6. The Search Begins
The Search Begins
Nathan
The warehouse smells like rust and salt and something else.
Something older. Something that doesn't wash out, no matter how many times you scrub the floors. I've been coming here for years—first with my father, then on my own—and the smell never changes. It's the smell of desperation. The smell of things that were never meant to see the light of day.
I stand in the center of the main floor, my hands in my pockets, my eyes fixed on the cages along the far wall. They're different now. Empty. The women who were here last month have been moved—sold, relocated, disposed of. I don't ask where they went. I don't need to know.
Ivan is beside me. He's a heavy man, balding, with the kind of face that's seen too much to be surprised by anything. He's been in this business for decades—longer than I've been alive—and he knows every corner of the trafficking routes. The Volkovs used him. Now I do.
"The new batch," he says. "From the Midwest. Lower class. No families looking for them. No one to make noise."
"Show me."
He leads me to the back of the warehouse, past the shipping containers, past the offices where the ledgers are kept. The cages here are smaller—designed for children, not adults. The metal bars are rusted, the floors stained with things I don't want to name.
And inside, there are children.
I count six of them. Boys and girls, ranging in age from maybe five to twelve.
They're sitting on the floors of their cages, their backs against the walls, their knees drawn up to their chests.
Their clothes are dirty. Their faces are blank.
The kind of blank that comes from being looked at too many times, from having nothing left to hide.
One of them—a girl, maybe seven—looks at me. Just a glance, a flicker of her eyes, and then she looks away. She's seen people like me before. People who come in, see what's here, and leave. People who don't do anything.
I feel something in my chest. A flicker. A spark. Something that might be guilt or might be disgust or might be nothing at all.
I squash it.
"A workforce," Ivan says. "Labor, pleasure, whatever you want. The demand is high. The supply is—"
"I don't need the pitch." I cut him off. My voice is flat. Professional. "I just need the infrastructure."
Ivan nods. He doesn't ask questions. He never does and if he wants to stay alive he never will.
"The shipment can be moved within the week. We have routes through the port. Customs is handled. The product will be delivered to the addresses you specify."
"Payment?"
"Half now. Half on delivery."
"Done."
I reach into my jacket and pull out a stack of bills. Hundreds. The kind of money that most people never see in their lifetime. I hand it to Ivan, and he counts it with the efficiency of a man who's done this a thousand times.
"Pleasure doing business," he says.
I don't respond. I turn and walk away. My footsteps echo off the concrete walls, steady and unhurried. I don't look back at the cages. I don't look at the children. I don't look at anything except the door ahead of me.
I walk out of the warehouse and into the cold.
The sun is rising over the city.
I stand by my car, smoking a cigarette, watching the light creep across the buildings.
The streets are empty—the drunks have staggered home, the dealers have counted their money, the night-shift workers have clocked out for the morning.
It's the only quiet this city knows. A thin, fragile thing, like ice on a puddle.
I think about the children in the cages. About the girl who looked at me. About the way she looked away.
I feel nothing. Or I tell myself I feel nothing. There's a flicker of something, maybe—a memory of a boy I used to know, a boy who wanted to be something other than what he was born to be—but I squash it before it can take root.
This is business. This is the empire. This is what I was born to do.
I light another cigarette. I breathe in the smoke and the cold and the weight of what I've just done.
"Business," I say to no one. "It's just business."
I almost believe it.
I go home.
The mansion is quiet when I arrive—the servants moving through their morning routines, the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen, the soft hum of the heating system.
I walk through the foyer, past the portraits of my ancestors, past the chandelier that cost more than most people's houses, and I feel the weight of this place settle on my shoulders like a second skin.
My father is in his study. I can hear his voice through the door, low and measured, talking to someone on the phone. Gabriel is in the greenhouse, retreating into his orchids and his ideals. Ashlynn is in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.
And Monika.
Monika is in her room.
I walk up the stairs, my footsteps silent on the carpet. I don't knock. I never knock. I push open the door and I find her sitting on the bed, a book open in her lap, her hair loose and falling down her shoulders.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes are wary—the same wariness I've seen in her eyes for months. She's learned to protect herself from me. She's learned to keep her distance.
