Petra has never claimed to love me. And while I spent a brief moment in my youth thinking I loved her, my heart is my own again. It sits to the left of my spine and beats with the will of a warrior, the tenacity of a street dog, and the ice-cold certainty of a vigilante. It is mine, and so it shall remain. It is the only sure way to survive.
"You drive a hard bargain," the salesman says.
"You have no idea," Petra purrs, circling behind me and running a hand up my spine. Her nails scratch through the layers of coat, sports jacket, and shirt to leave a trail of heat. "He is very hard."
I suppress a laugh as Petra stalks to the salesman. "Leave us," she says.
The merchant glances at me, and I keep my face unreadable. He looks back at Petra—whose back is to me so I can't see her expression—but it makes the man leave his own shop.
Petra stands in a band of sunlight. The black knee-length cashmere coat absorbs the light, but the sheer stockings reflect it. Her green eyes, catlike in shape and temperament, smile.
Petra is good at smiling with just her eyes. The stern line of those luscious lips—painted harlot red—tighten my stomach. "I want you," she says, her voice even. The woman never plays coy, never acts shy.
I let a smile twitch across my lips.
"I don't want much." She takes a step toward me, showing the flash of red from the bottom of her black pump that matches her lips. "Just a kiss."
Her lip trembles as if she is afraid I'll refuse her, and she bites down on it with white teeth, her eyes turning soft. But not pleading. She won't beg… yet.
Petra needs to be on the absolute edge to beg.
I glance at my watch—a gold Rolex gifted to me by another client—and then back to the rugs. I could have her there in six minutes, but to do it right, to really make her scream, would take seventeen.
I only have fifteen. I’ll make it work.
I always make it work. I’ll have Petra on a lovely vintage Oushak rug and, before we leave, I’ll have the tapestry too.
Petra's arm rests in the crook of mine as we leave the restaurant. A fine mist thickens the air and sparkles in the streetlight's glow. A cool breeze blasts down the street, and Petra grips my arm, her hair whipping around her shoulders.
We make our way to the Paris Hotel—one of the oldest and grandest in Istanbul. We’ve come to see Yusuf Polat, who keeps a suite here. The doorman bows to us as he opens the door.
Water shimmers in Petra's chestnut hair like dew in a spiderweb. She smiles at a bellboy, and he blushes. Poor thing.
"Good evening," the front desk attendant greets us. "We are expecting you, please." She waves a graceful arm to another bellboy. "Mustafa will show you up." Mustafa bows and takes us up in the elevator.
To think there was a time when people could not operate elevators on their own. During that period, people of my skin color would not have been welcome in this hotel unless as an employee. Now I enter as an honored guest. We shall see if I make it out with such auspicious reverence.
Yusuf reminds me of the Star Wars character, Jabba the Hutt. Except the beautiful young woman attending him is not held by a literal chain around her neck but rather the invisible economic bonds of class, birth, and sex.
I watched Return of The Jedi mostly naked in a British tourist's hotel room, the curtains drawn tight against the bright beach sun trying to blast into the dark, intimate world we'd created. Marigold. Lovely in her fifties, she told me I was beautiful enough to be on film. Her skin smelled of sunscreen and the hotel's jasmine-scented soap. She ate her toast dry with black coffee and laughed easily. Marigold remained a client for years.
A weight swings from my heart at the memory of that day, of her, of the me I used to be. When I see a young woman forced into the same profession, flashes of my past work life evoke a mix of nostalgia and relief. I chose to sell my body to climb out of poverty. I held on to my dignity, creating a strong and thriving identity that still serves me today.
This girl, with her sallow skin, dark circles, and slumped shoulders, teeters on the edge of total destruction. If the drugs don't swallow her, then that viscous inner voice will tear her to pieces. Princess Leia knew she didn't belong in chains. This girl looks as if she believes she was born to wear them.
