“That’s the truth!” the American one agrees, as they leave the bathroom.
That went over perfectly; they didn’t even notice me until they’d already spoken. I wish they’d have given up some more information. On the plus side, I have another name to check out later.
Shedding my own jacket, I roll up my sleeves, exposing my tattooed forearms and tuck my phone in my back pocket rather than my jacket. If anyone attempts to swipe it, I’ll easily feel it with the fitted dress slacks, and it’s convenient enough if I need it, I have it.
I toss my suit jacket over my shoulder and head back into the dimly-lit hallway. It’s massive like the rest of the place and leads directly to the elevator and the two guys that were just in the bathroom. The floors are an expensive, shiny marble; the scones on the walls, no doubt costing a mint as well. The place reeks of wealth.
“You ready to spend some money?” The Brit named Maximillian, according to his friend, asks, and I nod.
I’m not really, but I’m guessing we’re gambling. I’m not great, but I should be able to get by without draining my entire bank account. I know just enough to not come off as card counting or suspicious.
“Is it time?” I ask, playing along.
“Yep, let’s head to the main event.” The other guy replies as the elevator opens up and we all climb inside. “Tyson Blackwell.” He holds his hand out to me.
“Good to meet you.” I shake and turn away from him to the closed doors, not offering my name in return.
They don’t need to know who I am, whoever that may be. I wish I’d been clued in. One thing in all of my undercover training I’ve learned not to do is volunteer any information. A man can own you if he has your name. With enough digging, he can find out damn near everything about you.
Keeping to myself, we ride down three floors before coming to a stop. The doors part and we’re met with a room full of men, divided in the middle by a plain, black stage. The ceiling has multiple types of lights pointed toward the black surface, illuminating the path like it’s a runway show.
The two men in the elevator scurry around me excitedly, pushing their way toward the front, but I hang back until I’m able to figure out what’s really happening here. If shit goes down, I want to be able to jump in the elevator before all these criminals try to bail or put a bullet in me.
A beautiful—whom I’m guessing is Italian—woman with long, dark locks takes the stage. If she weren't in a sparkling red, floor-length gown, I’d think this was a private dance show. She brings a portable microphone to her chin with a sexy grin, and everyone quiets.
“Good evening gentlemen. I’m Victoria Franchetti, and I’ll be your auctioneer for tonight’s activity. Is everyone ready to see the fantastic selection we have tonight?”
The men cheer, causing Victoria’s smile to grow. Another Franchetti and another name I need to commit to memory to check out.
“Great! Let’s get the show started with our very own mouse! If innocent, librarians are your type, then get your pocket books ready!”
Music begins to float through the room softly. “Let’s welcome Anna. She’s our very own Italiano mouse! And be advised gentlemen, she takes orders very well. Her ideal night is only to meet your every need.”
A petite, dark-haired woman walks out onto the stage, dressed up like a librarian, to play the part. She appears extremely young and nervous as she treads fully onto the stage, staring at her feet. As she gets closer, the men start yelling numbers, obnoxiously shouting higher amounts than the person next to him.
I’m guessing that I’m witnessing a bidding war amongst rich criminals, but for what? Prostitutes? Are these women even willing to be here?
Once Victoria calls out the highest-bid dollar amount, she scribbles down a name on a piece of paper, hands it to the girl and moves onto the next woman. As the night goes on, the women are auctioned off like cattle, and the men celebrate as if they’ve won the lottery, spending hundreds of thousands of dollars and slamming back too much booze.
After the fifth woman departs the stage, Yema approaches me. “You haven’t found one that pleases you yet?”
I shrug, not responding directly. My eyes find Sasha tucked away behind him. She’s like his shadow—an assistant, perhaps? She pleases me.
“Ah! You like blondes, then?”
I shrug again, not caring if I come off as rude. I’m here for Niko’s sister. I haven’t seen anyone remotely close to her description yet.
