by Shandi Boyes
T, a low-ranked gangster from Alexei’s crew, spins around to face me. “What’s the bet that nasty shit is still better than the low-grade crack your men were pushing last week. My grannie couldn’t even get off on it.”
My teeth gleam in the early morning sunlight. “Lucky your girl didn’t face the same issues, eh? She was so up in my blow, she left my bed with it all over her face this morning.” I still can’t recall the whore’s name who woke me up by riding my cock for free, but I’ve seen her around T enough to know she was once one of his favorite girls before she upgraded the men she likes to get off on. “She’s so desperate to get out of the shit your crew is snowballing, she’d rather get around with my spawn on her face than lose her ‘whore’ title with the Popovs.”
My smile doubles when T fists my shirt. He’s such a hothead, I would have only needed to insult his shoes to have him fisting up for a fight. This way was more fun. What can I say? I’m an asshole who’s always ready for a war.
“What do you want, Trey?” he sneers in my face, his words as hot as the ash on the end of the joint dangling out of my mouth.
While pushing him off me, I give him a stern look, wordlessly warning him the next time he puts his hands on me, he’ll lose fingers.
Confident he’s got the message, I say, “Roman.”
When I sidestep him to enter the hospital, he gets up in my business. “Can’t let you do that. We have orders Roman is to stay here.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission, twat-face.”
I stab out my half-smoked joint into his chest then sidestep him for the second time. My jaw quivers when his getting up in my business occurs this time around with the muzzle of a gun being shoved into my ribs. “As I said, can’t let you do that. We have orders.”
“Orders for a war you don’t belong in. This is Popov turf. You have no sanction here,” I growl without the slightest quiver to my words. He may have his gun on me, but I’m not close to being dead.
T has bigger balls than I realized. “Says who? A British immigrant too weak to rule his own kingdom.” My jaw ticks when the men surrounding him laugh. I’m all for jokes. I love them as much as I do fucking, but I won’t tolerate being laughed at, and T and his fuck-face friends are two seconds from learning that the hard way—even more so when he snickers, “Go home, foreigner, your time here is done.”
I tighten my jaw but keep a cool and collective head—for the most part. “I’m asking you politely, T. Step back before I remove the walnuts from your sack and use them as anal beads the next time I fuck another one of your sisters in the ass.” That was my calm response. This is my menacing one. “Or perhaps you’d rather me give your mother a good once-over, so, for once, she can climb a pole that doesn’t have the word bastard associated with it.”
Like a fool not in fear for his life, T steps up to me until we stand chest to chest. “Do all the Popov men go on parent-hating rants when they’re scared? Or just the parentless motherfuckers like you, Trey?” He spits out my name as if it’s vomit. “You’re so pathetic, when you buried your father, I bet you bought up all the plots around him for his many whores, unsure which one was your mother—”
His words are replaced by garbles when I shut him up with my knife.
As T tilts my way, his footing as unsteady as Eight’s grab for his gun, I raise my knife another four inches up his gut to ensure the tip pierces one of the valves around his heart.
Bullets halo my head, but I can’t see anyone but T. Although, if I am being honest, I’m not really seeing him either. I’m standing across from Achim, knifing him as I wish I’d done years ago.
“I asked you politely. I told you to step back. You didn’t listen. You never fucking listen.” My last four words are roars from my past coming back to haunt me. “You wanted the castle, I gave you the entire fucking kingdom, but it still wasn’t enough for you, was it?” I remove my knife before jabbing it back in more forcefully, untrusting of his still chest.
I made a mistake once believing someone was dead when they weren’t.
I won’t make the same mistake twice.
I only return from the darkness of my past when Eight steps in front of me. “Grab his shoulders. We’ll dump them later. Your ploy worked. While we occupied the front, Nero got Roman out the back entrance.”
With sirens wailing and my mind still a little lost on what the hell just happened, I help Eight place T into the back of my Shelby along with one of his gang-popping pals. I don’t know how Eight took down the second member of Alexei’s crew, but if the blood splatter of his face is anything to go by, it was violent.
