Chapter 2 #2
I take it and let him light it for me with a gold lighter.
It doesn’t hurt to allow sycophants to do their thing, now and then, and I’m not used to excess or being waited on in my typical life.
The smoke is smooth and expensive, with notes of leather and spice, and I breathe it in with pleasure.
I settle into one of the chairs and let them think I'm relaxing.
"You have good taste," I say, and Iosef smiles indulgently.
"A man in our position must appreciate the finer things, yes?
Life is too short for bad vodka and cheap cigars.
" He settles into his own chair with a satisfied sigh.
"I want you to understand, Kazimir, that we're serious men.
Professional men. We understand how to conduct business at the highest level. "
"Ilya will be pleased to hear it."
"We've been working with him for three years now," Pyotr says, swirling brandy in his glass. "Small operations at first. Testing the waters. But we're ready for more. We have the infrastructure, the connections, and the discretion."
I sip my vodka, letting it slide smoothly over my tongue. "What kind of expansion are you thinking?"
They exchange glances. This is what they've been building toward all night.
"The southern routes," Iosef says. "We have relationships in Georgia and Armenia. We can move product through channels that are... less scrutinized than the traditional routes."
I raise an eyebrow. "Product?"
"Whatever Ilya needs moved. We're flexible." Evan leans forward eagerly. "We have trucks, warehouses, and people on the payrolls of the right agencies. We can guarantee safe passage."
I take a slow drag from the cigar, letting them wait. "That's ambitious."
"We're ambitious men," Pyotr says. "But not reckless. We understand the risks. We understand the need for discretion."
"And you understand that Ilya doesn't tolerate mistakes."
"Of course." Evan nods vigorously. "Which is why we've been so careful. We've built slowly, methodically. We're professionals."
Iosef smiles. “But of course. I promised we would talk business tomorrow. Tonight is for pleasure!” He claps his hands, and the doors swing open, and six women come into the room.
They’re all young and beautiful, dressed in clothes that leave little to the imagination—silk and lace, high heels, skin showing everywhere.
They drape themselves over the men, giggling, pouring drinks, their hands wandering.
Two of them head toward me, while the others only get one.
A blonde and a brunette, one in pink and the other in red, one curvy and the other slender.
The blonde has large breasts, the brunette small, barely a handful.
The blonde’s hair is long, cascading everywhere in thick curls; the brunette’s is cut in a cyberpunk-style asymmetrical bob.
Both of them have empty eyes and smiles, moving like dolls who know their choreography.
"For you," Iosef says, gesturing magnanimously. "They will do anything you want. We want you to be comfortable, to enjoy yourself. These girls are clean, tested, and submissive. They will not say no to whatever you desire."
I let the blonde sit on the arm of my chair, her hand on my shoulder. Her perfume is expensive-smelling, thick, and floral. I don't touch her. "You're generous hosts."
"We take care of our friends." Pyotr leans back, a brunette on his lap, his hand on her thigh. "And we hope to be very good friends with Ilya Sorokov. The best of friends."
The conversation continues as the women sit in laps and massage shoulders, nothing too lewd just yet, but their presence heats the room, thickening the air with tension.
There’s more business talk, though it’s disguised as casual discussion, everyone dancing around what they really want to say.
They drop hints about their operations, their connections, their ambitions.
They're fishing, trying to figure out how much I know, what Ilya might be willing to offer.
Evan mentions a shipment that went through last month without any problems. Pyotr talks about a customs official who's "very reasonable." Grigory grunts something about a competitor who "won't be a problem anymore."
I give them nothing concrete. Just enough to keep them talking.
"The Kyiv operation has been sniffing around," Evan says suddenly, emboldened by vodka. "Trying to move in on territory that's been ours for years."
Pyotr shoots him a look. "That's being handled."
"How?" I ask casually.
"We have an understanding with certain parties," Pyotr says smoothly. "Nothing that would concern Ilya. Just local politics."
But I see the glance between Iosef and Pyotr. The slight tension in the room. This is it—this is the thread I need to pull.
"Ilya likes to be informed about local politics," I say. "Especially when they might affect his interests."
"Of course, of course." Iosef waves his hand. "We would never keep anything from Ilya. We're partners. Friends. Or we hope to be the latter, soon."