I inhale slowly through my nose, taking my gaze from the ornamental whore to the beast of a man sitting on the love seat beside her. His pudgy fingers, decorated with fat gold rings, dig into her thin thigh hard enough to leave fresh bruises. They will match the ones on her arms that she's covered in makeup but still shine through.
"Petra." Yusuf smiles broadly and stands. His silk Versace shirt, patterned with gold lengths of twining rope, gapes open to his stomach—tan, hairy, and shiny, as if he is sweating or had just rubbed on oil.
Petra shrugs out of her coat, and one of Yusuf's guards, a mountain of a man in a sharkskin suit, steps forward to help her. Mountain's diminutive counterpart—the physical opposite but wearing the same suit with its bulging sidearm—stands just behind us with his hands loose at his side. Ready to kill.
Yusuf takes Petra's hand, and they kiss cheeks. Petra turns to me. "This is my partner, Lenox Gold," Petra says. I bow my head as Mountain moves behind me, a silent request for my overcoat.
I slip it off my shoulders and let the man take it, acting as though the weight of it, the extra layer between me and the scum in this room, wasn't a slight comfort. Yusuf holds out his hand, and I meet it with my own, placing a subtle smile on my lips and bringing a light of vague interest into my eyes, ignoring the slick feel of him.
The best whores are the best actors.
"Please," Yusuf says, "what can I get you to drink?"
"Red wine," Petra says. I nod that I'll have the same.
Yusuf waves a hand at Tiny, and he stalks to a bar, his suit glinting with each step. Yusuf returns to his seat, not bothering to introduce the woman next to him. She doesn’t meet our eyes, just stares down at her hands lying limp against her bare thighs. The dress she's wearing is black and clingy as a bathing suit.
"Sit," Yusuf invites, gesturing to the two armchairs that face the love seat. I wait for Petra to settle into the gaudy gold and red thing before taking my place beside her.
"Chivalrous," Yusuf comments. "Did you learn that as a gigolo?"
He says it as if to elicit shame. Sorry to disappoint, Jabba. "My mother always taught me to respect women, treat them with delicacy, while also recognizing their incredible strength. They are creators, after all, Yusuf. We merely provide the seed."
"But without the seed, a plant cannot grow."
"Without the soil and sun, it will never survive." I smile.
Yusuf barks out a laugh. "I like him." He flings an arm around the nameless creature next to him.
Mountain hands us our wine, and Yusuf's grin slowly fades. "I like you." He says it to me this time instead of addressing Petra. "But I don't like you coming into my city and doing what you're doing."
"Yusuf." Petra uses that purr of hers, the one that raises the hairs on men's arms… and other parts as well. "I've worked in this city for a decade, and you never had a problem with me before. I still pay my dues."
He blinks slowly, the fat around his eyes tightening as he stares at her. "Ian is very upset about his brothers." Murdering a man's family does often upset them.
"Business." Petra shrugs. "You understand." She raises one brow, as though they share knowledge of past deeds done.
"What you're doing isn't business. It's charity."
My voice catches in my throat, holding it in, not letting my own beliefs and emotions into this moment. Yusuf runs this city’s underworld, and if we want to survive not just tonight but the years ahead, we either have to negotiate with him… or end him.
"Yusuf," Petra uses his name again. "Charity?" She shakes her head. "Happy whores make happy customers. Also, better working conditions allow us to have a higher level of entertainment. And—" She sips her wine. "—keeps Joyful Justice off our backs."
Yusuf sucks at his teeth. "I don't like it." He frowns. "You used to work with the McCain brothers. Now you turn on them." The lines around his mouth deepen. "You start letting girls out of contracts." The girl next to him flicks her gaze up to Petra just for a second, but Yusuf senses it. His hand grips her shoulder, and she curls deeper into herself. She won't be safe anywhere until this man is dead.
"You worked with Omer for many years," Petra says, her voice light but edged with warning. "And that did not stop you from moving up."
Yusuf shifts in his seat, leaning further back, feigning a relaxed and powerful pose, but the man does not like having his inglorious past put in front of his face. Petra, be careful. A puppy will let you rub its nose in its mistakes, but a full-grown pit bull will not.
