1. Virgilio
Chapter One
VIRGILIO
T his devil is out to bargain.
After being cleared by some bodyguards just outside the door, I step into the VIP section of this Bratva-owned club.
I stop at the entrance and scan the room. It is not my turf, and while I do not feel uncomfortable in any way, I know it’s better to study the environment you are entering, just in case.
That is why I also brought along four bodyguards.
I finally spot Mikhail, the Bratva Pakhan I’m here to see, sprawled on a semi-circle French rose lounge couch, with fairy lights in the same color hanging down from its headrest to the floor.
This will be a simple and quick negotiation.
I take a step in Mikhail's direction. At the same time, a girl in a glimmering, deep-colored, very skimpy bikini with fairy-like feathers strapped to her, saunters elegantly on strappy heels to his table with a champagne bucket and bottle, and flutes.
She is an exotic dancer, and I’m fully aware that after this meeting, this place will be crowded with men who come here to have their pick for the night.
I know these are girls who no longer own their lives. They have been kidnapped and reduced to nothing but objects. This bar is exclusive for a reason. The girls have nowhere to go and are at the mercy of the Bratva until they outlive their use.
“Ettore Russo,” Mikhail calls to me. “Welcome.” The man has always blended perfectly with all the trends.
I already hate more than half the human population, so my hatred for him is just a grain of sand on the beach.
I strut to him. No rush.
“Champagne?” Mikhail asks as I approach him, hand pointing for me to take the seat beside him. It is another semi-circle lounge couch with a better view of the cubicles.
“Water,” I sit. “Thank you.” I ignore his drawn-together eyebrows at my request for water, and after contemplating it for a while, he snaps his fingers at the girl who brought the champagne.
She tips her head, and then with the same grace, she saunters to the large, stretched bar under the hanging cubicles to a bartender dressed in the same slutty fairy costume.
“The bartender makes a good mix with eh…” he circles his forefinger, trying to remember, and then snaps his finger when it comes to him, “bourbon, scotch, or whiskey,” he smiles, leaning into his seat with satisfaction for remembering and thinking he sounds classy.
Never seen a man with so much access to class and yet no class of his own.
It is not how he dresses; he pays to look good and he mostly does look put together. He is buffed, tall, and very lousy.
Other than his appearance, though, every single thing that comes out of his mouth that isn’t business-related is classless. It speaks of the rottenness inside the man.
The girl returns with a tray holding a glass of water with a slice of cucumber. She stops by the table beside my seat, and without meeting my eyes, she drops the tray.
“She is beautiful,” Mikhail swells. “All my fairies are.” He taps his lap, and the girl goes over to him, but instead of sitting on it, she kneels beside him and drops her head on his lap, tilting her head in a way that one side of her cheek is on him, making her look like a loyal dog.
I’m bored. “Business?”
“Sure,” he clears his throat, “you never hover, Ettore. Always business, business, business,” he sways, like he is making music with the word, thickening his accent, “All work and no play…” I scowl at him, and he grunts, “Fine, business.”
I’m here to discuss an anti-trust agreement concerning our mutual supplier—the Colombian Cartel. There’s enough cake for both clans; we only have to figure out how to slice it.
“Good enough?” Mikhail asks after stating the conditions of our agreement that he thinks will be favorable to both parties.
“Good enough,” I will give it to him when it comes to business. He knows just how to handle things. He is practical, and I admire that.
“Good,” he claps his hands and pours himself some champagne. “We should do this more often,” he lifts his glass. Life shouldn’t be about business alone; men need to have fun,” he strokes the ponytail of the girl, who is still kneeling on the floor. “Too many toys for a grown man,” he chuckles. “Am I right?”
I won’t dignify his words with an answer. Because if I do, I might just undo whatever truce this meeting has done for both clans.
“I was told you are no fun,” he leans forward, bringing his stoned dark eyes to a snit.
“I have no time for fun while dealing with business matters, and I’m here for work, Mikhail,” I haven’t touched my glass of only the fucking devil knows what, so I pick it up for the sake of courtesy, and stroke the cold glass, enjoying the condensation. “But thank you for…”
My following line of words drowns as I catch a shocking sight in my peripheral vision.
I snap my head in the direction of what feels like a hallucination.
