"But you can do it." Marchetti leans forward, attention finally dragged from Keira's chest as he pitches to Calder. "Your infrastructure is already in place—the containers, the routes, the customs connections. You have an entire underground network just waiting to be utilized."
"My overhead would triple. The modifications alone to keep your products intact…temperature control, adequate ventilation, compartmentalization?—"
He glances at Keira.
She reaches for her wine glass instantly. Trained.
"We'd cover the difference." Becker's eyes track to her mouth as she drinks. "Our clients pay whatever we ask. They're not exactly price-sensitive."
Dashkov chuckles—a wet, phlegmy sound that makes my skincrawl. "Making young pussy more exclusive only drives interest. Supply and demand, gentlemen. Basic economics."
I'm going to make him choke on his own tongue.
Calder rolls his eyes, smiling. "Should I adjust my rates accordingly?"
They laugh. All of them. Like old friends swapping stories over brandy.
Dashkov is still watching Keira. Not even trying to hide it anymore. Looking at her like she's already his, and he's just waiting for the transaction to clear.
Enjoy the view while you can, you fucking corpse.
"Will the smaller ones be discounted?" Becker dabs his mouth with a napkin. "Less space required. Seems fair."
"You want a discount for children because they take up less room? They're more valuable, not less. The younger the product, the higher the premium."
My molars grind together so hard my jaw skips, pain shooting up my skull.
"Fair enough." Becker lifts his hands in mock surrender, chuckling.
"There's a private school network we've been cultivating," Marchetti says. "Legitimate front. Impeccable cover. Parents sign over custody thinking they're giving their children opportunities. By the time anyone notices, the paperwork is gone."
Keira's fork freezes halfway to her mouth.
I watch the color drain from her face in real time. She's going to be sick. Or scream.
"I have several options that should satisfy your requirements." Calder waves a dismissive hand, completely oblivious. "We can discuss specifics after dinner."
"Brilliant." Dashkov's gaze slides from Keira to Calder, and something shifts in his expression—something that makes my stomach curdle. "And your wife? Does she assist with the packaging?"
He pauses, arching a brow. "Or perhaps provide samples herself?"
The table goes quiet.
One beat. Two.
Calder's eyes narrow, but he doesn't look upset. "Keira has other talents." He reaches over and drags his knuckles down her bare arm. "She knows her role. Don't you, darling?"
She doesn't answer.
Her eyes have gone distant. Fixed on some middle point only she can see. She's not in this room anymore. She checked out the moment Dashkov opened his mouth, and she's not coming back until it's safe.
It's never safe.
"Darling." Calder's voice sharpens.
"Yes, of course," she croaks.
"So obedient." Dashkov's voice drops, going thick and oily. "I've heard she's quite accommodating."
