by Kitty Thomas
"That has been coming for a long time. Aleksei was never one of my best. It was well past time to retire him." Dmitri patted the spot beside him on the bed.
Julie couldn't move. She couldn't breathe or speak or think. The only sign of life coming from her were the relentless tears racing down her cheeks.
"Do not make me raise my voice."
Behind the door she heard movement, then it faded away. What if both of the guards had dragged Aleksei's body off? What if there was no one guarding it? Rationally she was sure the safest choice would be to go to Dmitri and do whatever he said, try to appease him. But the gnawing certainty that she might have a chance to get out of this place wouldn't let her make that choice.
Instead, she bolted for the door and flung it open. Her hunch was right, the hallway was empty for now. A large pool of blood soaked into the carpet outside the door, and a trail of gruesome red went down the hall in one direction. If she followed that trail, she'd get outside, but she might run straight into the guards. She turned and ran the other way.
She'd half-expected Dmitri to come tearing out of the bedroom after her, but there was no sound of a door opening and slamming. No shouting. No footsteps pounding after her. She found a small, unassuming staircase on the back end of the hallway.
Julie raced down the darkened staircase, sensing each step below her rather than seeing it. The bottom of the stairs opened out into a large, industrial kitchen. Empty. Could it be possible that all of Dmitri's men were either guarding the basement or disposing of Aleksei's body?
She opened a door in the kitchen that led outside. The night was calm and quiet with a cold nip in the air. Her breath came out in puffs of white cloud in front of her. Brilliant stars sparkled overhead. In the distance, she heard an owl. The contrast between this and the basement she'd woken up in was so dramatic that it took a moment to orient herself to the peaceful beautiful reality outside Dmitri's house.
The property was vast and seemed to stretch on forever, but in the distance was a huge patch of trees that might offer a temporary safety. She started to run for the cover of those trees when seemingly out of nowhere guards converged on her from three different directions, blocking her escape.
"Back to the house," one of them said, his accent so thick and harsh, she barely understood him.
They were all large and armed. Another of the guards put his finger in the air and revolved it to indicate she must turn around now. It seemed probable that some of them didn't understand English. Deflated, she turned and went back, the guards in a tight formation around her. Oddly, they didn't manhandle her as Aleksei had—maybe under direct orders from the top. But they also didn't give her the smallest shred of hope that she could slip past them and escape, either.
They escorted her back to Dmitri's room, and this time she knew guards would stay in the hall outside. Dmitri seemed not to have moved from his perch on the edge of the bed during all this, like time from his perspective had paused and resumed when she was returned to him. His expression was still mild. He patted the spot beside him again, this time with only a fraction more impatience.
"Julie, let us be civil."
Of course, the calm-psychopath-to-normal-person translation of that was, be a compliant good girl so I don't have to become violent. Play this charade with me where you are the one making the problems for yourself, and I am the one doing you a favor.
Having run out of options, Julie sat on the edge of the bed next to him, her hands trembling on her lap. She cringed when he stroked her hair and moved a strand of it behind her ear. He had impossibly long, elegant fingers—like a concert pianist. Without the stark evidence of armed guards in the house, she might not have been able to bring herself to believe Dmitri was a bad man.
If one only looked at his hands, they would assume a genteel respectability. But the cold, hard glint in his eyes told the rest of the story, which was why she couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes.
Dmitri sighed. "If I had been a better judge of character, Aleksei would have never been in my employ, and you would not be in this house. Unfortunately, we cannot set you free, and I am a businessman. You will make me money. If you don't make me money there is plenty of room in the ground next to Aleksei. Am I being clear?"
"Y-yes."
"Good. You'll start work tomorrow night. Can I assume that you are fully schooled in how to please a man?"
Julie gaped at him, her vocal chords having given up the attempt at speech.
Dmitri chuckled. "You're an American bartender in your early twenties. I expect you've been... what's that charming American saying? Around the block a few times?"
He was assuming she was a slut. Remembering what Carmen had said downstairs she nodded quickly. It was better that he thought she knew what was what. It was better if she didn't stand out as anything startlingly unique here.
"Do you have any tattoos?" he asked.
"No."
"Any unusual or unattractive scars?"
"No."
"Undress. I want to see for myself. So many American college girls are simply riddled with tattoos and piercings these days. I find it grotesque."
"Please, I swear I don't have any."
"Don't create problems for me, Julie. I'm already angry that Aleksei brought you here. It is a kindness that I'm considering letting you stay with us."
Why had the guards brought her back in the first place? If Dmitri felt this way, why not let them gun her down outside and be done with it? He was playing with her, squeezing the smallest amount of amusement he could manage out of the situation at hand.
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
"I can tell you are a smart girl. I'm sure you've figured out that I won't hesitate to remove problems from my house."
Death now or death later? Short of an unlikely rescue mission, survival wasn't an option. Julie didn't know how long Dmitri had been running this game, but he wasn't going to keep any whores past their sell-by date. That meant at some point she'd die here. Shouldn't that point be now? Wouldn't it spare her unnecessary and pointless suffering and trauma?
