by Shandi Boyes
When Brandon’s eyes lift to gauge my response to his inaccurate statement, I stray my eyes away, acting disinterested. “Isaac didn’t fight for my father.” I shrug before giving him a tidbit of information on my family’s inner workings, hopeful it will see him offering leniency when I cash in a future favor. “Col wanted him to, but Isaac wasn’t budging. We put steps in place to make it happen.”
“We?” His one word is choked through a clump of tomato goop lodged halfway down his throat.
Just like earlier, I could sit back and watch the carnage unfold. Unfortunately, I’ve got enough issues keeping the Feds off my ass while waiting for the bodies at Roxanne’s family ranch to be identified. I don’t want another corpse added to the mix.
After pouring Brandon a glass of water, I hand it to him. He chugs down half of it before he almost chokes for the second time from me explaining, “We, as in Ophelia and me.”
His fork hits the edge of his bowl with a clatter. “Your sister helped you? How exactly?”
Needing to hide my smirk, I dab at my lips with a stained napkin before placing the bowl I used earlier into the sink. “Our father wanted Ophelia to coerce Isaac into fighting for him—”
“So she dated him to deceive him?”
I arch my brow, wordlessly warning him he better not interrupt me again.
Confident he’s got the gist of my annoyance, I say, “No. Ophelia was never with him for that. She truly loved him.” I pause for a beat, shocked by my confession. That’s the first time I’ve admitted Ophelia loved Isaac. Up until now, I always pretended it was puppy love. “Ophelia wanted a way out—”
“Of?”
My nostrils flare as my glare picks up. I fucking warned him only seconds ago what would happen if he interrupted me again and look what he goes and does. He interrupts me—again!
“Sorry.” He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt before gesturing for me to continue.
I give him a few seconds to authenticate the level of my threat before continuing with my purge. “She wanted out of the family. If you think my father was cruel to his sons, you should have seen how he treated his daughters. Monster is too kind of a word.” The room cools drastically fast. “We knew how desperate Col was to have Isaac fight under him. We were also aware of how good of a fighter Isaac was, so we plotted for them to meet, knowing Col would use Ophelia as a bargaining chip.” I work my jaw side to side, struggling to hide the tick my confession caused. “We had no clue CJ was fighting for our father that night until it was too late. They fought. CJ lost, and Ophelia went into a blackened rage.” Eager to display our conversation won’t last long, I snatch up Brandon’s scarcely eaten meal and throw it into the sink. “That was the night of their accident.”
Although he’s disappointed his meal is ruined, Brandon’s inquisitiveness is too high to discount. “Ophelia and CJ’s?”
I jerk up my chin. “CJ spent weeks in the hospital before he vanished.” You have no idea how hard it was for me not to add, ‘to the bush’ to the end of my comment. The only reason I didn’t was my recollection that Brandon isn’t my friend. Only a handful of people know CJ’s location. My father and the Feds aren’t on that list. “Ophelia was buried with only one member of her family in attendance, and I never told a soul about the ruse we attempted to pull. I’ll take it to the grave.” As will you if this ever leaves this room.
I have no reason to voice my threat. The shudder rolling up Brandon’s back reveals he’ll take it to his grave along with me.
Curious, I ask, “What does this have to do with anything? I get you’re after Isaac, but the fight circuit you’re talking about has been running for decades. The Feds are well aware of its existence. They’re not disbanding it for a reason. For intel…” My words trail off when Brandon echoes my confession. “So why are you bringing up old ghosts?”
It dawns on me that my purge worked in my favor when nothing but honesty rings in Brandon’s tone when he says, “I’m seeking connections between Col, Isaac, Henry, and Kirill Bobrov.”
The first three names I’ve heard a hundred times before. The latter is fairly new in my inquiries. It has only come up a handful of times the past year or two.
Although curiosity is burning me alive, I play it cool, conscious the best secrets aren’t immediately unveiled. “Vladimir will be disappointed he didn’t make the cut.”
“He’s still there.” Brandon’s short response exposes he’s endeavoring to keep more than a handful of secrets hidden. “Have you heard of Kirill before?”
