“I am dead fucking serious. I’ve had my men do some checking around in Joe Esposito’s home town, in Sicily.”
He leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I’m listening.”
“I can tell you everything you need to know by the day after tomorrow,” I assure him. “But I will need I need Joe’s hairbrush and toothbrush delivered to me by this evening, or tomorrow morning at the absolute latest. And then, if what I give you doesn't satisfy you, I will take out my stepfather. Personally, if I have to. In the meantime, set up a meeting with Joe for two days from now.”
“Day after tomorrow. I’m trusting you on this,” Diego tells me.
“You will be a very happy man on Wednesday,” I assure him, with more confidence than I actually feel.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kostya
The toothbrush and comb are delivered first thing in the morning, and I send them off to the lab to verify what I already know. The information that I got from Italy was solid, but this is life and death, and I need proof in my hand when I join Diego for his meeting with Joe Esposito. Otherwise Joe might try to bluff his way out of it.
In the meantime, I’ve got other problems. I still haven’t heard back from Moriz. Of course. God forbid I should ever have a simple worry-free day.
Once Anya’s done with breakfast, and she’s settled in the living room reading a book, I call him up and get his voicemail, yet again. I leave him a message and let him know that I’m sending Mikhail over, and then I tell Mikhail to go check on him.
“I know you don’t like the whole trafficking business, but you delivered those women, so if anything goes wrong there and they escape, you’re in deep shit too,” I remind him. “Will you be okay checking up on them? You may walk in and see them tied down. Being violated. And you’re going to have to suck it up and pretend you don’t care.”
He nods. “Sir. I will do what needs to be done,” he says without hesitation. And from the cold, hard determination in his gaze, I believe him. It seems he’s gotten over his little crisis of conscience, which should make me happy. It doesn’t. Yet another soul I’ve poisoned, a good man turned rotten.
“You text me the minute you get over there to tell me that you’ve arrived. And then tell me when you go inside.”
I spend a reasonably pleasant morning with Anya – if you discount the fact that she asks me about Raisa yet again, and she’s getting more insistent when I deflect her questions.
“Anya,” I finally say. “Before I was taking things day by day, and now I’m taking them hour by hour. I’ve got all kinds of things going on that I just can’t talk to you about. They could end well, or they could go nuclear. How about if we just go into the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee and hang out for a bit?”
In the kitchen, my cook is prepping for lunch, cooking for the rest of my crew. I have about half a dozen men on the property at any given time, although most of them stay in a cottage separate from the house.
Anya and I make some coffee and sit at a small table overlooking a garden, as I wait for Mikhail to contact me. “Lovely flowers,” she says wistfully.
“Do you want to go out for a walk?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Sure, why not.” Out in the garden, we walk past rows and rows of tulips, their fat, colorful blooms nodding in the breeze.
Two of my bodyguards walk by, at the far end of the garden. Making their rounds. She scowls at them, then glances back at the house, and her face darkens. “That house is a pit of evil,” she says. “I’d like to burn it down.”
“Duly noted. You like gardening?” I ask, to change the subject. She shrugs. “I like looking at pretty gardens. When it comes to growing plants, I pretty much have the black thumb of death.”
“What do you like to do?” I persist. “In some ways, I feel as if I know your very soul. Your kindness, your bravery, your humor. But in other ways, I don’t know you at all. I don’t know what you had originally planned for the future, or what you like to do with your free time. I would like to know.”
She cocks her head to the side. “That’s an interesting question. I was majoring in art history when I was in college, mostly because it had been strongly suggested that I would be marrying rather than pursuing a career. I liked going to museums and art galleries. Before I had to go on the run, I had a group of friends, and I’d always be the one in charge of them. I’d organize our luncheons, and our nights out, I’d check in with everybody...” she trails off. “Anyway. I thought I’d be good at running some kind of business or charity for women. As for what I like to do during the day, I haven’t had the luxury of thinking like that for so long, I’ve forgotten.”
