you over with dances, maybe a girl or two.

” She shrugs like it’s normal to equate people with currency.

“But there’s something else. I don’t know why, but the guards have been edgier than usual tonight.

Like they’re expecting something. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I notice anything strange.

Though I did see a truck circle this way a little bit ago.

The cops think we don’t notice when they drive normal cars. ”

“Huh.” I pocket the information for later. Antsy Russians are a bad sign. So are the police, but for the moment, they’re the least of my problems. “Hide this for me, will ya?” I hand over my med kit.

“Still playing doctor?” Her tone is more amused than judgmental as she accepts the plastic case and tucks it behind the dumpster. “One of these days, you’ll be the one who needs stitches.” Her smile fades. “Especially if you keep coming here.”

I muster a half smile of my own. “How else am I going to save up enough to get you out of here?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Right now, I need to get back before they come looking for me. There are four guards tonight, all armed,” she adds. “They shouldn’t bother you, but just in case.”

I accept the information with a nod. “I’ll keep my eye on the exit. Stay safe tonight. And, Domi?”

She pauses on her way to the street.

“You know I’m not joking about getting you out of this place, right?”

She shrugs. “You’re insane. Though, if you weren’t, I would have ratted you out a long time ago.”

She’s gone before I can laugh at the joke. Alone, however, it doesn’t sound so funny. In a world where someone can virtually own another, few things are.

I’m definitely not laughing as I return to the main street and head for my destination—a club named Moe’s.

It lurks in a brick building a few blocks up.

Two bouncers guard the door while scores of women walk the strip.

Domi’s one of them, lurking out of sight.

The money I gave her is enough to help her make her quota tonight.

Helping her tomorrow solely depends on if another gangbanger can get himself shot—and happens to be desperate enough to seek out someone like me to patch him up.

Funny. I used to consider myself an artist, finding refuge in colors and paint.

Now, my art extends to the medical jargon I read in a book, and a whole lot of trial and error.

Admittedly, that’s the most dignified of the ways I make my money. Another? It’s not so pretty. Some might call it downright shady.

Setting my sights on the wooden door leading into the club, I pick my way through the women posted on the street and approach one of the bouncers. He frowns as he looks me over and then jerks his chin to the door.

“He’s waiting for you,” he grunts, making the statement sound more like a warning. “Go on in.” He shoves the door open, and I step through it.

My soul may have a price tag, but at least I still have one. In a place like this, that’s a rare thing to find.

Cold eyes greet me as I enter the front of the club—a narrow office where another bouncer guards a second door.

I’m already dreading what waits beyond. Chaos, for one.

Piotr, the man who runs this branch of the syndicate, keeps his club brimming with drugs, sex, and booze.

Enough vice so the twisted fucks who come here forget that the girls prancing around in risqué costumes aren’t here by choice.

Domi’s lucky to be outside tonight. At least she can hide. That isn’t the case in here. Piotr’s trained thugs don’t miss so much as a trembling shot glass. Any girl who doesn’t play her part is given a shove and a pointed look. The smart ones don’t screw up twice.

“He’s waiting for you.”

I smother any reaction as a hulking bodyguard appears at my side, his voice deeper than the pulsing music. He inclines his head and starts toward the center of the club, where a balding man in a black suit is watching a parade of women strip naked on the stage that spans the length of the room.

“My friend!” The man rises to his feet as I approach and offers a meaty hand for me to shake.

The gesture is for show—a way for him to draw attention to his scarred knuckles should I forget the danger he represents. Not that I can. Even the dumbest gangbanger knows who Vladimir Olshenkov is. There is a reason his nickname is The Butcher.

“You’re late,” he says, narrowing his beady eyes over my face. “I hope I didn’t interrupt some other business. ”

I shrug off the subtle threat lurking in his tone and plaster on an expression that I hope passes for a smile. “Nothing important.”

Satisfied, Vlad lowers himself back onto a leather couch positioned near the stage and pats the space beside him. “Sit.”

I do, angling my face toward him—not that it helps much. In my peripheral vision, a girl takes off the thin strip of fabric serving as her top and my jaw clenches. “Arno’s sorry he couldn’t make it,” I say. Not that he ever planned to come anyway.

“Do this for me,” he begged. “Act like I want to make an offer—not that I ever would go into business with those fucks. I just need eyes on the inside.”

For what? He never told me.

I never asked.

“Arno,” Vlad says, nodding. “He is busy. I understand. You are busy yourself.” He nods to my hands as if they convey more than I realize.

Maybe they do. The left sports five fingers, like most people’s do.

The right…doesn’t. “It’s why I don’t mind that your boss sends you in his place,” Vlad adds, laughing deeply.

“He must depend on you a lot, what with your brother being gone.”

I swallow hard, keeping every muscle in my face as still as I can. I’ve met with him three times this month alone, but this is the first meeting that he’s brought up Dante.

“We manage,” I say tightly.

Vlad’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would hope you do. Here.” A girl slinks past, carrying a tray of shot glasses. He grabs two and offers one to me. Vodka, probably. “A toast. To new business.”

Not if I have any say in it. But there’s the rub—a truth that stings even as I contort my hand to slam my glass against Vlad’s. Arno does business with whoever he wants.

Like always, I’m just along for the fucking ride.