“How many casualties?”
“Just these two. Nero’s group cleaned up the rest.” Eight curls T’s legs so they can fit into my trunk before jerking his head to the rotating hospital doors. “Two sought shelter in the hospital.” He lifts and locks his grassy-green eyes with mine. “They won’t talk, but if they do—”
“Nero will take care of it.”
Eight smirks, winks, then slams down the trunk. “Come on, Nikolai is en route to the compound. Things are about to get heated.”
After gathering up the nine or so shell casings coating the ground, I slip into the driver’s seat of my car. With Eight’s legs longer than mine, it takes him longer to join me. I’ve only just cranked over the engine when I see the clean-up crew arriving in my rearview mirror. Most of T’s blood was soaked-up by my shirt, but they’ll ensure not a droplet will be found by the CSI team I hear racing to the scene.
When we glide past lit-up police cruisers racing in the direction opposite to the way we’re fleeing, Eight slumps low in his seat. He’s so tall, his attempt to hide makes laughter rumble in my chest.
If he sinks any lower, he’ll be eating his cock.
Hearing my laugh, Eight socks me in the arm. “Laugh while you can, Trey. You may lose the ability by the end of the week.”
I push off his worry with a laugh. “Pfft. Whatever. You said Nikolai wanted Roman no matter the cost. I got him for him. Might’ve lost two soldiers in the process, but those are the casualties of war.”
My voice waivers when Eight interrupts, “Holy fucking shit. You don’t know who T was, do you?”
“A low-ranked wannabe gangster—”
“Whose father doesn’t care he was birthed by a whore. He loves his sons all the same.”
As my throat works hard to swallow, my eyes stray from the road to Eight. “What the fuck are you on about, August?” The fact I used his real name reveals the urgency of the situation. I’m at a complete loss as to who he’s referencing.
Eight sits up straighter before twisting his torso to face me. “T is Tristan Vasiliev. Alexei’s son. Fuck, man. I thought you knew. Why do you think I’m missing numero uno number one?” Although he’s asking a question, he doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I beat up his son in a paid fight, yet I still lost a finger for it.”
“T is Alexei’s son?” The thump of my heart is heard in my question. When Eight nods, I ask, “His blood son?”
When he nods again, I get nervous for the first time in six years.
Fingers crossed it ends better than my last farce.
After checking on Roman in the makeshift hospital room in the dungeon of the Popov compound, I make my way outside to call Nikolai. I’m barely halfway across the foyer when he enters via the main door.
“Where is he?” He doesn’t need to mention Roman’s name for me to know who he’s referencing.
I point to a door at the end of a long corridor. “Dok’s with him. Not sure what happened yet. We just ran logistics as you requested.” Not exactly as requested, but I keep that snippet of information to myself. Nikolai is a killer in every sense of the term, so I’ve never seen him this worked up. Usually, he acts first, asks questions later—who do you think I learned my hang-up from?—but I get that he has to mix things up this time around. It isn’t just his livelihood at stake, his entire crew is in jeopardy. It’s not a good set of shoes
to be in. I’ve done it once. Don’t plan to do it again anytime soon.
Needing to get something off my chest, I step closer to Nikolai. The change in position has me stumbling onto a dark-haired man with a face as hard as stone standing left of us. Although I’m reasonably sure I’ve seen him before, I can’t pinpoint where.
After following the direction of my gaze, Nikolai demands the dark-haired man to move on. Once he disappears into the shadows, Nikolai drifts his massively dilated eyes to mine. “What is it?”
Never one to sugarcoat things, I get straight to the point. “Alexei's men had the hospital barricaded. I had no choice. I couldn't get to Roman without taking down two of his men first.”
What? I’d rather tell him a little white lie than admit I acted like a pansy who can’t get over his past. When the time is right, I’ll tell Nikolai what really happened.
Now is not the right time.
