Page 69 of Cruel Kiss

"Payroll," he says bluntly. "My men haven't been paid full in three weeks. I've been covering the difference out of my own pocket. I can do that a little longer. Not much."

"I know," I say. "I'm aware of every dollar that's short, and I'm aware of who's covering it. I won't forget it, Grigor."

"That's good to hear. But my men don't eat words, Ronan. They eat food."

"They'll be paid."

"When?"

"Soon."

Grigor nods slowly and looks down at his tea. But he's not satisfied, not one bit.

Anatoly leans forward hungrily. "Can I ask a question?" he says. "The guns." He glances around the table. "They stopped moving a month ago. All of a sudden. No warning. And now, we're short. So the two things are connected, yes?"

"Yes."

My honesty surprises him. He blinks. He was ready for a lie, so not getting one throws him for a second. Then he recovers.

"Why?" he says. "Why turn off the thing that pays for all of this?"

"Because it was drawing heat we couldn't wash off fast enough. Staying loud was going to put every man at this table in a cell." I eye him carefully. "I made a decision. It's my decision to make. That's what the chair is for."

"It's your call, of course," Anatoly agrees. "Sure. But the men who go hungry don't get a vote in it. That's all I'm saying."

"You're saying a lot for someone who was in diapers when I took this over."

That gets a couple of low chuckles. Anatoly's ears go red, but he stands his ground. He's not a coward. He's just young enough to think being right will keep him safe.

Sergei clears his throat. He's a docks man. Heavyset, quiet, not one who talks much.

"There's a story going around," he says.

"Always is."

"This one's got legs." He folds his thick hands in front of him. "The story is, thepakhan'sgot a secret little place in Brooklyn. And he's putting money into it. Real money. Steady money. Every month, no matter what."

I keep my face flat. I've had a lot of practice.

"And?" I say.

"From what I hear, it's an orphanage." Sergei looks up at me. "The story is, our pakhan is feeding street urchins with our money while our men go home to families that ain't getting paid. That's what Lev's telling anybody who'll buy him a drink—and lately, a lot of men are buying."

There it is.

I knew Lev had the money-man. I didn't know he had the inside scoop on The Anna House. That's a knife in the back I didn't see coming, and it's a good one, because it's true. Every word of it is true. I do put money into that building. I do it every month. And to a man who hasn't been paid in three weeks, there's no version of that story that sounds like anything but a betrayal.

"Is it true?" Anatoly asks. Quiet, now. Not smug anymore. Just wanting to know.

I could lie. It'd be easy. I could say Lev's a liar, which he is. But I looked at Isabella this morning and told her the truth when it would've been easier not to, and I can't stand up in front of these men and do less than I did in front of a six-year-old.

"It's true," I say.

The murmur I didn't get when I walked in, I get now. It moves around the table like wind through grass.

"So while my men—" Sergei starts.

"It's clean money," I say, over him. "It's not out of your pocket, Sergei. It's not out of anyone's pocket at this table. It comes off the top, from money that's already been washed, and it goes intoa building full of children who didn't do anything to end up there except get born to the wrong people." I look around the table, one man at a time. "It's the one clean thing this whole operation does. I won't apologize for it. Not to you. Not to Lev. Not to anyone."