by S. Ann Cole
License Notes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by S. Ann Cole
All rights reserved.
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Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Making or distributing copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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Visit my website at www.AnnCole.net
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Torin
Chapter Two
Lyra
Chapter Three
Lyra
Chapter Four
Lyra
Chapter Five
Lyra
Chapter Six
Lyra
Chapter Seven
Torin
Chapter Eight
Lyra
Chapter Nine
Lyra
Chapter Ten
Lyra
Chapter Eleven
Torin
Chapter Twelve
Lyra
Chapter Thirteen
Lyra
Chapter Fourteen
Lyra
Chapter Fifteen
Lyra
Chapter Sixteen
Lyra
Chapter Seventeen
Torin
Chapter Eighteen
Lyra
Chapter Nineteen
Lyra
Chapter Twenty
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-One
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-Four
Torin
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lyra
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lyra
Chapter Thirty
Torin
Chapter Thirty-One
Lyra
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lyra
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lyra
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lyra
Thank You For Reading!
About The Author
Connect With Ann
For survivors
THEME SONG
Private Fears in Public Places by Front Porch Step
CHAPTER ONE
“Kill me.”
Torin
“IGOR IS HERE.”
Dragging my gaze from the surveillance monitor, I glance up to Petrov who’s just let himself into my office, pulling the door closed behind him to shut out the pulsing, migraine-inducing music of the club.
“I saw.”
He smooths his palm over his gel-slicked hair and straightens his jacket. “He asked to speak with you.”
Well, of course. He certainly isn’t here for the topless, pole-swingers.
Rubbing my hand across my bearded jaw, I watch the smarmy man on the screen. He’s at the bar, standing next to one of his “investments.” To anyone who isn’t watching close enough, it’s innocent; just another customer chatting up a stripper. But I see the subtle grip of her elbow, the closeness of his mouth at her ear, the baring of his teeth. No doubt reminding her who owns her. No doubt asking questions.
About me.
“Let him wait,” I tell Petrov. “Ten minutes. Then send him in.”
“He will not like that he has to wait, boss.”
I flip up the lid on the box of Cuban cigars sitting on my desk. Take one out. “Too bad I don’t give a shit.”
Petrov sighs and leaves.
I scowl down at the cigar, rolling it between my fingers. I’m a by-the-job smoker. A loathsome habit I slip into only if the job I’m working, and my assumed “character” requires it. Otherwise, I hate everything about the act. When you’ve grazed death as many times as I have, when you’ve lost as many people as I have, you develop a different kind of affinity for life, and you don’t risk what fragile hope for longevity you have with shit like smoking.
But here, in Russia, I’m Marvin Marino. Millionaire Don from the Cosa Nostra with secret ties to Bratva, who fled to Moscow from the US to escape a nasty war and lay low for a while, under the protection of the Bratva.
While here, Marvin Marino realized there was money to be made from bitches. A few months later, ‘High Score’ was born, a high-class gentleman’s club with cream-of-the-crop, international dancers.
Perfumed with arrogance and a bad attitude, Marvin Marino takes pleasure in illegal, expensive-as-fuck Cuban cigars, Tom Ford suits, flashy cars, and caged whores.
So, I pick up my 8-ball lighter, spark up the cigar, and take a deep drag, slowly easing into character.
By the time Petrov ushers Igor into my office, it’s grayed with swirls of smoke.
Igor Gusev is sickeningly pale but stalwart, with a prominent nose and a brown smile. All hail Moscow’s most untouchable human trafficker.
“Marino,” he greets with an unctuous and deceptive smile.
I remain seated. What little respect I’ve gained in the short time I’ve been here wasn’t earned by licking boots. I’d established myself with arrogance, assertion, and aggression, leaving no room for questions or doubts that I was who I said I was.
It goes without saying that I’m not liked or welcomed. I’m a foreigner in a land of prideful men, who’s set up shop on turf I don’t own.
Careful plans are being made to take me down, no doubt, but I don’t intend to be here long enough for them to succeed. I’ve scarier devils that I’ve made deals with, devils bigger than them, bigger than the Bratva. So no, I’m not worried. As long as I complete my end, I’m covered.
“Igor,” I say in turn. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He unbuttons his jacket and lowers down into one of the two chairs in front of my desk. “It appears that every time I come here you are doing even better.”
“That’s the idea.”
He leans over and plucks up one of the cigars from the box, then runs the length of it under his nose. “How are my girls doing?”
“Earning.” I puff out a circle of smoke. “And when they’re here, they’re my girls. Do remember that.”
