The crowd goes wild—sick bastards foaming over someone else’s brain damage.
I don’t move.
I’m not here for the entertainment. I’m here because my cousin Vasilisa is gone. Eight years old. Last seen in her own front yard.
Her spineless father got a call earlier—voice scrambled, message simple:
“Pay the price, and we’ll return your daughter.”
Return.
Like a fucking package.
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood. I haven’t said a word since I found out. If I open my mouth, I’ll kill someone.
And not in a way that solves the problem.
The Armenians run this place. They take bets, break bones, and move girls through the back like product. Everyone knows. No one says a fucking thing.
But I’m not here to place a bet.
I’m here to confirm a suspicion.
Angelo Amato’s beside me, bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying too hard to look like he belongs.
He doesn’t.
Not really.
He’s good with a gun. Better with a plan. But this place has a stink only I know how to wear.
I elbow him.
He glances at me.
I jerk my head toward the corridor. “Let’s go.”
The crowd noise fades as we move deeper into the belly of the beast. Concrete walls. Fluorescents that flicker like they’re afraid. Everything smells like mold and fear. We pass two men with crates. They don’t look at us.
Good.
The hallway forks. Left leads to supply. Right—to something worse. I know where we’re going. I’ve heard the rumors. Got good intel from a grunt I beat shitless. I open the door.
Cages.
Fucking cages.
Six. Maybe seven. Girls. Huddled. Hollow-eyed. Skin hanging off bones. A few don’t even look up when the door opens. One of them blinks at me like I’m not real. My fingers curl before I realize I’ve made fists. Angelo exhales beside me—sharp, disgusted.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “We need to call someone.”
“Who?” I snap. “The police?”
I shake my head.
Coward.Fucking Amato.
He glares. “Ourfathers.”