We come to a garden bench, and sit side by side in the warm sunshine. She leans against me, head resting on my shoulder, her silken strands brushing my arm. I stroke her hair lightly. Her blonde roots are starting to grow in.
“What do you like to do for fun?” she asks.
It’s a fair question, since I just asked her. But I find myself drawing a complete blank. Honestly, the question had never occurred to me. I keep an eye on all of our businesses, and arrange for the transfer of various duty-free goods, across borders. I hurt and threaten people. I work out. I drink too much. But for fun?
“I guess I like the business aspect of things,” I muse. “I enjoy going over the balance sheets, seeing what businesses are making and losing money, and figuring out why. Coming up with ways to increase profits. Picking the themes and locations of new nightclubs and restaurants. They’re not just places where we launder money, they’re profit centers as well.”
“Ooh, that actually sounds really cool.” She lights up at that last bit. Then she elbows me. “But that’s work. What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not at work?”
“Using my tongue to make you scream and beg for permission to come.” I grin devilishly.
She snorts. “I do not scream and beg.”
“Liar. What were you doing last night, then?”
She shoots me an indignant look, but then her mouth twists up in a smile. “I was...loudly expressing my appreciation for a job well done.” I laugh so hard I’m almost choking. She punches me in the arm. For a girl, she’s got a surprisingly solid punch. “Sex with me is one fun thing, but that can’t be it. Name something else.”
“I like museums too, actually. Going to the movies. Spending time with you. Don’t make that face, I’m serious. When I’m with you, I’m never bored. Time never drags. It just feels as if I’m in the right place, with the right person, and whether we’re talking or just sitting side by side, I’m at peace, and I’m home.”
She blinks hard, tears glittering on her lashes. “Allergies,” she sniffles. “That was...a very nice thing for you to say, Kostya.”
And we fall silent, and just sit there in the sunshine. A few minutes later, my phone beeps; it’s a text from Mikhail, telling me that he’s arrived at Moriz’ house and as far as he can tell everything looks fine.
“I just need to go to my office,” I tell Anya. She looks at me suspiciously. “What’s up?”
“Business.” She’s too perceptive when it comes to me. And Mikhail will be calling me any minute, with good news, I hope.
I go to my office, and wait for Mikhail’s call. Nothing. Finally, after fifteen minutes, I call him.
No answer. It just rings and rings and goes to voicemail. I try to call Moriz again; no answer.
I try calling both of them, and texting, every few minutes, half a dozen more times.
I check my security software again – and now, Mikhail’s phone has vanished. There should be a blip on the map showing where Mikhail’s phone is located. There’s nothing. That would not happen unless the phone had been completely, thoroughly destroyed.
This has now escalated to an emergency. I’m going to have to go check on the house myself. Mikhail is very likely dead. And if something happens to me – what will happen to Anya?
Screw it. I ca
ll in one of my security guards, Evgeni, who was out patrolling the grounds.
“I will be gone for about two hours,” I tell him. “If you don’t hear from me then, I want you to take Anya to downtown Chicago, and drop her off on a street corner.”
“Sir?” He looks startled. “If you’re heading into a bad situation, should I come with you?”
“No. I need someone here that I can trust.”
“And you really want me to...let her go?”
“If I’m dead? Yes.”
He doesn’t look at all happy with my instructions, but he doesn’t try to argue.
And before I leave, I tell her that I have to check up on something, and I might not come back. I hand her a wallet with a thick wad of cash in it.
“Tell me where you’re going!” she protests.
“All that matters is that whether I come back or not, you won’t be sold.”
“No, that’s not all that matters. Come back to me,” she says, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I don’t want your money, Kostya, I want you. We could run away and hide, we could live in a shack. Free from all this.”
I lean down and kiss her forehead gently. “I’m not on a suicide mission, and I’m pretty hard to kill. I’ve been shot, stabbed, hit by a car, and attacked by eight men. I’m still standing, and everyone who came after me is not. I just like to prepare for every possibility.”
