Chapter 27
Johnny
The car ride is quiet. Not tense. Not awkward. Just… quiet. Walter doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and I’m not in the mood to fill silence with bullshit.
The farther we go, the more the city falls apart. Storefronts give way to boarded windows. Pavement buckles beneath old tires. We’re entering the kind of place where no one makes eye contact, and everyone minds their own business, because the price of curiosity is too damn high.
We pull up to the house and yeah. It’s exactly what I expected.
A run-down, two-story in the middle of a wooded clearing.
White paint peeling in long strips. Porch sagging like it’s ready to collapse.
A single blind swings broken in the upstairs window, tapping out a slow, sad rhythm against the pane.
No one would look twice. That’s the point.
I kill the engine and Walter clears his throat. “Just a walkthrough,” he says. “You don’t need to get too involved.”
I get out of the car without answering. The air smells like mold and bleach. Covered-up rot. Covered-up sin.
The front door sticks when he opens it, the wood swollen from rain and misuse. Inside, the air sharpens. It’s too clean. Too sterile. The kind of sterile that reeks of guilt.
“This is intake,” Walter says, gesturing to a narrow hallway. “They wait here before processing.”
Processing.
I don’t think too hard on that. Not yet. My anger has teeth. I’ve just learned when to unclip the muzzle.
There’s a sound from the back. A girl’s voice. Sounds young. Singing something tuneless and cracked at the edges. I feel it then, that quiet burn in my chest. That pressure behind my eyes that always shows up right before I do something violent.
Walter keeps talking, unaware. “Upstairs is holding. Downstairs is—”
“I’ll see it all,” I say, voice like steel.
He shuts up.
I didn’t come here to play tourist. I came with a purpose. And I’ll be damned if I leave before I achieve it.
Walter leads me down the narrow hallway like he’s giving a real estate tour. “This front room’s used for interviews. Basic intake. Names, nationalities, needs, value estimates… those kind of things.”
I don’t say anything. Just keep walking, hands in my pockets, eyes cataloguing everything. There’s cameras everywhere. No windows that open. No doors that don’t lock from the outside.
We turn the corner, and that’s when we run into him.
Joe. I’ve studied his picture so hard I’d recognize him anywhere.
He’s mid-fifties now. Too clean-shaven. Dressed like he’s trying to pass for money, but his watch is fake.
He’s got that eager bounce in his step. The kind guys get when they think they’re the main character.
He doesn’t seem recognize me. Not surprising. I was just a kid when he murdered my mom and fucked up Lina’s life. Fucked up mine. Now here he is, in the hallway of a trafficker's house, trying to play top dog.
“Jonathan,” Walter says, gesturing, “this is Joe. He oversees the house at the moment.”
Joe’s face drops slightly at his words. I’m sure he would like to oversee things forever, but he sticks out his hand anyway. “Nice to meet you.”
I take it. Shake once. Firm, but not too hard. Although it’s tempting to break his fingers.
“Likewise,” I say, remaining cool, polite, forgettable.
Joe doesn’t look twice. Not at my face. Not at my name. Not at the sharp glint in my eyes he should’ve remembered.
“Any word from Roger?” Joes asks Walter. “He never showed today.”
“No,” Walter responds, “but you know how he is.”
They share a private laugh. Joe turns toward me.
“Back room’s getting cleaned,” he offers. “But the girls are upstairs if you want a look.”
“Shall we?” Walter asks, gesturing toward the stairs.
“Of course. I want to see what we’re working with.”
He laughs. Joe laughs. I laugh, too. There’s nothing funny about this.
After, we head back toward the stairs. The house creaks around us, full of ghosts and rot. Before we exit, I slow. Turn slightly toward Walter, making sure Joe’s still within earshot.
“About the wedding,” I say, casual as sin, “I need to add a family member.”
Walter glances at me, curious. “I thought your dad and brother were already coming.”
“They are,” I confirm. “But, my stepsister’ll be there, too,” I add. “Lina.”
I watch Joe from the corner of my eye. There it is. Just a flicker. A tilt of the head. A barely perceptible pause. But I know the twitch of a fish who’s caught the scent.
“I didn’t think she’d be able to make it. She’s from out of town,” I say softly. “Haven’t seen her in years. Should be a hell of a reunion.”
Walter smiles. “The more, the merrier. Your family is now my family.”
I nod once, like the conversation’s done, but in my head, I’m already tying the bait.
I have to hope Joe took it. Hook, line, and goddamn sinker.
He’s invitation was sent months ago, but he still hasn’t RSVP’d.
I’m hoping this will be the push he needs.
Because now that I’ve seen this place? Trying to drag him out of here would be a death sentence.
There’s too many guards, too many guns, and too many cameras.
This little field trip has shown me that I need to get him somewhere more public. I need him to come to the damn wedding.
The house will have to rot a little longer. But Joe? He’s already ash.
Walter, unaware of my inner thoughts, keeps walking and talking.
“This room’s a secondary staging area. Quieter, more private. We find it puts the new girls at ease.”
He says it like he’s describing a goddamn spa.
I nod. Or maybe I don’t. Doesn’t matter. I’m not here for the tour. I’m here to watch the walls breathe. To feel the house settle under the weight of its secrets. To remember the exact shade of Joe’s eyes when I said Lina’s name.
I already know what this place is. Don’t need the layout. Don’t need the inventory. Just need the stink of this place etched into my marrow for when the time comes.
Walter shows me downstairs. He talks about numbers. About intake flow. Supply chains. Clients. All of it disguised under business-speak. I ask the right questions. Laugh at the right moments. Let the man perform his little pitch while my mind sharpens.
When the tour’s over, I shake Walter’s hand. Smile like I’m impressed. Smirk like I condone this fuckery. He says he has things to handle. Whatever. Then, I walk back out into the filth-stained air, get in my car, and drive home. It may be silent, but my mind is screaming.
Too many bodies. Not enough air. Shackles. Bruises. Eyes that don’t blink anymore.
I pull into the underground parking garage to my apartment and kill the engine. I sit in silence, just needing a second to think. But when I open the car door, someone’s waiting.
Nik leans against the concrete wall, arms crossed, like he owns the place.
I don’t show my surprise. Don’t pause. Just take in his clean lines and cold eyes. Hands in his coat pockets like he doesn’t care what happens next, but he does. Men like him don’t stand in front of men like me unless they’ve got nothing to lose.
“Lost?” I ask, stepping past him and remote locking the doors.
He doesn’t move. “No.”
I head toward the elevator, and he follows. Good.
I press the call button and wait. Nik doesn’t speak. Doesn’t fidget. Just stands behind me as if waiting for me to ask, which I do eventually. I’m a curious bastard.
“So,” I say, “you gonna tell me what you want? Or do I have to guess?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me.
Finally, he says, “I thought it was time we collaborated.”
I smirk. “Collaborate? That what the kids are calling it these days?”
He nods once. I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because of the restraint it requires.
I step back from the elevator, giving him my full attention.
“Go on,” I say, voice cool. “I’m listening.”