I hesitate, untrusting of anyone. “It’s been a while…” What? I’m not so stupid to link myself with a current investigation, much less one as perverse as baby trafficking. “… but his name rings a bell. What’s his kink?”
Brandon shrugs. “Your guess would be as good as mine. We have an inkling perhaps he’s in the sex trafficking trade, but we’re only sitting on that theory because of one reason.”
Since he’s being honest, I do the same. “Katie Bryne?” When he lifts his chin without hesitation, I let him see a small selection of the cards I’m holding. “I knew I had heard the name before.”
I can’t hold back my smile when I gesture for Brandon to join me in an office at the back of the kitchen. He’s carrying a weapon, yet he’s still afraid of what I might do to him in a room without a camera. He isn’t any safer in the kitchen. The cameras planted throughout the restaurant are solely for looks. If it’s electronic, Smith has proven it can be hacked, so there’s no fucking chance we’d encourage for the hub of our entity to be placed under unwanted scrutiny.
With that in mind, I come to a dead stop just inside my office. Air whizzes out of Brandon’s nose when I halt his entrance by splaying my hand across his chest. He can see the demand in my eyes without a word needing to seep from my lips. It makes me wish he wasn’t so anal about following procedures. If he was a little more like his former trainer, we could have an interesting collaboration.
I wolf-whistle when he raises his shirt to show me he isn’t wired. I don’t give a fuck if he thinks I’m a freak. I just want him on the back foot, so he doesn’t reach for his gun when I run the edge of my knife down the front of his pricy outfit. I’ve been caught out by this preppy boy’s love of camera buttons once before. It won’t happen again.
“Learned my lesson the hard way,” I mutter while dumping the buttons from his business shirt and coat into a half-empty glass of whiskey on my desk. Confident they’re broadcasting nothing but the grumbles of my stomach from downing one too many whiskeys last night, I take a seat behind my desk before motioning for Brandon to sit. “If word of this gets out to anyone outside of these walls, my guests will dine on freshly minced veal this evening.”
After a quick swallow, Brandon nods, wordlessly sealing our deal. I won’t lie. My heart beats a million miles an hour when I place the eight-digit code into the safe bolted to the floor under my desk. I hate giving the Feds anything to work with, but since hardly anyone knows of Fien’s existence, I don’t see them having any luck working out the combination. It’s Fien’s birthday followed by her name, an easy combination for me to remember but almost impossible for anyone who doesn’t know me to crack. Not even my father has worked it out.
I yank out the multiple cross-references to Fien’s case from the leather-bound document before placing it onto my desk. Although Katie’s sale has nothing to do with my daughter’s captivity, I earmarked her page. Rumors were rife years ago about a rogue Russian sanction kidnapping a local girl, so when her name showed up on a Petretti ledger years after her abduction, I took notice.
I always take notice when Russians are involved.
After pushing across a handful of catering receipts, I set the handwritten ledger down in front of Brandon. “Katie Bryne…” I drag my index finger under her name in the ledger, “… was sold to K Bobrov for three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.” From what I’ve discovered the past couple of weeks before Dr. Bates bid on Roxanne, Katie’
s sale was a record-breaking amount. Kirill wanted her no matter what, and he was willing to pay for the privilege.
Brandon raises his confused eyes to mine. “The date shows her sale was a little under five years ago. Katie was abducted nine years ago.”
While grumbling about his inability to do the legwork himself, I slap the ledger shut, then store it back into my safe. Once it’s locked away, I take a moment to deliberate whether I should give him the long answer or the short answer.
Not even five seconds into my pondering, Brandon tries to cut it short. “Tobias’s arrangement is still in effect, Dimitri. You’re immune from prosecution. Within reason, of course.”
Air hisses out of my nose as I balance my elbows on my desk. “It’s the men picking the reason that I’m wary of.” That was my pleasant way of saying I don’t trust him. He doesn’t want to hear my unkind response. “Hypothetically speaking…” I wait for conformation to register in his eyes before continuing, “… each sanction runs their operations differently. Some prefer underage girls. Others prefer more mature ones. Then there are ones who aren’t specifically looking for a whore. They want a wife, someone to raise children with, but they don’t have the time to seek her in a crowd of millions, so they look to someone who can give them what they’re seeking without additional training.”