Air whizzes from Nikolai’s nose, but he isn’t surprised by my revelation. “Loss of life is a casualty of war, Trey. Alexei knows that better than anyone.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I agree, nodding. “But I don’t see Alexei willing to accept that excuse when he discovers I murdered his son.”
Nikolai looks a little uneased while asking, “Which son?”
I swish my tongue around my mouth to loosen up my words. “Tristan.”
Nikolai’s relieved breath fans my cheek for barely a second before he sucks it back in. “Is Alexei aware of the incident?”
I shake my head. As much as Eight’s disclosure rocked my core, I wasn’t so stupid not to realize we need to keep Tristan’s death on the down-low for as long as possible. “No, we cleaned the scene as thoroughly, if not better, than you would have. Their bodies are still in my trunk.”
“Good. Keep them in there until I say so.” Before I can get in a word, he continues talking, “Once Justine is home, I'll deal with Alexei. Until then, his son’s body will remain in my possession.” Nothing but honesty is seen in his eyes when he says, “Negotiating Tristan's return is the only bartering chip I'll have for you to see out the week with your pulse not flatlining.”
I’m about to say it’s too late to worry about a flatlining pulse, but I realize the day he discovered his girl is being held captive by his murderous father may not be the best time to have a conversation about my empty chest.
“Alright, I’ll gather the men and head to Jim's. Hopefully, some ice will keep away the vultures.” Jim’s is a storage ground where we keep deceased bodies until the heat dies down. Jim is almost deaf, half-blind, and has freezers big enough to house fifty men. It’s one of the joys of owning a pig farm. The pigs come in handy, too, but I’ll keep that story for another day.
“Once you’ve got them on ice, gather the rest of the men from Clarks, then come back here.” Nikolai’s jaw gains a spasm. “Until we know what Vladimir’s plans are for Justine, none of us are getting any sleep.”
With my crisis diverted by a seemingly level-headed Nikolai, my inquisitiveness gets the better of me. “Is that who I think it is?”
The man hiding in the shadows has no similar features to Nikolai, not even their eye coloring is a match, but they give off the vibe of brothers. If my intuition is right, and the stranger is still breathing, that can only mean one thing. He’s the infamous Rico Nikolai’s men talk about all the time. The dead Rico Popov.
I realize I’m on the money when Nikolai asks, “Have you ever seen a ghost, Trey?”
Although incapacitating memories have me wanting to nod, I shake my head instead.
When Nikolai’s spots its waggle, he murmurs, “You have now.”
I watch him cross the room with my mouth hanging open and my mind shut down. I knew he was tiptoeing toward a minefield when he gave up his favorite whore just for the chance to slip between his lawyer’s sheets, and don’t get me started on the possessiveness that beamed out of him when his crew spent the weekend shacked up at his girl’s crash pad, but this, this goes beyond anything I could have predicted. He isn’t just tiptoeing toward danger anymore, he’s gone full tilt, blind to the warning signs flashing before him.
I can only hope this mafia prince’s sprint through a battlefield doesn’t end as disastrously as mine did, or hell will be empty from all the devils uniting to execute his revenge.
Four
Sales Docket Number 12574
As I rock in the corner, I cover my ears, fighting to ignore their screams. I’m so angry at myself—so very, very mad. I let him break me. And for what? To have him smile at me before he threw me into a room even barer than the one I was in before he stole the last bit of dignity I had left. The food he promised me isn’t even served on a tray. My toilet no longer has a lid. I’m not even allowed to shower anymore.
That’s for the good girls.
The ones who say please and thank you.
He might have me forgetting who I once was, but he didn’t force me to speak. I whimpered, and my eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t utter a syllable.
I think that’s what saved me from him. He hit me, kicked me, and screamed words at me I didn’t understand, and he did it while I was naked, but he was as sickened by my soundless sobs as me, the only part of his body that came close to mine was his shriveled-up penis when he requested for me to spit on it.
I wanted to tell him to go to hell.
I wanted to spit in his face.
But instead of doing either of those things, I broke.