I hate it.
"What did you do today?" she asks.
"Business."
"You always say that."
"It's always true."
She doesn't respond. She just looks at me with those steady brown eyes, and I feel something in my chest—something that might be guilt or might be hunger or might be something else entirely.
She doesn't resist.
She never resists. That's the thing about Monika—she's learned to survive in this house by giving in. By letting us take what we want. By pretending that this is something other than what it is.
I push her against the wall. The plaster is cold against her back, but she doesn't flinch. She just looks at me with those steady eyes, and I feel something inside me crack.
"I need you," I say. The words come out before I can stop them. Raw. Desperate. The kind of honesty I've never shown anyone.
"You have me."
"No." I shake my head. "I need you. I need to feel something. I need—"
I stop. I can't say it. I can't tell her what I did today. I can't tell her about the children in the cages. I can't tell her about the deal I made, the money I spent, the lives I'm about to destroy.
She wouldn't understand. She's too good. Too kind. Too gentle.
She's the only good thing in this house.
I kiss her again. Harder this time. Demanding. My hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back, exposing her throat. She gasps, and I take advantage, my mouth latching onto her neck, biting down hard enough to bruise.
"You like that?" I growl against her skin. "You like being my little whore?"
She doesn't answer. She never answers. But her hands clutch at my shirt, and I feel her pulse hammering under my lips.
I spin her around, slamming her face-first into the wall. Her cheek presses against the cold plaster, her breath fogging the surface. I yank her dress up over her hips, exposing her ass, and my palm connects with her flesh in a sharp, stinging slap.
She cries out—finally, a real sound—and I do it again. Harder. The crack echoes through the room, and a red handprint blooms on her skin.
"That's it," I rasp. "Take it. Take everything I give you."
I yank her underwear down, letting it pool around her ankles. She's wet—soaked, actually—and I don't know if it's fear or desire or some twisted combination of both. I don't care.
I shove two fingers inside her without warning. She bucks against me, a strangled moan escaping her lips.
"Look at you," I sneer, curling my fingers just to feel her shudder. "So fucking ready for me. You've been waiting for this, haven't you? Waiting for me to come home and use you?"
"No—" she starts, but I cut her off with another slap to her ass, harder than the last.
"Don't lie to me."
I pull my fingers out and grip her hip with one hand, the other still tangled in her hair. I position myself behind her, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance.
"You're mine," I say. "You're mine, Monika. You've been mine since the moment I saw you."
I slam into her.
She screams and I clap my hand over her mouth, muffling the sound. My hips snap against her ass, brutal and relentless, and the wall cracks beneath the force of my thrusts.
"Shut up," I hiss in her ear. "You don't get to scream. You don't get to do anything except take my cock like the good little slut you are."
I fuck her like I'm trying to bury myself in her. Like I'm trying to forget. Like I'm trying to prove that I'm still human.
My hand leaves her mouth and finds her throat. I squeeze. Her eyes widen, her lips parting, and I feel her pussy clench around me.
"You like that?" I rasp. "You like my hand around your throat? You like knowing I could end you right here and no one would stop me?"
She doesn't answer. She can't. But her hips push back against mine, meeting my thrusts, and I laugh—a dark, ugly sound.
"That's what I thought."
I release her throat and grab her hair again, using it as leverage to pull her head back. Her back arches, her ass pressing against my pelvis, and I go deeper, hitting that spot that makes her whole body tremble.
"You're going to come for me," I command. "You're going to come on my cock, and you're going to thank me for it."
I reach around and find her clit, rubbing rough, punishing circles. She's shaking now, her legs threatening to give out, and I can feel her tightening around me.
"Say it," I growl. "Say you're mine."
"I'm—I'm yours—"
"Say you love it."
"I love it—"
"Say you love being my whore."
"I love being your whore—"
"Say my name."
"Nathan—Nathan—Nathan—"
She comes with a broken sob, her whole body convulsing around me. I fuck her through it, not slowing down, not giving her a moment to recover. The wall is cold against her, the plaster cracking beneath her weight, and I don't care.
I don't care about anything except feeling something other than the emptiness.
"Again," I demand. "Come again."
"I can't—"
"You can. You will."