But it is not.
Zoe.
Hell, it is her. Unmistakably her. The light and heavy glitter makeup has done enough to mask her, but I would recognize her anywhere.
The exotic dancers in the cubicles retire, and Zoe, along with another lady dressed in the same fairy costumes, saunters elegantly up the stairs to the cubicles. I watch, unable to tear my eyes off her as she climbs in, waits for the song to cue her, and then starts to dance around the pole like a diva.
She is alive.
I sit straight but then remember where I am and regain my composure.
Zoe is alive. After fifteen fucking years, she is alive and has been under my nose all this while. A slave, stripping at the Bratva club for men who will buy her for the night and use her as a toy.
“See something you like?” Mikhail sips from his champagne.
“How much is she?” I cut to the chase, “The one on the left.”
“For the night or the weekend?” Mikhail leans forward, eager to sponsor this new side of me he sees for the first time, “I can let you have her for a night for free.”
“I want to keep her,” I lean back on my seat, masking my eagerness. I would raze down the club to get her out of here with me if possible. “Forever.”
“No,” Mikhail tuts and shakes his head, “She makes the costumes for the fairies, and people love that shit,” he sips his champagne and then shakes his head again as if he is still thinking about it, “Too valuable.”
“Everyone has a price, Mikhail,” I keep calm, but I want to rip him apart thinking of the inhuman ways Zoe must have been forced to survive, “Name it.”
She has been declared dead for fifteen years now. Was it he who took her and declared her dead to the press?
Fifteen fucking years of being a fucking sex slave.
I grit my teeth harder as I realize she wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t meddled. She wouldn’t have had to fucking live this life if I hadn’t fucking intruded.
I brought this on her.
I can’t fucking leave here without her.
“A price, Mikhail,” fucking damn it, just say your fucking price, for fuck’s sake.
“Still no,” he says as he chugs his champagne, some of the liquid spilling on his beard and suit jacket. “Save your money. I can give you any other girl, but she is too valuable.”
I observe him, “Would six figures be a good start?” I lean forward, resting one elbow on my knee, and in this position, I can see him breaking. Ultimately, they got these girls to make money off them, “On top of it, I will allow you an open request for personal business in the future.”
Now, that one piques his interest, and he sets his champagne flute down on the table. He unbuttons his suit jacket and then harrumphs lousily.
He knows I’m quite influential in our world and very beneficial to anyone who has me on their side. I can give him access to the people he has spent all his bitter years trying to access.
“Five million dollars,” he thinks the amount will make me back away.
“Two million dollars,” I’m determined to bargain. But I’m all too aware that I’m willing to give him whatever he wants if he refuses. I want her. And I’m not leaving this club without her, “Two million and my influence, starting from getting you an invitation to the underground gala next month.”
“There is an underground gala happening next month?” He taps the cheek of the girl kneeling beside him, and she stands, taking that as a dismissal. She saunters away.
“Yes,” I know no one would invite him, especially not the host, but the host owes me a favor, and he can stand Mikhail for a few hours if I tell him to.
“And that’s just one thing I will be getting out of this?” He asks curiously, and I nod.
“Two more invitations and you can tell by the first that they will be completely worth it,” I wait for him to break.
It’s simple.
Being accepted means something to him. He has a wounded ego from being stereotyped. He wants to be accepted because, in truth, we are all made from the same soil. The men who won’t accept him are no lesser evil than he is.
“Three million,” he doesn’t mean it. He can take the two million. It’s an outrageous amount, but I know she is worth it.
I try not to look at her as I make my bargain so he doesn’t see my desperation. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants this deal more than anything.
“Two million, but if you want three, I take back the invitation…”
“Two million is fine,” he shrugs, “I can let her go for two million,” he makes a sad face, putting up a caricature show as if he is losing something of irreplaceable value. To me, she is that and more. To him, he can cut the bullshit.
“So?” I lean back in my seat.
“I will get the paperwork ready; let her entertain you while I do that,” he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit and bringing out his phone. “I didn’t know you were into slaves.” He smiles as if he has just found a buddy in me.
“I’m not,” I set the glass of shit down on the table, then turn my eyes to stare at her as she spins around the pole, then slides down to do a split.
I’m not into slaves.
I’m into her.