I wouldn’t have if Ana’s cries weren’t still ringing in my ears. I gave in for her as much as I did for me. I’m too hungry to keep fighting and way too tired. I can’t keep doing this day in and day out. You don’t realize how exhaustive fighting is until it finally dawns on you that it’ll never end.
Whether here or in Prague, my life has always been one struggle after another.
Once Vladimir finished, which I’m pleased to say wasn’t long enough for me to remember, he tucked away his penis while warning me I better surpass his expectations tonight, and that every man who enters my room better leave with a smile, or I’ll be punished again. Except this time, no amount of tears will save me.
I should be pleased I’m not dead, but in some ways, that just adds to the torment. Death is the coward’s way out, and even though I’m a sex slave, I’ll never be a coward.
I awaken startled when the screams return. These are different than the ones that lulled me to sleep several hours ago. They’re not begging for the pain to stop or for food. They’re begging to be freed.
That can only mean one thing.
It isn’t a new bidder being shown the ropes.
It’s a new victim.
Concrete dust kicks up around my knees when I crawl across the filthy floor. I don’t know who had this room before me, but it’s clear they lost the will to live long before they died. The vomit at the side of the door looks like it’s been there for weeks.
It takes me blinking three times in a row before the visual through the keyhole clears enough that I see a redheaded woman being marched down the corridor. She appears as heartbroken as I feel about the numerous pleas for her help.
Although she’s naturally slender, the meat on her bones reveals she’s either brand new or her owner took good care of her. She has a bump on her forehead, but other than that, she’s well put together. Her face isn’t gaunt like the rest of us, and although her skin is pale, it shows the gleam regular time in the sunlight awards it with.
“Be careful,” I warn her in Czech when the goon stops outside the room I was just freed from. Vladimir scraped the bottom of the barrel when he forced me to give him head, so he most likely won’t go gentle on her.
My heart thuds in my ears when the pretty redhead replies, “It’s alright. Help is coming.” She didn’t speak her words in English. She spoke them in my native tongue
“Děkuju,” I reply, hopeful she’s being honest.
The determination in her eyes is so startling, I’m scared within an inc
h of my life when the man clutching her arm bangs his fist on the lock I have my face pressed up against. “Get back in bed. You’ve got another three visits before your night is over.”
Even with fear being my strongest emotion, I still issue the stranger a warning, “Devil. Watch out for the devil.”
While the door opposite mine slowly creeps open, I scamper back into the corner I’ve been hiding in the past few hours, praying the shadow filling the gap under my door isn’t one of the men Vladimir’s goon mentioned earlier. I’m too woozy to give Vladimir’s guests the special attention he believes they deserve, and being silent takes more effort than fighting. It takes everything I have to emerge into the dark that saves me from the nightmares of the light, and I have barely an ounce of strength available tonight.
I realize just how unlucky I am when the shadow from the door jumps to the lock. As steel keys jangling against a solid door trickle into my ears, I swallow down the bile racing up my throat. Even with poor lighting hiding the man’s face, I know he’s been here before. He’s paid for me three times the past ten weeks. The first time he was happy to watch me from afar. The second time he wanted a lot more for his money. I can only hope he’s feeling friendly tonight because there are no nail marks on the walls for me to concentrate on, and no boarded-up window to look out of. I’ll either be stuck here in the torment, feeling every disgusting thing he does to me or trapped with the demons in my head.
Neither are pretty.
Whips hurt more than fists. The crack they make with my back adds to the blistering heat racing across my back. I guess that’s why they whipped people back in the olden days. It both humiliates and hurts, and if Vladimir has his way, it’ll have me toeing the line.
I didn’t spit as requested the second time tonight.
I bit.
Despite my weakness, I had the strength to gnaw my ‘guest’s’ cock right off, but, unfortunately, his screams alerted Vladimir’s goons to his mauling before I could get halfway through. That resulted in me being punished, again. It could be worse. I could have been beaten after being raped. This way, I’m just beaten.