"You have higher ambitions then?" Yusuf asks, the warning in his tone absolute—do not answer wrong, or I will kill you now.
Mountain and Tiny are still behind us. They have not moved, but they don't have far to go for their weapons.
"I only wish to make the most money that I can with the least amount of hassle," Petra answers. "As always."
Yusuf shifts his gaze to me. "And what about you, Lenox Gold? Do you have ambitions?"
"Of course. I am a man."
Yusuf bares his teeth in a grin. "What do you want?"
"I wish to create a profitable business and healthy work environment for my employees."
Yusuf coughs a derisive laugh, his belly shaking from the sound. "Employees." He sits forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "Call them what they are, Mr. Gold. They are whores." He says the word as if it is a wine he wants to fully get the taste of, swirling it around in his mouth, enjoying the subtle flavors. I offer him a friendly smile. His eyes narrow. "You don't like women?"
I allow a flash of a grin, a hint of my true wolfish nature to peek from behind the blinds. He will trust a man who likes to fuck because he believes that none of us can control our inner beast. What men like Yusuf never learn is that leashing the beast heightens its appetite and pleasure.
"I enjoy consensual sex with women," I answer, cool as a sunset cocktail on the bow of a yacht. "Very much so." My voice drops an octave to a velvety, dark place that every sensual being knows and desires.
Yusuf laughs. "Consensual. You are very modern, aren't you, Mr. Gold?" He grips the girl's leg again but maintains eye contact with me, daring me to challenge him. To see which of our wolves can tear out the other’s throat first.
I sip my wine, my expression once again that gentle friendliness that has served me so well. Yusuf shifts his attention to Petra again. "I will need a higher royalty," he announces. "You're hurting business all over the city, starting to get whores talking about rights." He says rights like it's a foul-tasting oyster he has to spit out or risk infection.
"But, Yusuf," Petra keeps her voice friendly, "we already pay you 10 percent. With overhead, you leave us so little," she pouts.
"What do I care?" Yusuf drops the words like stones into the bottom of a well—deep, big plops. At least we know there is water down there.
"You see no reason to care," I mirror his language.
"That's right. Your business margins are not my problem."
"Not your problem."
He nods, enjoying the mirroring. So many men do. I wait in silence, knowing he’ll speak again. "I don't like what you are doing or the way you are doing it."
"Our methods are not to your liking."
He nods, agreeing with me… himself. "It does not make sense to treat them so well."
"Why should we treat them so well?" I smile gently. I hear you. That's all anyone wants… to be heard. Understood. Empathized with. If you give a man empathy, you earn his soul. The devil is so good at bargaining because he knows what his victims truly want. The key to any good negotiation is to find out what your counterpart wants, empathize with them, then show them how giving you what you want can better fulfill their needs.
"Exactly! Letting whores out of their contracts, that looks bad for all of us."
"Bad for everyone."
His nostrils flare. "It riles up the workers."
"Riles up the workers."
"Makes them think they are important and can stand against us."
"Gives them a false sense of importance."
"That's right!" Yusuf glances at the girl next to him. "Take Anna here." The girl flinches as if someone might actually take her. "She's a good girl. But what if she worked at one of your places? Would you treat her right, keep her in her place? Or let her cry and beg off?"
I nod slowly. "It seems like you want to make sure that your business practices won't be undermined by the changes we've implemented."
"Right!" I wait, letting time slip by, letting silence work its magic. "Giving in to Joyful Justice is no way to defeat them."
"We can't defeat Joyful Justice by giving in to them."
His mouth spreads into a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. "You've got it." He glances at Petra. "Your man here knows what he's talking about."
Petra sips her wine and offers a friendly smile. We just want to find a way to live together in this crazy world. "It seems like you want to destroy Joyful Justice," Petra says.
"Of course I do." His eyes narrow. "Don't you?"
I shrug. "They have backed off since the McCain brothers left Petra's organization."
Yusuf laughs. "You are a slick one, aren't you, Lenox Gold?"
