Night after night. Year after year. Being served up to men for entertainment.
And I'm standing against this wall doing nothing.
The red dress shifts as she reaches for her wine glass. The slit parts, exposing the length of her thigh. Three heads turn simultaneously.
Over my dead fucking body.
One of the servers enters the hall carrying a tray of appetizers. I quickly stick out my boot. She trips. The tray goes flying. Food scatters across the marble in a spectacular mess.
The girl bursts into tears, and the commotion yanks every predator's attention away from Keira.
It's not my first choice, but it's better than doing nothing.
Eighteen minutes.
That's how long I've been standing here, imagining exactly what I'm going to do to each of these men.
Mendoza first. The one who keeps drumming his fingers against the tablecloth like he's bored. I'll take those fingers, one knuckle at a time. Garden shears. Slow enough for him to really feel each one.
Becker gets the nail treatment. Tiny nail bits pushed into places that make grown men scream. And when he's begging me to stop, I'll ask him if the children he trafficked begged too.
Marchetti—the one who keeps staring at Keira's chest. I'll take both his eyes. Then I'll work my way down to the parts he's been thinking with all night. A rusted blade. Dull enough that it takes effort.
And Dashkov…
He gets the worst of it. I haven't decided the specifics yet, but it involves pliers. Blowtorches. The kind of sounds that make neighbors call the police from three blocks away.
Too bad no one will be coming to save him.
I'm picturing all of it. In vivid, exquisite detail. It's the only thing keeping me vertical.
Keira glances up at me, a curious expression on her face. Does she suspect I had something to do with this distraction?
Then she looks away, and the hollowness returns.
Hold on just a little longer, Red.
I swear on every god that ever existed, every man in this room is going to pay for what they're doing to her tonight.
"The Mediterranean route has been compromised." Mendoza'svoice slices through my haze. "Too many eyes since the crackdown. We need alternatives."
I force myself to tune in, fixing my eyes on a random painting just past Calder's shoulder.
"Same products?" Calder reaches for his wine.
"Yes, but with a more personalized touch." Mendoza's gaze drifts to the curve of Keira's bare shoulder.
My jaw locks.
Adding your dick to the chopping list.
"The Nordic channel is still viable," Becker offers, tossing a grape into his mouth, chewing while he speaks. "Overhead is significant, though. We need alternative methods, and the products need to remain fresh."
They're discussing how to keep the people they're trafficking alive during transport.
Calder sighs, swirling his glass with practiced indifference. "That's not really my wheelhouse. I prefer my vessels to be unproblematic."
Aaron's going to want all of these details. Every name. Every route.
