"We have an understanding with certain parties," Pyotr says smoothly. "Nothing that would concern Ilya. Just local politics."
But I see the glance between Iosef and Pyotr. The slight tension in the room. This is it—this is the thread I need to pull.
"Ilya likes to be informed about local politics," I say. "Especially when they might affect his interests."
"Of course, of course." Iosef waves his hand. "We would never keep anything from Ilya. We're partners. Friends. Or we hope to be the latter, soon."
The blonde's hand moves to my chest, dipping into the V of the button-down I wore to dinner tonight and brushing against the hair there. I catch her wrist gently and move it back to my shoulder. She gets the message and stays still, her fingers pressing into the hollow of muscle there instead.
Three hours and too many drinks later, everyone is starting to get drunk, especially Grigory, who I notice indulges seemingly without thought. By this time, everyone’s face is a little reddened, but his is nearly glowing in the firelight, his words starting to slur. He has the girl in his lap directly over his cock now, her legs hooked on the outside of his as he plays with the edge of her panties. The other men are slightly more discreet, but not much: Iosef has his girl behind him, massaging his shoulders, Pyotr’s is sitting sideways in his lap and nibbling on his ear, and Evan’s girl is sitting on the floor at his feet. When the men need drinks refreshed, the girls get up. They laugh at every joke. The atmosphere is one of decadence, a setting where men say things they shouldn't.
I’ve been drinking more carefully, enjoying the fine vodka and cigars, but with more attention paid to how much I’m consuming. The blonde and brunette have been taking turns sitting on the edge of my chair or at my feet, but every time one goes to touch me, I gently redirect their hands somewhere neutral.
Pyotr noticed early on, but I told him that I prefer my pleasure in private, and Iosef glared at him to shut up.
Grigory tosses back the last of another glass of vodka and leans forward conspiratorially, grinning. "You know what we should do? We should show him our prize. Our littleprintsessa."
Pyotr's eyes sharpen. "Grigory?—"
"No, no, hear me out." Grigory waves his hand dismissively, nearly knocking over his glass. The girl on his lap steadies it, her smile never wavering. "We bought her six months ago. Cost a fortune, butbozhe moy, she's beautiful. Like something out of a painting. Butdifficult." He shakes his head, laughing. "So difficult. Thinks she's too good for us. Thinks she's still some kind of princess."
My jaw tightens. I’d hoped the girls were sex workers. Likely not treated well by the most mediocre of standards, and likely not their top choice of work, but at least a choice. From the sound of what Grigory is saying, though, these men have been trafficking women—or at least dealing in them, purchasing them—which is something Ilyadefinitelydoes not know about.
Suddenly, even the blonde’s hand on my shoulder makes my skin crawl. I look at Grigory, keeping my expression neutral, mildly interested. The blonde in my chair has gone very still. "Difficult how?"
"She fights." Pyotr grins, and it’s cruel… gleeful, even. "Scratches, bites, screams. We've had to teach her manners."
"Teach her?" I take a slow drag from the cigar, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
"You know." Evan waves his hand vaguely, but there's a gleam in his eyes. Pride. "Show her that her old life is gone. That she belongs to us now. That she does what we say, when we say it."
The blonde on my chair shifts, and I see something flicker in her eyes, a fearful discomfort that makes me want to shoot every man in this room. She knows exactly what they’re talking about.
"Some women need a firm hand," Pyotr says carelessly. "This one more than most. But she's learning. Slowly."
"Is she?" Grigory laughs again, too loudly. "She spat in Pyotr's face yesterday. Right in his face! That's why she's in a cell right now. Learning her lesson."
Pyotr's expression darkens at the reminder, and his hand clenches around his glass. "The littlesukawill regret that, mark my words. When she comes out, I'm going to make sure she understands. I'm going to take my time with her. Make her beg."
"She'll learn," Iosef interrupts smoothly, but he's smiling. "They always do, eventually. Break them down enough, and they become whatever you want them to be. Grateful. Obedient. Eager to please." He looks at me, gauging my reaction. "We should bring her out for you. She might even be grateful enough for the reprieve that she’ll behave as she ought to. You really should see her. Girls like her don’t come along all that often. Real class, that one. I thought at first that we’d be careful not to mark up her face, since she’s got such a pretty one. But she’s so hard to break that I figured, what the hell? That’s what a good plastic surgeon is for, right?” He chuckles. “Evan, go get her. Bring her up for Kazimir to see just what a prize we have here. Make sure she’s cleaned up well first.”
I ash my cigar carefully, buying time to control the cold rage building in my chest. "How long has she been down there?"
"Three days so far." Evan shrugs, like it's nothing. Like he's talking about a dog in a kennel. "We planned to let her out whenwe think she's learned her lesson. Minimal food, water, and light. We keep it nice and cold down there, don’t give them much to wear when they’re in the cells. It's amazing how quickly they become grateful for basic kindness after that. How quickly they forget their pride."
"Last time we put her down there, she lasted five days," Grigory adds. "She came out like a ghost. Didn't fight for almost a week after that."
"What did she do to earn five days?" I ask, my voice level.
Grigory's smile is ugly. "Tried to escape. She almost made it to the gate before the dogs caught her. They tore up her legs pretty good. We had to get a doctor to make sure she didn't bleed out. That was fucking expensive. So we made sure she understood the cost of her mistake."
They're all watching me now, trying to see if I approve, if I'm the kind of man who finds this entertaining. If I'm someone they can trust with their darker appetites, who might want a turn with their prize.
I smile. It's not a nice smile, but they're too drunk to notice the difference.
"Effective," I say simply.
It's the right answer. They relax, grinning, pleased that Ilya's enforcer understands their methods. Pleased that I'm not judging them, that I might even be impressed.
