“I want you on Jana Spears.” Her name lingers on my tongue. “The girls need protection. We’re not the only predators with their information now. Not every man will wait for the auction. Why pay when they can take?” My fists clench on her picture before I sigh and straighten out the creases.
“And Jana Spears?” Viktor’s voice drags me back from rage.
“She’s under mine.” The statement is final. A claim I’m making before I have any right. Looking at her photograph, at the desperate dignity in her eyes, I know with bone-deep certainty: Jana Spears is mine. I just have no fucking idea what to do with it.
***
Three days of daily reports. I memorize Jana’s routine, studying a target I have no intention of harming.No, not at all. Each update from Viktor arrives punctually, and I’m hell to be around when they’re delayed.
She visits her grandmother every evening at the hospice—Dorothy Spears, late-stage renal failure, no donor match. She’s finishing her last class for her business degree. She works toodamn hard delivering food to strangers. My girl, walking into danger for a few measly dollars. I consider buying the company, just to fire her. She can keep her ass at home, safe. But I bide my time, Viktor is covering her, and he knows the price for failure.
She has no one. Nobody gives a fuck about her except an old woman dying in a Medicaid bed.
It makes me furious.
It makes me hungry.
Walking into The Onyx Room should be gratifying—staff straightening, conversations cutting off, the stillness of people aware of my presence. Today, it just irritates me as another delay.
“Welcome, Mr. Ismailov. We weren’t expecting you. We can have your section ready in—”
Daniil shakes his head, a sharp crack of his neck cutting off the hostess. Maxim shoves his way through the crowd, his massive frame clearing a path. We head for the private room in the back, and icy control settles over me. The coldness that comes before violence crystallizes.
The bass from the main floor vibrates through the walls, but the hallway is quiet, soundproofed for discretion. Perfect for selling women, apparently. The worst decision of Volodymyr’s short, soon-to-be-ended life.
I don’t knock. This is my club, my property. The door slams open, bouncing off the wall, and silence ripples toward the stage like a shockwave.
Everyone freezes—the well-dressed predators in their expensive suits, Volodymyr’s staff, the girls lined up on stage like products. The air reeks of expensive cologne. I let the moment stretch.
They figure it out when they see my face.
“Viktor, get every attendee’s name and identification before showing them to the door.” My voice is calm, the kind of calm that comes before screaming.
Viktor strides through the tables as I continue my march to the front, Maxim and Daniil flanking me like reapers. Each step is measured, giving Volodymyr time to understand how thoroughly he’s fucked himself.
The blood has drained from his face. He’s frozen, his mouth working frantically. Sweat soaks his expensive collar.
“Uh. Rafail, we weren't expecting you. I wanted to surprise you with our new venture.” The words tumble out, desperate.
“It is a surprise.” I stop three feet from him, hands loose at my sides. “I’m surprised you’re not pissing in your pants. But that’s okay. Keep your piss.” My smile spreads slowly, showing teeth. “I’m here for blood.”
“No, it’s not what you think, I swear—” His words escalate into a screech as he backs away from Maxim’s grinning approach.
“Oh, really?” I take one deliberate step forward. He scrambles back two. “Because I think you fucked up. You wanted to hold an auction. Selling women behind my back, and you were dumb enough to think I wouldn’t find out.” Another step. “Wouldn’t fucking care.”
My words grow softer with each sentence.
His head bobbles, spittle on his chin as he sputters excuses that mean nothing. Each word deepens my contempt.
“Enough.” I reach him in one smooth motion, lifting him by his collar until I can smell his fear. “You made a mistake. Mistakes cost. End of story.”
His feet kick uselessly. I shove him into Maxim’s waiting arms. Maxim’s grin widens.
“Dispose of this garbage.”
“With pleasure.” Maxim’s knuckles crack like gunshots in the silent room.
A quick hitch—a sharp, feminine intake of breath—snaps my head around.