“I’ll have to get some more blondes for you. Maybe Brazilian or is Russian more to your taste? Which do you like more?”
“Russian. Russian blondes,” I mutter, watching Sasha’s cheeks heat at my declaration. She’s undeniably Russian. “And tall.” Sasha’s short, but Niko’s sister would most likely be at least five foot eight or higher comparing to him and his other sister.
Yema chuckles. “Yes, I like Russian women myself, especially the ones that have already been broken in. I assure you, all the women here have been trained properly and will satisfy your every need. You want to cut them? Done. You like beating them? Done. You want to watch them with others? Done. You seek only your pleasure? Done. You ask, and you receive. They know what is expected of them.”
I knew I wanted to hit this cockroach for a reason. I would never touch a female in any of those ways. If that’s what’s going on, these people are fucking sick.
“Why would I spend so much for a few hours or one night? I could get a hooker willing to do anything for the right price. Strip clubs are crawling with them. I snap, and they come running.”
“I do not doubt you. This is not for one night only,” he replies stiffly, searching for the right words in English like I’ve struck a nerve. “These are prime picked, broken in, disease free, and yours for as long as you wish. You pay the highest bidding price, and she’s yours to keep. You will own her.”
“And if I wanted this one?” I nod toward Sasha, my finger gesturing up and down, wishing it could actually touch her skin.
“Then I’ll speak to my boss and have her ready for the auction next week. You can purchase her.”
“You don’t object?” I peer at her, but she remains quiet, and he laughs cruelly, sneering in her direction.
“She isn’t allowed to speak. You do not own her yet. Have some fun tonight, and I’ll make sure she’s prepped for next Friday.”
“What if I want her now? I don’t like to wait.” I’m supposed to be a rich playboy, so may as well play the part and see if I can get more information from him and possibly take her home with me to safety.
“You would have to pick another tonight, keep her for a week and then get Sasha at the next ball. You can kill the one you get tonight when you get bored or sell her to get some of your money back.”
“I see.” I’m furious, storming inside as I’m enlightened as to what’s really happening tonight. I wish I could bid on them all, but there’s no way. I’ve watched how much they’ve been going for; I don’t have that kind of money.
There’s nothing I can do tonight, except try to remember these men’s faces and pray that there’s a god kind enough to give them a little more time for me to find them as well. I wasn’t cut out to be this type of a criminal, but being a cop right now doesn’t sit well either. There’s a special place in hell for these sorts of men, and I’d love to pull my forty-five out right now and send them on to their new home in hell. That’s the mafiya in my blood coming forward, the urge to kill these men with no remorse.
Turning from him, I gaze toward the stage as a tall, lanky, dark-haired woman takes the stage. She’s not my type, but I need information from her. If I had enough money, I’d buy them all after hearing his spiel on what is allowed to be done to them. This must be what Morelli meant by telling me to leave my badge at the door and remembering this is pro bono.
The men start shouting numbers that automatically trump my entire bank account and net worth. She goes quickly to an older man. She must be a special type to go s
o fast. It makes me sick inside knowing I can’t buy them all and take them off to a better way of life.
Yema carts Sasha away and I swipe a rocks glass full of something strong off a passing server. She keeps on her path, passing the cocktails around to anyone needing a refill. I need the burn to help pull me from my dark thoughts of killing as many of these men in here as possible. The need to protect these women is clawing at me like a man fighting to breathe.
Chugging the liquor down, another woman comes on stage—this one curvier but still very thin. Whoever’s in charge is no doubt starving them. This woman should have thicker thighs with her build. Sick fucking pigs. No doubt that’s not the worst they’ve done to these beautiful creatures.
She’s bid on and won by the British man, Maximillian, I’d come across in the bathroom. They push her off to the side quickly and call on a new name.
This one reminds me of an angel. Covered in bruises, with white hair, I can’t hold myself back from shouting numbers, competing for the highest bid. An old fucker shouts one hundred thirty thousand dollars and the liquor kicks in on my empty stomach, egging me on further.