But the girls downstairs had found a way to survive this, not just physically but mentally. And Umiko had been like her. If she could hang on, maybe rescue would come.
"My patience is at an end. Strip and show me you have no tattoos or piercings, or I'm afraid we can't give you the job." He said this like she'd filled out an application to work in his brothel.
Julie glanced around the room, looking for some kind of weapon, but Dmitri wasn't new at this, and he had to know the trail her thoughts might go down. There was this idea hanging out inside her mind that if she could leave some permanent scar on him at least, she would somehow win. Even if she died in the commission of that task. He would always carry the mark she'd left.
Dmitri sighed again. "Very well. If that's your decision."
"No. Wait."
He seemed bored. "I'm finished waiting."
Julie stood and slowly removed her clothes. She closed her eyes, pretending that as long as she couldn't see Dmitri, he couldn't see her. And maybe if he didn't make her look in his eyes while she did this, she could do this. It was just the human body. There was nothing wrong with the human body. And yet all that religious nonsense swirling through her brain made the act of nudity seem like the worst violation and shame—though she knew more and far worse things were coming.
"Good. Turn all the way around slowly."
She turned.
"I'm satisfied. You are on probation. Do not disappoint me." He said this as if prostituting her out to strangers was the greatest favor to her. "You can go back downstairs with the other girls now. Leave your clothes. You won't be needing them."
She'd expected Dmitri to do much more than look at her. She'd been sure in a very short time, he'd know her secret and Carmen's laundry plan would be dead before it was off the ground.
Julie didn't have time to feel relief at the brief reprieve. She was too painfully aware of her nu
dity and the guards outside the door. But though they made comments, and stared, they took her back downstairs according to their orders without touching her.
When they reached the door to the giant cell the others were being kept in, one of the guards said: "Dmitri does not like us to sample new girls before the clients. But... soon."
Julie flinched and jerked away and stumbled back into the cell when he grabbed at her exposed breast. In response, he only laughed.
Inside, a guard with a flashlight led her back to her bunk and then went away. The room had gone quiet but not everyone was sleeping. Julie was sure she heard crying—the occasional quiet sniffle. She wanted to pretend someone or several someones had a cold or allergies. No one acknowledged the crying. None of it was really happening.
Julie didn't want to sleep. If she slept, morning would come faster which would lead into the following night where she knew bad things would happen.
She tried desperately to pretend that this was something she'd chosen. She tried to play along with Dmitri's framing of things. It was a job. She tried to pretend that she was a high-end escort making a ridiculous amount of money, and that it was no big deal. She told herself imaginary stories about the vast experience she had with men to the point that it was all casual and nothing to her.
In the bunk next to hers, she heard Carmen praying in Spanish. Carmen was so quiet and so quick with her words that Julie couldn't pick out anything, but the fervent focus that came from that bunk convinced her that these exact words were spoken each night with this same sharp intensity. And for minutes at a time, Julie could will herself to believe that the virgin Mary heard these prayers and that plans were being made on some other plane of existence to bring down bloody vengeance upon these monsters.
But when Julie closed her eyes, she didn't see Mary or angels. She saw Gabe. She imagined that fierce intensity and strength she'd been afraid of only a couple of weeks ago being aimed at the men here. She made up a story in her head where he somehow found her and rescued her from Dmitri and his gang. She imagined he would take her away somewhere and take care of her, and somehow everything would be okay. She replayed the story over and over, adding more details each time until, without realizing it, she'd lulled herself off to sleep. The fantasy of Gabe merged smoothly into a dream of him that was only lightly sprinkled with disembodied angry Spanish curses.
Chapter Three
6 months later
Gabe pulled into the long expansive driveway of Dmitri Barinov's estate. The man hadn't been kidding about throwing a party, and by all accounts when Dmitri threw a party, he did it right. Gabe put the Bentley into park. When he stepped out of the car, he leveled a hard stare at the young valet.
"Not a single dent or scratch. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Griffin."
So the kid knew his name. Gabe wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wasn't sure how he felt about this potential partnership at all. They'd been doing fine at the house, managing it their way. Anton was too ambitious. There was a point at which it made sense to keep a business at the level it was at—to grow no further. There were downsides to growth, particularly if your enterprise was criminal in nature. And Gabe preferred to keep everything in the family. Secretly he hoped to discover a big enough flaw in this set-up to convince Anton to put the brakes on the whole thing.
But was such an outcome possible now? Gabe had been assured that the utmost discretion had been used. They could walk away from the deal and nobody would end up in prison. But he had his doubts about that. At this point, it felt as though Anton's Russian friends could be nothing but a liability. Anton should have come for this party, but the other guys had wanted someone unbiased. And Gabe drew the short straw.
He straightened his black Dior suit and tugged on his tie. It felt like the suit was wearing him instead of the other way around. Gabe hated suits. But he couldn't show up in jeans and a T-shirt. Everything about his performance tonight had to exude power or they would become these guys' bitches the second the ink was dry. And Gabe was nobody's bitch.
He took a deep breath and glanced casually around the grounds. The house wasn't quite as large as his house, but it was still imposing. The grounds rolled on forever, perfectly manicured like a fucking golf course green. Don't be impressed. Don't be intimidated. Everything they have to offer bores you. It's all... quaint.