"You seem to think I'm trying to trick you."
"No." His brow furrows as his ego rebels.
"Sorry." I raise my free hand. "I just said it seemed that way. I must have misread the situation."
"That's right. You did." He calms.
"It looks like what you want isn't a bigger percentage of our business but for your business to remain the same. You want the status quo to be maintained."
"What if I want both?" He leans back again, putting a fat arm around Anna.
"You want us to return to standardized practices and give you a larger percentage?"
"That sounds good to me."
"Our business is a problem for you."
"It's a problem. Giving in to Joyful Justice's demands is dangerous and shortsighted."
"Dangerous and shortsighted," I mirror.
"Exactly! Next thing you know, they’ll be demanding that we shut down altogether."
"It seems like you're concerned about future problems with Joyful Justice."
He leans forward then, faster than a man of his girth should be able to move. "I don't worry, Mr. Gold. I prepare."
I nod, using my imagination to try to slip into his skin. If I was Yusuf, ran illegal trade in Istanbul and environs... "You are always prepared."
"Yes, always." A bead of sweat slips from his hairline down the side of his face. "So you will give me my 20 percent and stop letting whores out of agreements. Then maybe, maybe, I will let you continue to work in my city."
"How are we supposed to do that?" Ask a calibrated question when a demand is made.
He raises both brows. "Not my problem."
"There are other services in the city that have rules similar to ours."
"High-end escort services. That is very different."
"How is it different?"
His nostrils flare again, and he shakes his head. "I'm done with this conversation."
"What if we could help with Joyful Justice?"
He raises his brows, a sneaky smile cresting his lips. "I have that in hand. You don't need to worry about them."
"We will need to think about all this," Petra says, standing. "Thank you for your time."
"Come back with your new percentage, or don't come back," Yusuf warns, also standing. Anna and I are the only two still sitting. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, but hers dart away quickly.
"How much for her?" I ask, cursing myself but knowing I can't leave without her.
"Who?" Yusuf sounds genuinely confused.
I look up at him. "Anna."
He glances at her. Yusuf shakes his head. "She's not for sale."
I smile. "Yusuf, everyone has a price."
He likes that—the idea that people and morals can be bought and sold. "Make me an offer."
I stay seated, letting him feel bigger than me. "$1,000." I start with a low, round number.
He snorts and turns away, pacing toward his armed guards. "Not even close," he throws over his shoulder.
"What if I promise to treat her 'right'?"
Petra catches my eye but gives nothing away. She won't undermine me in front of Yusuf, but her heart does not bleed like mine. This is foolish.
I stand and join Petra. Yusuf looms behind the love seat, his hands on Anna's shoulders. She stares glassy-eyed at her lap. "She is one of my favorites," Yusuf says. "Never knew a man before me."
"You are lucky," I say.
"I am powerful, and I take what I want."
"Yes," I agree. "Very powerful."
He straightens, relinquishing the girl. "I will give her to you, a gift." He smiles. "A thank-you for the increase in profit sharing and return to normalcy at your establishments."
"Thank you," Petra says before I can speak. "Come," she says to Anna. The girl looks up at Petra, her eyes wide with astonishment and fear. She doesn’t trust this turn of events. None of us do.
Chapter Three
Dan
"How did you know she was bleeding?" Mulberry's question is reasonable, his voice calm. But the truth would sound nothing less than crazy… stalkery… creepy… unacceptable. I'm not in love with her. Not anymore. I'm just… I keep track of everyone.
But they can't know that.
"I had a dream." I keep my eyes on the external camera feed from his phone. Mulberry's hair brushes the edge of the lens, so I'm looking at the hospital hallway through wispy dark strands.
"A dream?" He sounds incredulous now. Fair.
"Yes, I woke up absolutely sure she was in trouble. I can't explain it. What happened?"
"Dan," Mulberry's voice drops as a nurse passes him, "you used my phone to call 911." I let his own words sink in. I did what you could not. I acted when you froze.
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