“One hundred seventy thousand dollars,” leaves my mouth in no time, causing my stomach to churn at the imaginary number in my personal account.
There’s no way I can pay for it. They’ll hunt me down and slit my throat before I’m able to make any headway, let alone get to next Friday to save Sasha’s fate as well. I’ll run if I must to try and save at least one of them.
“Sir?”
Blinking, I shake the fuzziness the strong liquor’s beginning to inflict. I’ve literally had two drinks since I’ve arrived. They have to be laced with something. Fuck, how am I going to explain this on my drug test and to the chief? What was in those glasses?
“Your name, sir? So I can mark her for pickup.”
Clearing my throat, I reply loudly, “Masterson. She belongs to Masterson.”
A collective gasp echoes through the crowd as I state my cousin’s last name. No way in hell am I giving mine. My brain’s fuzzy; no wonder these dicks spend so much money in here.
“Russians?” Is whispered several times amongst the men as Victoria’s mouth visibly drops open, staring in shock.
“I thought they were out of the sex trade?” is mumbled around me and it sets in what this auction really is. I thought I knew, but I had no fucking clue just what this bidding war was funding exactly. Now I have my answer. And then the sickening fact that I just contributed to it with money I don’t really have as well. No doubt my father will have to foot this bill.
Yema comes to stand beside me again, wearing a large, pleased smile. “Yes! Mr. Masterson has made his bid, now mark it and move on.” He claps me on the back like we’re pals, causing half the room’s eyes to bug out at the gesture. Turning to me, he asks quietly, “How shall we bill you?”
“Send my tab to my father; he’ll cover it. Make sure I get her next weekend.” I gesture toward Sasha. “I want blondes, lots of them.”
He chuckles, delighted. “You will have her, and I’ll see about any others. I’m glad you found one that pleases you.” Glancing at Sasha, I’m surprised to find her glaring daggers at the white-haired woman that I just bid on standing off to the side.
“You hear that, Sasha?” I speak to her directly, calling her attention back to me. “You’re mine next, blondinka.”
Her icy irises meet mine, flashing at me calling her blondie in her native tongue. She wants to say so much, I can tell, but she remains quiet. One glance at Yema and her shutters come down, her eyes void of the fire I just witnessed in them. I’m surprised to see any spark in her at all if they’re all treated so badly by Yema and his boss.
Everyone turns back to the festivities, minus a few curious stares, still taking me in now that they know I hail from the infamous Russian crime family.
“Mr. Masterson, a word if you will.” An old guy with grey hair and enough wrinkles he could be part chow approaches me.
My eyebrow hikes, waiting.
“I was under the impression your family had gotten out of these types of transactions.”
Nosey fucker. I have absolutely no idea what to say to him about it. I’m not Tate or Viktor—they handle this sort of thing. I’m not a Big Boss; I’m merely their cousin who’s been kept a giant secret from it all. It’s mostly my own doing with my aversion to the entire lifestyle.
“I don’t discuss business like this.” The sneer radiates from me naturally, born with my father’s blood coursing through my veins and the distaste for what’s going on around me. If I could, I’d put a bullet in his forehead as well as the others. It’s not logical though; they’d kill me before I made any leeway.
He clears his throat, almost appearing ashamed to have even approached me about it. “Of course, my apologies for bringing it up when we should clearly be celebrating. Let me give you my number. I go way back with Victor. We should catch up; I believe we could mutually benefit.”
I’m assuming by his age he means my father and not my cousin and I’m guessing he has no clue that’s my father he’s talking about. Or does he?
“Great.”
He hands me a card, which I tuck away immediately, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that I care who he is. I do though. My palm’s itching to pull the square cardstock back out to find out exactly who he is.
He shakes my hand and walks back over to—I’m assuming—his bodyguard. Others peer over at me, probably contemplating whether they should introduce themselves to me as well. I need as many names as possible, but deep down, I’m hoping they fuck off until next week, so I can catch my bearings and get a new plan going. This is not a goddamned meet and greet.
