Chapter 4 My Name Is Jakob
MY NAME IS JAKOB
LORENZO
Ah, the lights and glitter of Las Vegas.
I fucking hate it.
I came here once a few years ago as part of an intelligence operation. Why anyone would plop a city down in the middle of the goddamned desert is beyond me. I hate the noise. I hate the lights. I hate the casinos. I hate the scent of desperation that somehow seems to permeate the very air.
I push that aside as irrelevant as I follow Inez's directions to the club.
It's a massive, imposing black block of a building, the name "CLUB SIN" spelled out in mammoth blood-red letters on the side over the covered front entrance.
It's located in a remote industrial area, tucked away behind warehouses and office buildings and manufacturing plants, hidden behind a snaking line of jagged-edge hills.
It sits on a plot of several acres of blacktop parking lot—clear sightlines in every direction, with one way in to the lot and one way out.
It's nearing noon, so the lot is empty, save for a row of Mercedes G-Wagens parked on the west side near an inconspicuous black door.
Inez directs me to park our stolen car beside the expensive SUVs.
She's out of the car before I've shut off the motor, marching for the door.
She inputs a six-digit code into the keypad above the knob; a green light flashes, and she yanks open the door.
Fluorescent lights illuminate a staircase leading down.
I follow her down the steps—the floor at the bottom is pale gray epoxy with blue flecks; a long hallway extends away from the stairs, featureless, unnumbered doors on either side.
Voices echo, chattering excitedly, coming toward us—female voices.
"Boys? Is that you?" A woman calls, with a slap of bare feet on the floor. "We hadn't heard anything in a few days so—"
A woman appears from the other end of the hallway, her words cutting off as she sees it's not who she was expecting. She's gorgeous—blond hair, blue eyes, beautiful body. She's wearing tiny black skin-tight workout shorts and a black sports bra, and she's sweating, panting.
"Sorry to disappoint, Myka," Inez says. "Gather the others in the common room. Now, please. We have a situation."
"Inez?" The woman—Myka—queries. "Who's your…friend?"
We're standing close, Inez and I. Hip to hip, the kind of close contact you share with someone you know very well. Inez doesn't put space between us.
"His name is Lorenzo," she answers. "No questions. Just gather the rest of the girls for me. Who is on duty upstairs?"
"Toro is in the security booth," Myka answers, “and Taj and Fonz are roving. Should I call them?"
"No. Just the girls, for now."
Instead of doing Inez's bidding, Myka takes a few steps toward Inez, one hand outstretched. "Inez, your face. And you're limping."
A series of expressions crosses Inez's face—confusion, surprise, irritation, and something like wonder or stunned amazement. "Hazards of the job. I'm fine."
Myka shakes her head. "Inez. Don't bullshit me."
Inez's lower lip actually trembles—it's very subtle, but I saw it. "I was Rafael's…guest, briefly. It wasn't pleasant, but I've been through worse. I promise, I'm fine. I appreciate your concern, however."
Inez's face has actually healed remarkably fast since we sprung her from that basement.
Bruises still shadow her face in florid greens and blues and yellows, and her lips bear the scabs of having been split.
But if Myka had seen Inez even after we got her cleaned up, she would have known that what Inez went through was far, far worse than merely unpleasant.
Myka, judging by her expression, seems to understand that Inez is still downplaying the whole thing. “Is one of the guys hurt?"
Inez shakes her head. "No, everyone is okay. But time is of the essence, so let's get going."
She breezes past Myka, and I follow her. The hallway opens into a common room—an open floor plan kitchen and den. It's industrial but homey, somehow.
Two other women are seated on a large black leather sectional in a U-shape around a coffee table and a massive flatscreen TV—a reality show is playing, and the two women are facing each other on the couch, painting each other's toenails.
One of the women is Indian—or from that part of the world, at least—and the other is very tall, athletic, and red-haired; a walking cane, intricately hand-carved into a helix with a sharp, hooked, beak-like handle, hangs off the back of the couch by the handle.
I hear Myka knocking on doors and murmuring.
A couple of minutes later, A few more women pour out of the other rooms: another fairly tall woman, perhaps the same height as Myka, with long, jet-black hair, wearing a knee-length skirt and tank top; a short and very curvy woman with scarlet hair; a medium height woman, willowy, with auburn hair and a shy, observant manner.