He grunts. “Mine, Marino. Always mine.”
Not about to give him the fight he’s looking for, I ask, “Again, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Business, of course.” He produces a lighter from his pocket and lights up the cigar. “More business.”
“You got fresh meat?”
“Not exactly,” he replies. “Old...but still fresh.”
I wait for him to explain.
“Two Diamond girls. The black one and the other one with the fat cheeks.” He sucks on the cigar then almost chokes on a cough. “They are not favorites at the house. Not earning, and I am this close to doing what I have never had to do before; send a Diamond girl to the first floor.”
; “Still waiting to hear the ‘business’ part.”
“Well, you know, there are certain types of men that appreciate those…how to say, heavier, discolored girls, yes? Men of your kind,” he says. “And there are two teams of them are coming in for a football tournament next month.”
“Men of my kind?”
“Yes. I mean, ah, how to say, the neg—” He breaks off as he begins to enunciate the word and stares daringly at me. Defiance, indecision, and hesitation warring in those vacuous beady eyes.
Say it, motherfucker. Fucking say it if you dare.
He sniffs, glances down at the cigar, then back to me. “The discolored kind.”
He watches me for a reaction, a flinch, his shoulders squared in defense.
It’s still an insult worthy of me swiping my blade across his neck, but again, I don’t give him the fight he’s looking for. This is not the battle I came to fight, and only a neophyte would allow themselves to get derailed by this kind of deliberate antagonism. “Ah, I see.”
“These sports type do not, how do you say, fornicate with the whores between games. Something about saving the oil for endurance.” He laughs at his own humorless joke. “But they will do the strip club and the alcohol, yes? So how about I give you two-for-one on the low-quality girls.”
Disgusting piece of shit. It’s taking everything in me not to reach over and slam his face to the edge of the desk over and over until it cracks in fucking two, blood and marrow gushing out. “I think my ‘negro’ kind will like the girls I have here just fine. Already got a full house.”
He leans back and thinks on this, conniver that he is, then says around another mouthful of smoke, “Our deal on Kimbella is up next week, yes?”
“Correct.”
“I know I agreed on a renewal, but I will need to put a delay on that.”
He’s so smug in his decision, thinking he’s pulling one over on me. “Kimbella’s my biggest earner here.”
“Mine, too,” he returns. “You must imagine it was extremely hard for me to rent my brightest Diamond to you.”
“What I paid you for her, is double what she would’ve earned you in a year at the house, so cut the bullshit.”
His jaw ticks.
Yeah, he hates that. Hates that I’ve got money and he needs it. I’ve been offering him deals that no one else has ever offered. The sums I offer to rent a single girl from him is not something he can comprehend, too good for him to pass on. And the fucker hates me for it. Wishes he could just take it all from me and put a bullet in my head instead of doing any kind of business with a cocksure “Negro.”
“Well, the decision is made. I will collect Kimbella next week.” He outs the cigar on my desk then stands and straightens his jacket. “The two-for-one offer is still on the table. But I will need an answer by next week. Otherwise, I will start shopping them out elsewhere so they can start earning their keep.”
Petrov follows him out, and I out my cigar in the tray and toss the revolting thing in the bin.
The disguised door in the right wall of the office opens and Reuben saunters in. It seals back in place behind him as he yawns and scratches his jaw. “Heard all that. Sounds like we’re in the homestretch.”
Lacing my fingers behind my head, I rock back in my chair, look up at the ceiling, and sigh. Exhausted. “Fucking finally.”
My phone vibrates on the desk. I glance down.
Jhay Byrd calling…
On cue.
I hold my breath and hope this is the call. ‘Cause, man, I want to be done and out of this damn place.
“Tell me we’re good, Jhay,” I answer, “‘cause I just got another perfect opportunity and I don’t wanna lose it.”
A raspy chuckle. “Well, that’s a bummer. Was hoping I could get another job out of you while you’re still there.”
“No.”
“I could make you.”
“Kill me,” I dare her. “Then good luck trying to find another me.”
She can kill me. In a blink. And even if she couldn’t find another me, she could make one. But with this organization, one of the most powerful organizations in the world, puppeteers of world leaders, showing any kind of fear or malleability is a bad move. And death, they need to believe you don’t fear it. No weak spots, or they’ll attack it hard to get what they want.
A long pause. “Okay, fine,” she sighs out. “We’re good. I’ll instruct the team to give you whatever you want. Until next time, Torin Garza.”
The call ends.
I glance up at Reuben and almost smile. Almost. “It’s time.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Not like the others.”
Lyra
HE’S HERE AGAIN.
