Chapter 2 #3
"Three days so far." Evan shrugs, like it's nothing.
Like he's talking about a dog in a kennel.
"We planned to let her out when we think she's learned her lesson. Minimal food, water, and light. We keep it nice and cold down there, don’t give them much to wear when they’re in the cells.
It's amazing how quickly they become grateful for basic kindness after that. How quickly they forget their pride."
"Last time we put her down there, she lasted five days," Grigory adds. "She came out like a ghost. Didn't fight for almost a week after that."
"What did she do to earn five days?" I ask, my voice level.
Grigory's smile is ugly. "Tried to escape. She almost made it to the gate before the dogs caught her. They tore up her legs pretty good. We had to get a doctor to make sure she didn't bleed out. That was fucking expensive. So we made sure she understood the cost of her mistake."
They're all watching me now, trying to see if I approve, if I'm the kind of man who finds this entertaining. If I'm someone they can trust with their darker appetites, who might want a turn with their prize.
I smile. It's not a nice smile, but they're too drunk to notice the difference.
"Effective," I say simply.
It's the right answer. They relax, grinning, pleased that Ilya's enforcer understands their methods. Pleased that I'm not judging them, that I might even be impressed.
"We could get you one," Evan offers. "If you want. We have connections. Good connections. We could find you something perfect. Whatever type you prefer. Like filling out a form—just tell us everything you prefer in a woman, and we’ll find you a match, right down to personality.
Some men want one already broken, others like to do the breaking themselves.
" He chuckles, and I feel a muscle tick in my jaw, that cold anger searing my veins.
The woman next to me has gone very still.
He’s offering it so casually. Like I’m buying a designer dog or a car. It’s an effort not to tremble with the anger I’m feeling, to keep my voice casual when I respond. "I'll keep that in mind."
Iosef snaps his fingers. “What are you waiting for? Go get her, Evan.”
He nods quickly and gets up to obey. The conversation moves on, as if we were just discussing any other normal topic, but I'm barely listening anymore. My mind is working through logistics, possibilities, and wondering if I can help her. If I can only help her, or if I could help more of them. If it would be better to tell Ilya about this first and then come back, get them out, and raze this place to the ground. The blonde on my chair is trembling slightly—I can feel it through the fabric of my jacket, and it makes me want to gather her into my arms and promise her things I can’t possibly follow through on right now, though I doubt she’d appreciate either.
These women have been bought, kept prisoner, tortured for these men’s amusements.
I've seen a lot of evil in my life. I've done things that would make most people sick.
I work for a man who built his empire on violence and fear.
I've killed men who probably deserved it and some who probably didn't. I've looked the other way when I needed to, and made compromises that keep me awake some nights.
But there are lines, even in this world. Lines that separate business from sadism, necessity from cruelty for its own sake. There are things that men like Ilya and I won’t do, no matter how much blood and devastation are on our hands.
These men have crossed those lines.
And they're bragging about it. Proud of it. Offering to share.
The rage grows until it feels like a living thing inside me; difficult to control, I've learned over the years how to use it, how to let it sharpen my focus instead of clouding it. Right now, it's telling me that these men are worse than double-dealers. They're abominable. They deserve to die.
These are the kind of men who keep women in holes in their basements and think it makes them powerful. The kind of men Ilya would want eliminated.
But first, I need proof of their betrayal.
That's why I'm here. That's the mission. I need to get that, and then I can tell Ilya the rest. Even if it means leaving these women here a little longer, I’ll need more than just myself to put an end to this operation. Alone, I’ll likely just get myself killed.
This woman—any of these women—is a complication I don't need.
Except I can't stop thinking about her. About what they've done to her. About what they're still doing to her, right now, while we sit here drinking their expensive vodka and smoking their expensive cigars and pretending to be civilized.
Less than thirty minutes later, Evan comes back into the room with a slight limp, his jaw clenched. Grigory is so drunk he barely notices, but Iosef sees him immediately, eyes narrowing when he sees that there’s no woman with him.
“Where is she?” he asks sharply.