They all gather in the common room, finding seats on the sectional; they sit in a tangled cluster, an intimacy of proximity despite the size of the couch. I lean against a pillar at the center of the room as Inez stands with her back to the TV.
"Hello, ladies," Inez says, her voice low and quiet. "I trust you are all well."
The Indian woman speaks. "We are all quite well, thank you." Her voice is lilting and musical. "It seems you have received some manner of violence. Are you alright?"
Inez's face goes carefully blank, and her eyes shutter closed.
She opens them again after a moment and smiles—it's a rare thing, to see her smile like that.
It lights up her face, softens the icy mask she wears.
"Yes, Anjalee, I am fine. I…" she looks at me, swallows hard, seeming to hunt for courage.
"I may as well tell you, I suppose. You are all aware of the general outlines of the situation, I hope? "
The willowy woman with auburn hair speaks up—her voice is so soft and quiet I can barely hear her. "I would not object if you explained things a bit. If…if you don't mind."
Inez's smile holds as she regards the speaker with open affection—an expression I don't know if I have ever seen on her face before. "Of course, Naomi."
A long pause as Inez gathers her thoughts.
"To be honest, I don’t really know where to start.
It is very complex. I suppose I must give you some context so you can understand the present situation.
" She looks to me for courage again, and I smile; she lets out a breath.
"I have not spoken of this at all for many years, so please forgive me if the telling is difficult.
Inez is not the name I was born with. I was born Sophia Bruna Santos de Silva.
Legally, my name is Sophia Bruna Santos de Silva Sousa.
Sousa is the surname of my husband—Rafael Sousa. "
"You're married?” The question is blurted, shocked, by the woman with scarlet hair. "Holy fuckin’ shit!"
Inez rolls her eyes. "It's not what you think. It was not a love match. Nor was it my choice. There are details which…I…" she trails off, glancing at me for support.
I move to her side. "Ladies. I am Lorenzo Oliveira Araujo.
I have known Inez for…well, a very long time.
Her father was a Brazilian warlord and crime kingpin, and she was raised to be his successor.
That was her role and purpose in life, whether she liked it or not.
She and I…developed an attraction for each other.
It was forbidden, since I was the hired help and she was the boss's daughter—as good as a princess, in that part of the world.
She was betrothed to her father's right-hand man—as she said, it was against her will.
Her father gave her a choice—an ultimatum.
Marry Rafael Sousa, or face the consequences. "
The willowy woman, Naomi, pales. "What…what were the consequences, if you don't mind me asking?"
Inez lifts her chin, expression hardening into the icy mask of venomous indifference she has shown the world for so long—her armor against the pain within.
"I refused. Rafael was…is…a vile, disgusting, evil, depraved…
thing. A creature of…of…utterly unspeakable…
" she shakes her head, trailing off. "Sorry, I…
" she lets out a breath. "I refused to marry him.
My father locked me in a cell, chained me to a bed, and had his men rape me. It…I…"
I jump in. "It lasted three days. I was…unable to stop it." I clear my throat. "She was married to Rafael after that."
Silence boils in the room as the other women process what was just said.
"Inez," the woman named Naomi whispers. "No. No."
"Your own father?" Myka asks, her voice shaky. "He…he allowed that to happen?"
"Allowed?" Inez barks a laugh. "He ordered it."
"Be glad you cannot fathom the evil some fathers are capable of, Myka," Naomi says, her voice low, her tone indicating a personal knowledge of what she says.
Inez and Naomi share a long look—this Naomi has been through her own hell, I would guess.
After a moment, Inez sighs. "I was forced to conceive and birth a child.
My husband, while I was recovering from what was done to me before the wedding, murdered my father and those loyal to him and took over his empire.
I…" she drops her eyes, fists clenched at her sides.
"What I must tell you next is very difficult for me.
As you can probably imagine, I was…not in the most stable headspace at that time. "
The scarlet-haired woman lets out a sarcastic laugh; she has what I believe to be a Boston accent, though I am no expert on American regional accents. "No shit? I can't imagine why. I'd have been pretty murdery."
"Murdery," Inez echoes, her voice faint. "Yes, Terra. Murdery is a pretty damned apt way of describing me."