“I absolutely hate this.”
“I know. It’s what comes of being with a Bratva man, though. Great passion, and great risk. You’ve always known that.”
And I walk away quickly before she can argue any further. Leonid and I, armed as if ready for war, head to Moriz’ house. We’re wearing gloves, sunglasses, and hoodies, in case there are security cameras.
Moriz is staying at a big ugly white stucco mansion out in the countryside, and, like mine, it’s surrounded by security walls. When we pull up to the gate, and speak into the intercom, there is no answer.
"Try the gate," I tell him. Most electric gates default to an unlocked position when power is cut. The gate slides open.
We drive in, and park out front. The grass looks a little ragged, like nobody’s cut it in a few days. The front door is locked. Leonid opens up the messenger bag he’s brought with him. He uses liquid nitrogen to freeze and shatter the lock. It's quieter than a gun shot. Not that there any close neighbors, but one can never be too cautious. There could be someone inside waiting to ambush us.
We make our way through the foyer, the enormous living room with its statues of nudes and blazingly gauche gilt furniture, and stop in our tracks. A coppery scent drifts in the air. Blood. An ominous buzzing of flies gives a clue as to what we're going to find.
We follow the smell and sound, and make our way down to the end of the hall. A steel door gapes open, and we enter. It’s Moriz’ enormous play room.
There are three beds, all of which are bolted to the floor and have chains dangling from them. A rack of whips on the wall, another rack of canes and paddles. Various metal frames throughout the room are set up with restraints dangling from them, where women could be restrained or suspended.
Near the doorway, three men are sprawled on the ground, a sickening feast for thousands of flies. They’ve each been shot in the head. By the state of decomposition, they’ve been there for several days. It’s possible they were killed the same day that the women arrived.
I can't pity them at all. They deserved their end. Hell, I deserve to be right there with them.
I scan the room, and my eyes light on an ob-gyn chair – which holds Moriz’ body. His horrified eyes bulge from his purplish face. His dick has been cut off and stuffed in his mouth. A small part of my brain admires the handiwork - symbolic, sends a message, a perfectly appropriate punishment for his crimes. There's massive blood stains in the crotch area, which means he was alive, and bled out after his dick was cut off.
But the rest of me is freaking the fuck out. How did the girls accomplish this? And where are they now?
“I don’t see Mikhail anywhere,” Leonid says. “Did the girls kill him and hide the body somewhere? But if they were still here when Mikhail arrived, that would mean they would have stayed here for several days after killing Moriz and his men. Why would they do that?”
“Why, indeed.”
I scan the room for clues. I walk over to look more closely at the door. There is a keypad panel next to it, and there are scratch marks all around the doorknob.
I think I know what happened. The girls were locked in here, and they somehow managed to take away one of the guard’s guns and kill the three men, and Moriz – but they weren’t able to open the door on their own because they didn’t know the keypad combination. There were no phones, no way to help. There is a sink at the far end of the room, and, now that I look, I see platters piled high with rotting fruit and half eaten pastries, and bread crusts. Moriz and his men brought in a feast. They were going to gorge themselves, and abuse the women, and then gorge some more.
The girls tried to escape, but they were trapped. They had food and water, but no way out, so they just sat there and waited, with the guns they’d taken from the guards.
Then I sent Mikhail here to check on them, and he opened the door – and set them free. And, most likely, fled with them. Otherwise I’m pretty sure I’d see his body here.
I remember the look on his face when he said “I’ll do what has to be done.” Fuck, I’m an idiot. I suspect if Moriz and his guards hadn’t already been dead, he’d have killed them and freed the girls. He was never cut out for this.
“He’s with them,” I say, gesturing at the scratches on the door. I explain my theory to Leonid. His eyes widen in alarm.
“Will they go to the police?”