Though it’s not for me.
It’s never for me.
As he strides with austere confidence through the main area of the checker-floored penthouse, where all the Diamond Girls are lounged in racy lingerie like oiled hens primed for plucking, he casts a brief glance at me.
It’s uninterested. Dismissive. Meh. The same glance tossed at me by ninety-nine percent of the men who pass through here.
Unappealing. Unappetizing. Unattractive.
The lascivious, lip-licking, palm-rubbing reactions are reserved for Kimbella, Zoey, and Jess. Everyone’s favorite Diamond Girls.
I’m not jealous of them. Relieved is more like it, considering I’m not here of my own free will and am not spreading my legs for despicable strangers because I want to. I don’t have a choice in the matter, so I deem it a boon that I’m not appealing enough for these men. I take their snobby once-overs as a compliment.
Here, in Russia, the men seem to prefer women who look like trees in winter—skinny to the bone and pale to near translucency.
There’s too much flesh on my body. Too much width to my hips. Too much tits and ass. Rolls on my stomach when I sit. Skin too tan—thanks to my Grecian-Romanian mother. Thick lips that ask too many questions, and wide eyes that observe too closely.
The men who choose me are usually distinct foreigners, passing through for the night or a weekend. Blacks, Latinos, and the occasional Italian.
Which is why, when he walked in the first time and didn’t choose me, I was left stunned.
Men who look like him always go for me or Simone—the only black Diamond Girl here.
I don’t know what he is. He speaks the Italian tongue as well as English, and has a smooth, burnish complexion—like bronze, or topaz. Silken dark hair and moss-green eyes.
Since day one, I’ve been perpetually repulsed, by everything and everyone. Only managing to make it through each day—without stealing a knife and sticking it in my throat—by taking the pills that are offered; pills that numb me and make me forget myself and my predicament.
But the first time I saw him, my body reacted in a way I still can’t comprehend. It wasn’t with revulsion, or fear, or anger, or hate. Wasn’t with any of the revolting things I generally feel toward each ballsack that prowls through this penthouse, looking us over like plums in the produce aisle, picking the rosiest, the juiciest.
No, what I felt was something else. Something delicate. Like a dulcet melody that only I could hear. Something I can’t quite explain.
And, for the first time since I was smuggled here, I wanted to be chosen. I wanted him to look at me with those austere green eyes, I wanted to see lust and desire seep into them, and I wanted to watch those thick, brown lips form the word, “You.”
Of my own free will, I would let him have me without resisting, without gagging, without screwing my eyes shut and counting the minutes until it was over. I would even let him kiss me if he wanted to.
Alas, all I’ve ever received from him are cursory, dismissive glances. He’s been a client of the Diamond Club for over a year now and he’s never once chosen me.
The Bronze Man doesn’t stop for anyone this time, though, and instead heads straight for the stairs. Igor’s office is upstairs, so he must be here for another meeting.
With a sigh, I sag in my chair and fold my arms over my stomach to hide the rolls. Not because I care, but because I just need to breathe for a bit after sitting up straight and sucking in for so long. Something I have to do when we’re on display, otherwise I get barked at or smacked by Igor for looking like a “svin’ya”. Which Oleg had derisively informed me means “pig.”
I sweep my gaze around the room. Eleven women. All from different backgrounds. Prisoners inside a tenth-floor penthouse in a foreign country.
Diamond Girls. The label given to the “rare and valuable captures.”
We are stolen princesses, heiresses, or spawns of the filthy rich.
For Igor Gusev, it’s apparently a sort of proud brag to be in possession of such privileged breeds. Pedigrees. Seeds of the wealthy who believed their money was tall enough to protect them, to wall them away from devils like himself. I assume he grew up poor, as he seems to have a strong detestation toward the inherently wealthy.
I’ve heard whispers that, after three years, after we’ve been “used up” and are no longer “profitable”, he ransoms Diamond Girls back to their families.
I’m sixteen months in, and I’m counting the days. Though I’m worried—considering I’ve been classified as a “low performer”—that I won’t be “used up” enough in twenty months’ time.
No one is coming to save me.
~
IGOR’S DIAMOND GIRLS are given the “privilege” of this luxurious penthouse in a ten-story building smack-dab in the middle of a busy city. Either Igor is greatly untouchable in this country to be able run such an operation in such a busy location, or he’s hiding in plain sight.
Diamond Girls are also given weekly beauty treatments, strict dietary plans, and monthly checkups by a stony-faced female doctor, who somehow manages to look us in the eye with apathy while she sticks her gloved fingers inside us.