Brandon’s blond brow pops up high on his face. “Training?”
Over the game, and too fucking tired to care about the ripple on effect my father’s shady dealings could cause our family name, I answer, “On being the ideal wife. They’re taught how to cook, clean, raise children, and anything else their procurer wants of them. Some take months to learn their role. Others take years.” I lower my eyes to the floor to hide the gleam they forever get when Roxanne’s feistiness pops into my head. “Some never learn.”
My eyes return front and center when Brandon stands to his feet. His eagerness isn’t shocking, but what he says next most certainly is. “IRS is planning to raid this restaurant on the eighteenth. I suggest you do some in-house cleaning before then.”
Not speaking another word, he makes a beeline for the door, scarcely missing Clover’s entrance. It’s barely noon, but he’s gloved up and ready to kill, unaware the only slaughtering he will do this afternoon is to Roxanne’s ego.
Fourteen
Roxanne
I roll onto my opposite hip, saving my stomach the torture of my eyes drinking in the overloaded burger and fries taking up a majority of the nightstand. My ruse is stupid, and I’m doing more harm to myself than anyone, but for the life of me, I can’t give in. I’m being held against my will and persecuted for crimes I didn’t commit. A hunger-strike is the low end of the scale for how I could protest to Dimitri’s unfair ruling.
I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate other methods, but for now, I’ll continue with this one. It’s the safest of the three I thought up, and the least likely to shed blood. Even with my head delusional with hunger, I’m reasonably sure my other two ploys would kill more than my anger. Dimitri doesn’t handle his jealousy well. It makes him as unhinged as his distrust makes me.
My brows draw together when a frantic buzz overtakes the grumbles of my hungry stomach a few seconds later. It isn’t the drone of an electronic lock opening, nor the static that comes out of the speakers a second before Smith’s voice. It’s foreign yet familiar like it entered my room along with the eleventh meal I’ve refused to eat.
Too curious for my own good, I roll onto my back, prop myself onto my elbows, then stray my eyes in the direction the buzz came from. Although the black device nestled on the serving dish a scrumptious-smelling burger is resting on doesn’t appear to be a cell phone, it rings as if it is one. It vibrates and bounces across the antique wood serving tray, its shriek growing louder the longer I stare at it.
A normal captive would gobble up the first sign of life outside of these walls as if it’s the key to their captivity. As I’ve said before, I’m nothing close to ordinary. Just like each meal has become more and more enticing the longer I refuse to eat them, this is another trick in Dimitri’s vault-load of arsenal. I’m certain of it.
When the device halts ringing a few seconds later, I lock my eyes with the camera in the corner of my room, glare at it as if the only meal I’ll ever agree to eat is Dimitri’s balls when I rip them off with my bare teeth, then I roll back onto my side.
I’ve barely sucked in two body-cooling breaths when the annoying buzz starts up all over again. It rings and rings and rings until my temper gets the better of me.
Imagine a robot malfunctioning after you take to it with a baseball bat. That’s the noise the little black device makes when I send it hurtling across the room. It smacks into the door that only unlocks when I’m using the bathroom before it crumbles to the floor.
Feeling somewhat victorious—and a whole heap hungry—I squash my back to the bedpost that has handcuff marks notched into the wood before curling my arms around my knees. This position makes the gnawing pangs of my stomach less noticeable. We won’t mention my jealousy, though, or you’ll book me in for a psych workup.
I quit contemplating sneaking into the bathroom to guzzle down stomach-filling gulps of tap water when a third buzz for the morning trickles into my ears. My eyes shoot to the remnants of the device splayed across the floor, shocked as hell it still works. It’s a mangled wreck—almost as twisted as my emotions when I discover the noise isn’t coming from the homemade device, it’s being projected through the speakers planted throughout the room.