“She kicked me in the goddamn balls,” Evan spits out. “So I told her to get on her knees and fucking kiss them better.”
Pyotr smirks. “Did she do it?”
“No.” Evan’s glare is furious. “So I gave her something to wear on her pretty little face and then threw her in the hole. She can stay there smelling my cum until she remembers her place.”
“You should have brought her up anyway,” Iosef drawls, and Evan winces.
“I got… kind of pissed off. Her face is in a state right now.”
Iosef’s eyes darken. “I told all of you, leave her face alone unless the surgeon is here. If we can’t call him in time to fix it—” He curses under his breath. “I’ll call him in the morning. She’ll need to be repaired if you’ve done any real damage.”
“She’ll be fine,” Evan says defensively. “She needed to learn a lesson.”
Iosef waves him off. “My apologies,” he says finally. “We can bring you another girl, if you want a third.”
Just like that. As if they’re a commodity, nothing more. I swallow back my anger, take another long drink of vodka, and brush some of the blonde’s hair off of her shoulder without actually touching her, in an effort to look as if I’m engaging in some way with their gifts.
The party continues into the early morning hours.
More drinks, more posturing, and false camaraderie.
Grigory passes out in his chair around three a.m., snoring loudly.
Evan disappears with two of the women, and I don't let myself think about what he's doing to them.
Pyotr excuses himself around four, still relatively sober, his eyes sharp as he bids me goodnight.
"I look forward to continuing our discussion tomorrow," he says. "I think we can come to an arrangement that benefits everyone."
"I'm sure we can."
Iosef is the last to go, finally too drunk to maintain his host persona. His words are slurred, his movements uncoordinated.
"Your room is ready," he says, clapping me on the shoulder again. "Top floor, east wing. Best room in the house. Best view. Anything you need, just ask. Anything at all. We're friends now, yes? Good friends."
"Good friends," I echo, unsmiling. He’s too drunk to notice at this point.
He stumbles off with one of the women supporting him, guiding him toward the stairs. The blonde who's been draped over my chair all night looks at me with those empty eyes. "Do you want me to come with you?" she asks quietly. There's no enthusiasm in her voice, just resignation.
I let out a breath. "No. You can both go."
Relief flashes across her face, quickly hidden, and I see the same on the brunette’s face. I imagine this is probably a reprieve for them, a night when they don’t have to fear being touched. "Goodnight, then."
They both leave quickly, and I'm left alone in the smoking room.
The compound is quiet now, just the distant sound of someone laughing, then a door closing somewhere.
Most of the men are passed out or occupied.
The guards outside are on their regular patrol routes—I've been watching them through the windows all night, timing their movements.
This is when I should be searching for evidence—going through Iosef's office, checking his computers, looking for proof of the double-dealing Ilya suspects. That's why I'm here. That's the job.
Instead, I find myself getting up and stepping quietly out into the hall, then moving through the house and down the stairs, looking for a way to the basement.
I tell myself I'm just gathering information, looking to understand the full scope of their operation—what other secrets they're keeping, what other horrors they're hiding in the dark.
But deep down, I know I’m looking for this woman that they were talking about. I can’t shake the thought of her, wondering what she looks like, who she is, this woman who has tried to resist them for so long, who keeps fighting them.
The basement entrance is locked, but locks have never been much of an obstacle for me. The door opens with a faint creak, and I slip into the darkness below.
It's colder down here. The walls are concrete, the floor the same, and unfinished. This isn't the polished luxury of the upper floors. This is where they keep the things they don't want seen, the brutality that upstairs is all gilded.
There are several doors that appear to be mostly storage rooms at first. Then, as I walk deeper into the darkness, I see the cells they were referencing down a long hallway.
They look like jail cells, barred with very little light coming into the hallway normally—none right now, while it’s dark.
When I look further down the hall I’m in, I see a heavy, studded metal door with a lock and chain on it.
That must be the ‘hole’ they were referring to.
My jaw clenches, that rage, burning through me again. And, in this moment, I feel something inside of me snap.