Okay, he could believe that for a few hours. Gabe put his game face on and approached the front door. Before he could knock, the heavy oak swung open, and he was admitted inside.
"If you'd be so kind as to make your way back to the dining room, fourth door on the left. Dinner is ready."
Gabe gave the man at the door a curt nod. Anton had said to be fashionably late. Don't give the impression that you care about any of this. Give the impression that they're wasting your time or they'll take advantage.
A sultry Rachmaninoff piano concerto filled the house as Gabe made his way to the dining room. When he arrived, everyone stood. He was briefly taken aback. There were only men at the table. He'd thought Dmitri's girls would be here. The agreement was that there would be no talk of business tonight. Gabe was supposed to go to the party, have dinner, sample the merchandise, and report back to Anton. Meetings would follow.
"Ah, our honored guest, Gabriel."
Gabe winced at his more formal name. He hadn't been called Gabriel since his childhood when he'd been in trouble. But it was suits and Bentleys and Gabriel tonight. He could mix with the best of them when he had to, but he hated this fancy, pretentious shit.
Dmitri continued, oblivious to his gaffe—or not caring. "We'll meet the girls after dinner. They've been told someone important is coming tonight." He indicated a seat beside him. Gabe sat and the soup was served.
Dmitri was a thin, reedy looking gentleman that gave off an air of refinement such that if there were to be passing gossip about the business he was in, no one would give it any credence. He didn't look the type. He was about fifty, with gray edging into his temples. He had a face that one might mistake for kind if they didn't know him well—and certainly he'd worn that polite mask long enough that the lines and creases in his face had formed to support the lie. Passing him on the street you might think he was a ballet master or orchestra conductor, or a professor of art history. Not a pimp, which despite the elegant packaging was what he was... what they all were.
Contrary to Gabe's worries, business wasn't discussed. Instead Dmitri spoke of his homeland and the differences between living here and living there. His thick Russian accent reminded Gabe so strongly of Anton. Despite the accent, his English was impeccable. He'd obviously been here a long time and had taken great pains to speak like those around him.
Dmitri politely asked about Gabe's life in subtle general ways that wouldn't betray anyone's secrets. But even with this discretion, it was far too exposed for Gabe's taste.
He ate enough to be polite, as did most of the other men at the table. It wasn't the food. The food was great. Most of it was traditional Russian fare. Being around Anton so long, Gabe had sampled a lot of it before. But the unspoken agreement of all the men at the table was that nobody wanted to get too stuffed that they couldn't fully enjoy the real reason they were here.
Finally after the dessert course—a light fluffy cake—was finished, Dmitri put down his fork and stood.
"Shall we adjourn to the real party, then?"
Appreciative chuckles rose around the table.
Including Gabe, there were about twenty men here. Everyone else in attendance was a top tier client of this house. Their inclusion was so that Gabe could see the types of clients they worked with. None of them knew Gabe's true purpose of attendance, only that he was important and the guest of honor. It was most likely they'd simply assumed Gabe had the most money and would be spending a lot of it with Dmitri's house.
The men made their way into a large ballroom. The first rather disconcerting thing Gabe noticed when he entered the room was that there w
ere armed guards. And they weren't discreet about it. Each held a black semi-automatic rifle and wore a menacing glare. Of course there had to be security. At his own house, the girls wore electronic bracelets to keep them on the property but there weren't huge guards with guns everywhere. Except for the ever-present threat of Brian—the house enforcer—the girls existed in a space free from threat of violence.
At Gabe's house, they made every effort not to damage the girls. But he got the distinct impression that the women here were under constant threat. He wasn't going to lie—even to himself—and pretend there was anything moral or good about the business he was in. But with a few very weird exceptions, every woman that came to his house to be trained was there of her own free will because she had some kinky itch that needed to be scratched in a very specific way.
Gabe and the others trained them and sold them to the highest bidder among clients they'd screened as carefully as possible. To Gabe's warped way of thinking, it was nothing more than a very exclusive and niche matchmaking service. And matchmakers got paid.
In this case, very well.
The girls' safety was watched out for even long after they left the house. And Brian enforced the contracts without mercy. Perhaps it was all window dressing to seem like they weren't the most evil pieces of shit imaginable, but there were degrees, and Gabe liked to think he and his friends stayed just shy of irredeemable.
Dmitri clapped and the din of conversation ceased immediately. "I've teased you gentlemen long enough. I would like to welcome you all to our exclusive annual party to show our most generous clients how much we value them. Tonight, everything is free. The food, the drink, the entertainment."
On cue, a single file line of women entered the room. If Gabe had to guess, they were probably between nineteen and twenty-eight. There were almost twice as many women as there were men, which meant, there would at least be a few threesomes tonight. They all wore very elegant black lingerie. The styles differed—some long classy gowns, some short sassy little skirts and lace bras. There was leather, silk, lace. There were boots on some and high heels on others. Gloves on a few. But everything was black. And everything was expensive. The scent of vanilla wafted into the room with their arrival.