If that isn’t shocking enough, the sweet voice that drowns out the annoying hum is downright controversial. “Roxie? Are you there?” Estelle breathes noisily out of her nose, a sign she’s pissed. “If you ignore my call one more time, I’m going to scream! What’s the go with you lately? Are you too good for your friends now?”
I almost reply with a resounding ‘no’ but lose the chance when a thick Arabian accent sounds down the line. “Less talk. More looking. I haven’t got all day.”
I hear Estelle shoo away Clover’s snappy tone as if he doesn’t kill thousands of people a year. “Don’t push your luck, mister. After the way she left me high and dry the past few days, she should be grateful I took her call. I’m pissed, and it’s that time of the month, so you better watch yourself.”
“Estelle—”
“Oh, so you do remember my name. How kind of you.” Her tone is bitchy, but I know deep down inside she’s more upset than angry. “Now tell me what I’m searching for so I can get on with my day.” When I balk, shocked she thinks I need something from her, she reads my mind like she always does. “Mr. Cranky Pants said he was ordered here to collect a package, and that he isn’t leaving until he gets it. Considering he handed me your boss’s business card, I’m assuming the mysterious package has something to do with you.”
The frantic scream of my pulse drowns out her last four words. I’m panicked out of my mind, suddenly clued on as to why Dimitri would send Clover to my apartment instead of Rocco.
This isn’t an endeavor to have me seeing sense through the madness.
This is a shakedown.
“Don’t do this,” I beg, staring straight at the camera. I can’t see Dimitri, but I know he’s watching me. I can feel it in my bones. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“Nothing to do with what?”
I pretend not to hear the panicked gasps following Estelle’s question. “I’ve done as you asked. I followed your rules.”
When the camera swivels to my right, I follow the direction of its gaze. Although I could pretend it’s staring at anything, I know its focus is on the only bit of power I have left. Dimitri is eyeing the overloaded burger as efficiently as my hungry eyes did when Rocco delivered it, his gaze as demanding as ever even with it being projected through electronic waves.
I scarcely shake my head for half a second when the panic in Estelle’s voice steals my attention. “Excuse me, I asked you to wait in the foyer.”
/> Through my raging pulse, I hear the shuffles she takes away from an unusually quiet Clover. The slosh in the bottom of my stomach threatens to spill when the terrifying noise of Estelle’s knee smudging the rim of our bathtub sounds down the line. She’s backed into a corner. She has nowhere to run. Her very existence hinges on me coercing Dimitri off the ledge.
“Please, Dimitri,” I beg again, my eyes watering. “She’s all I have. I won’t cope without her.”
“Roxie…” Estelle sounds on the verge of tears. She’s as rattled as me. “What’s going on? I thought you were working for some old geezer who can’t wipe his ass.”
I want to laugh at her ability always to find humor in any situation, but I’m too petrified Dimitri will use it against me to set it free. “I am. I’m just—”
“Not following the terms she agreed upon.” I hate how my body responds to hearing Dimitri’s voice for the first time in days. It prickles with excitement instead of repelling in disgust. “And since she’s too stubborn for her own good, I had to get inventive.”
“So, you sent a member of your staff to collect her belongings?” Estelle’s low tone reveals she’s lost as to what’s happening, but she’s also curious. Even being a love-sick idiot wouldn’t stop her from hearing the innuendo in Dimitri’s tone. It’s brimming with possessiveness and a nasty side dish of arrogance. “If you want Roxie to fall into line, you should have threatened her family…” Her voice trails off when the penny finally drops. “Oh, shit.”
A second later, glass smashing against tiles sounds down the line. It launches me to my feet as quickly as Estelle’s breaths batter the speakers. She’s endeavoring to run even with her having no place to hide.
“Please!” I scream, panicked out of my mind. “I’ll do anything you want.”
Dimitri’s demand is stern and to the point. “Eat!”
Tears roll down my cheeks unchecked when I nod my head. The seeded bun of the burger soaks them up when I shakily lift it to my mouth and take the biggest bite I can. I don’t chew. I just bite and swallow, bite and swallow until the greasy meat sits in the bottom of my stomach along with my heart.