The blonde's hand moves to my chest, dipping into the V of the button-down I wore to dinner tonight and brushing against the hair there. I catch her wrist gently and move it back to my shoulder. She gets the message and stays still, her fingers pressing into the hollow of muscle there instead.
Three hours and too many drinks later, everyone is starting to get drunk, especially Grigory, who I notice indulges seemingly without thought.
By this time, everyone’s face is a little reddened, but his is nearly glowing in the firelight, his words starting to slur.
He has the girl in his lap directly over his cock now, her legs hooked on the outside of his as he plays with the edge of her panties.
The other men are slightly more discreet, but not much: Iosef has his girl behind him, massaging his shoulders, Pyotr’s is sitting sideways in his lap and nibbling on his ear, and Evan’s girl is sitting on the floor at his feet.
When the men need drinks refreshed, the girls get up.
They laugh at every joke. The atmosphere is one of decadence, a setting where men say things they shouldn't.
I’ve been drinking more carefully, enjoying the fine vodka and cigars, but with more attention paid to how much I’m consuming.
The blonde and brunette have been taking turns sitting on the edge of my chair or at my feet, but every time one goes to touch me, I gently redirect their hands somewhere neutral.
Pyotr noticed early on, but I told him that I prefer my pleasure in private, and Iosef glared at him to shut up.
Grigory tosses back the last of another glass of vodka and leans forward conspiratorially, grinning. "You know what we should do? We should show him our prize. Our little printsessa."
Pyotr's eyes sharpen. "Grigory—"
"No, no, hear me out." Grigory waves his hand dismissively, nearly knocking over his glass.
The girl on his lap steadies it, her smile never wavering.
"We bought her six months ago. Cost a fortune, but bozhe moy, she's beautiful.
Like something out of a painting. But difficult.
" He shakes his head, laughing. "So difficult.
Thinks she's too good for us. Thinks she's still some kind of princess. "
My jaw tightens. I’d hoped the girls were sex workers.
Likely not treated well by the most mediocre of standards, and likely not their top choice of work, but at least a choice.
From the sound of what Grigory is saying, though, these men have been trafficking women—or at least dealing in them, purchasing them—which is something Ilya definitely does not know about.
Suddenly, even the blonde’s hand on my shoulder makes my skin crawl. I look at Grigory, keeping my expression neutral, mildly interested. The blonde in my chair has gone very still. "Difficult how?"
"She fights." Pyotr grins, and it’s cruel… gleeful, even. "Scratches, bites, screams. We've had to teach her manners."
"Teach her?" I take a slow drag from the cigar, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
"You know." Evan waves his hand vaguely, but there's a gleam in his eyes. Pride. "Show her that her old life is gone. That she belongs to us now. That she does what we say, when we say it."
The blonde on my chair shifts, and I see something flicker in her eyes, a fearful discomfort that makes me want to shoot every man in this room. She knows exactly what they’re talking about.
"Some women need a firm hand," Pyotr says carelessly. "This one more than most. But she's learning. Slowly."
"Is she?" Grigory laughs again, too loudly. "She spat in Pyotr's face yesterday. Right in his face! That's why she's in a cell right now. Learning her lesson."
Pyotr's expression darkens at the reminder, and his hand clenches around his glass. "The little suka will regret that, mark my words. When she comes out, I'm going to make sure she understands. I'm going to take my time with her. Make her beg."
"She'll learn," Iosef interrupts smoothly, but he's smiling. "They always do, eventually. Break them down enough, and they become whatever you want them to be. Grateful. Obedient. Eager to please." He looks at me, gauging my reaction. "We should bring her out for you. She might even be grateful enough for the reprieve that she’ll behave as she ought to. You really should see her. Girls like her don’t come along all that often. Real class, that one. I thought at first that we’d be careful not to mark up her face, since she’s got such a pretty one. But she’s so hard to break that I figured, what the hell? That’s what a good plastic surgeon is for, right?” He chuckles.
“Evan, go get her. Bring her up for Kazimir to see just what a prize we have here. Make sure she’s cleaned up well first.”
I ash my cigar carefully, buying time to control the cold rage building in my chest. "How long has she been down there?"