I consider this. “Maybe, but not necessarily. They’re all from home.” By which I mean, Russia. And that means none of them will trust the authorities. Raisa came to live with an aunt in Chicago when she was 16, but she’s still a Moscow native. She’ll be as frightened of the cops as she is of us.
Leonid and I leave the house quickly, get in our car, and head back to my house. I call Evgeni to tell him I’m coming.
“Is everything all right?” he asks. “You don’t sound too pleased with whatever you found.”
“Fine,” I say shortly. But no, it’s not fine. I’m not yet prepared to go up against my stepfather, and if he finds out what happened at Moriz’ house, he’ll blame me. And the girls probably haven’t gone to the cops yet – if they had, I would most likely have heard from one of my snitches – but that doesn’t mean they never will.
Saving Anya was one thing. But her friend, and those other girls? They mean nothing to me.
Once I get in the house, I storm over to Anya, who’s sitting in an armchair reading. She looks relieved to see me, until I grab her by the arm and haul her to her feet.
"Where would Raisa go if she escaped?” I demand.
Her eyes light up with joy.
I tighten my fingers mercilessly on her arm. "Anya, don't fuck with me. I can have you auctioned off tomorrow! Special sale. I’ll call in every fucking buyer in the city.”
“Do it.” She grimaces in pain as I squeeze her arm, but meets my gaze fearlessly.
"You think I won't?" I shout.
"I doubt it, but if Raisa is safe, I also no longer care."
“Despite what you know would await you?”
Her eyes are alight with a fierce triumph. “I never planned to survive life as a sex slave. I’d kill my new owner or die trying. I only pretended to go along with my training because I was trying to figure out a way to save Raisa, and you always knew that.”
Yes, I did.
I drop my hand, and she rubs her arm where I’d squeezed it.
“You planned this,” I say to her, sudden exhaustion rolling over me. “You manipulated me. You kept begging me to set Raisa free even after I told you that her sale was part of your punishment. You knew I never would let her go; you were just pl
anting the idea in my head to punish her in front of you.”
“Very good.” Her smile is ice cold.
"What did you say to her, when you whispered her in ear?”
She thinks about it for a moment, and then shrugs. “It doesn’t matter now, I guess. I told her to be strong, to stop being a crybaby. I told her that she must wait for the right opportunity, and when the time came, she and the other girls must do whatever it took to overcome their guards and escape, or die trying, because death would be better than the alternative. I told her they could die on their feet, or live on their backs."
Despite the fact that I’m well and truly fucked now, admiration swells in my chest. She rallied them like soldiers. With her inspirational words alone, she gave Raisa and the girls hope, a purpose they were willing to die for.
She meets my gaze. "And there you have it. I’m ready for your punishment. Do your worst."
I shake my head, with grim resignation. "I can't. You win, Anya. You've beaten me at my own game."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kostya
Joe Esposito owns many houses, since he supervises the entire Midwest district for The Council. His Chicago-area home is a beautiful three-story red brick colonial style house in an uber-wealthy suburb.
Diego has arranged a meeting by claiming that he has urgent news about Yeger. Since Joe is boiling over with fury at my stepfather’s provocations, he agrees to see Diego right away. His guards show Diego, Claudio, Rocco, Carmelo, several other of Diego’s men, and me into the house. When they ask who I am, he tells them I’m on their crew.
A butler ushers us into the parlor, where Joe is sitting in on a sofa flipping through a magazine and waiting for Diego. The butler leaves us, shutting the door behind him.
It takes a minute for Joe to recognize me, and when he does, his face turns a sickly white. He takes a deep breath as if he’s going to yell for his guards – but Carmelo, Rocco, and Claudio have pistols pointing at his skull within a split second.
Joe’s eyes bulge from his head in shock and rage. He swallows hard, glaring at Diego. "I don't know what you think you’re going to get out of this, but it won’t be enough.” He spits out the words. “Every last one of you is a fucking dead man. The council will hunt you and your families to the ends of the earth."
Kostya A Dark Bratva Hate Story Page 16