I could seriously kick Morelli’s ass for not telling me what I was walking into tonight. Probably best he didn’t, or I may have come with backup, or at least my cousins and that would’ve ended with guns blazing I’m sure.
I’m not so much worried that they know I’m related to the Russian Mafiya as I am with them finding out that I’m an undercover cop.
Promises, promises…
“You will be back?” A soft feminine voice asks from behind me, causing my gut to clench. Not with sickness but with lust at hearing the melodic sound.
Turning, I find Sasha in my shadow.
Her voice, coming from those lips. I think, staring at them, licking my own, and imagining what they must taste like. Damn it, why couldn’t I have her tonight? Not have, I mean protect.
Fuck. What am I thinking? I have to stay on task—fuzzy headed or not.
“I swear it,” I murmur, my voice husky from my thoughts of kissing her.
Her gaze drops to the floor as Yema steps beside me again.
“Was she speaking?” He gestures toward Sasha.
“She gasped.” I flash him a cocky smirk. “My fault, I was telling her what I was planning to do to her next weekend. She couldn’t help but be turned on. Just the response from her I wanted. She’ll be perfect.”
His brows raise, pleased to hear my answer that his little slave is making me happy, and in return, making him money.
I’m glad he seems to be buying the bullshit that I’ve been feeding him. I’m not sure how much longer it’ll last before he realizes I’m making it all up. One thing is for certain, I have to come back for her. I’ll borrow the money from my father if I have to, but I can’t leave her fate in any of these pricks’ hands.
“Let me introduce you to your new pet.” Yema grins as if he’s giving me a present.
“The sooner, the better.”
He heads toward the side of the stage, Sasha following along with a glower painted on her lips. The other men still busily bidding on women step out of our path, giving us plenty of space.
“You know, I can sell them to you in bulk if you’re happy with this one.”
“Blondes in bulk? Would I get bulk pricing?” I feel like a fucking dog speaking the words.
Sasha scoffs. Yema misses it, bu
t it’s loud enough for me to catch it. She’s so bland when it comes to him, but fiery when I show interest in other women. She doesn’t even know me, yet she’s already staking a claim? Why? Because I promised to come back?
“We can work out a deal.” He nods, motioning for the woman I bought to come over to us.
She does as she’s told and approaches us. As she nears, I can make out the bruises along her arms and legs. She’s most likely anemic and hasn’t been getting what she needs to prevent all the bruising. I can only imagine what kind of condition she’s in underneath the cheap dress-thing she’s got on.
As soon as we leave here, the first thing I’m doing is getting her something to eat and feeding her a few of my multi-vitamins. Who cares if they’re the men’s kind, these women are falsely advertised. Minimal money spent to make them look presentable enough to be sold. Maybe with some kindness, they’ll give me the information I’m looking for.
“Shall I have someone take her up to your room?”
So they can most likely kill me now that the entire room knows I’m Russian? I love the idea of crawling in a comfy plush bed, but I’d rather sit in a car at the airport and wait for my father’s jet than chance taking a bullet to the brain or a knife to the back.
“She can come with me now. I have a thing about hotels, even if they are suites.” The lie slips from my lips easily, a little too easily in fact. It’s one of the bad habits of this life. Lying successfully can save your ass in a pinch, but sometimes you do it, not realizing before it’s already happened.
“Well then, enjoy your latest purchase, and I’ll be sure you get on the list for next week. Do you have a card so that I can get in touch with you?”
“Not on me, I wasn’t planning to do much business tonight.”
“I see. No worries.” He pulls a blank card with only a number scripted in black on one side from his breast pocket and hands it to me. “You can reach me directly. Thursday morning I’ll have an address for you, and I’ll see about setting a group off to the side for you. Please invite your familia if they’re interested to get involved again.”
Undercover Intentions Page 4