by Kitty Thomas
32
6 months later
Gabe pulled into the long expansive driveway of Dmitri Barinov’s estate. The man hadn’t been kidding about throwing a party, and by all accounts when Dmitri threw a party, he did it right. Gabe put the Bentley into park. When he stepped out of the car, he leveled a hard stare at the young valet.
“Not a single dent or scratch. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Griffin.”
So the kid knew his name. Gabe wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this potential partnership at all. They’d been doing fine at the house, managing it their way. Anton was too ambitious. There was a point at which it made sense to keep a business at the level it was at—to grow no further. There were downsides to growth, particularly if your enterprise was criminal in nature. And Gabe preferred to keep everything in the family. Secretly he hoped to discover a big enough flaw in this set-up to convince Anton to put the brakes on the whole thing.
But was such an outcome possible now? Gabe had been assured that the utmost discretion had been used. They could walk away from the deal and nobody would end up in prison. But he had his doubts about that. At this point, it felt as though Anton’s Russian friends could be nothing but a liability. Anton should have come for this party, but the other guys had wanted someone unbiased. And Gabe drew the short straw.
He straightened his black Dior suit and tugged on his tie. It felt like the suit was wearing him instead of the other way around. Gabe hated suits. But he couldn’t show up in jeans and a T-shirt. Everything about his performance tonight had to exude power or they would become these guys’ bitches the second the ink was dry. And Gabe was nobody’s bitch.
He took a deep breath and glanced casually around the grounds. The house wasn’t quite as large as his house, but it was still imposing. The grounds rolled on forever, perfectly manicured like a fucking golf course green. Don’t be impressed. Don’t be intimidated. Everything they have to offer bores you. It’s all... quaint.
Okay, he could believe that for a few hours. Gabe put his game face on and approached the front door. Before he could knock, the heavy oak swung open, and he was admitted inside.
“If you’d be so kind as to make your way back to the dining room, fourth door on the left. Dinner is ready.”
Gabe gave the man at the door a curt nod. Anton had said to be fashionably late. Don’t give the impression that you care about any of this. Give the impression that they’re wasting your time or they’ll take advantage.
A sultry Rachmaninoff piano concerto filled the house as Gabe made his way to the dining room. When he arrived, everyone stood. He was briefly taken aback. There were only men at the table. He’d thought Dmitri’s girls would be here. The agreement was that there would be no talk of business tonight. Gabe was supposed to go to the party, have dinner, sample the merchandise, and report back to Anton. Meetings would follow.
“Ah, our honored guest, Gabriel.”
Gabe winced at his more formal name. He hadn’t been called Gabriel since his childhood when he’d been in trouble. But it was suits and Bentleys and Gabriel tonight. He could mix with the best of them when he had to, but he hated this fancy, pretentious shit.
Dmitri continued, oblivious to his gaffe—or not caring. “We’ll meet the girls after dinner. They’ve been told someone important is coming tonight.” He indicated a seat beside him. Gabe sat and the soup was served.
Dmitri was a thin, reedy looking gentleman that gave off an air of refinement such that if there were to be passing gossip about the business he was in, no one would give it any credence. He didn’t look the type. He was about fifty, with gray edging into his temples. He had a face that one might mistake for kind if they didn’t know him well—and certainly he’d worn that polite mask long enough that the lines and creases in his face had formed to support the lie. Passing him on the street you might think he was a ballet master or orchestra conductor, or a professor of art history. Not a pimp, which despite the elegant packaging was what he was... what they all were.
Contrary to Gabe’s worries, business wasn’t discussed. Instead Dmitri spoke of his homeland and the differences between living here and living there. His thick Russian accent reminded Gabe so strongly of Anton. Despite the accent, his English was impeccable. He’d obviously been here a long time and had taken great pains to speak like those around him.
Dmitri politely asked about Gabe’s life in subtle general ways that wouldn’t betray anyone’s secrets. But even with this discretion, it was far too exposed for Gabe’s taste.
He ate enough to be polite, as did most of the other men at the table. It wasn’t the food. The food was great. Most of it was traditional Russian fare. Being around Anton so long, Gabe had sampled a lot of it before. But the unspoken agreement of all the men at the table was that nobody wanted to get too stuffed that they couldn’t fully enjoy the real reason they were here.
Finally after the dessert course—a light fluffy cake—was finished, Dmitri put down his fork and stood.
“Shall we adjourn to the real party, then?”
Appreciative chuckles rose around the table.
Including Gabe, there were about twenty men here. Everyone else in attendance was a top tier client of this house. Their inclusion was so that Gabe could see the types of clients they worked with. None of them knew Gabe’s true purpose of attendance, only that he was important and the guest of honor. It was most likely they’d simply assumed Gabe had the most money and would be spending a lot of it with Dmitri’s house.
The men made their way into a large ballroom. The first rather disconcerting thing Gabe noticed when he entered the room was that there were armed guards. And they weren’t discreet about it. Each held a black semi-automatic rifle and wore a menacing glare. Of course there had to be security. At his own house, the girls wore electronic bracelets to keep them on the property but there weren’t huge guards with guns everywhere. Except for the ever-present threat of Brian—the house enforcer—the girls existed in a space free from threat of violence.
At Gabe’s house, they made every effort not to damage the girls. But he got the distinct impression that the women here were under constant threat. He wasn’t going to lie—even to himself—and pretend there was anything moral or good about the business he was in. But with a few very weird exceptions, every woman that came to his house to be trained was there of her own free will because she had some kinky itch that needed to be scratched in a very specific way.
Gabe and the others trained them and sold them to the highest bidder among clients they’d screened as carefully as possible. To Gabe’s warped way of thinking, it was nothing more than a very exclusive and niche matchmaking service. And matchmakers got paid.
In this case, very well.
The girls’ safety was watched out for even long after they left the house. And Brian enforced the contracts without mercy. Perhaps it was all window dressing to seem like they weren’t the most evil pieces of shit imaginable, but there were degrees, and Gabe liked to think he and his friends stayed just shy of irredeemable.
Dmitri clapped and the din of conversation ceased immediately. “I’ve teased you gentlemen long enough. I would like to welcome you all to our exclusive annual party to show our most generous clients how much we value them. Tonight, everything is free. The food, the drink, the entertainment.”
On cue, a single file line of women entered the room. If Gabe had to guess, they were probably between nineteen and twenty-eight. There were almost twice as many women as there were men, which meant, there would at least be a few threesomes tonight. They all wore very elegant black lingerie. The styles differed—some long classy gowns, some short sassy little skirts and lace bras. There was leather, silk, lace. There were boots on some and high heels on others. Gloves on a few. But everything was black. And everything was expensive. The scent of vanilla wafted into the room with their arrival.
As soon as they’d come into
the room, Gabe knew something was very wrong about all this, despite the exquisite packaging. He’d been assured Dmitri’s girls were all here freely. Given the differences in their houses and that Dmitri didn’t cater to a specifically kinky set, Gabe had known going in that there would be more to these girls’ stories than he was told. Bad childhoods, poverty, maybe drug addiction. The idea that outside of a kink, women would just line up to be badly used by selfish wealthy men was insane on its face. There were too many risks and nothing in it for them.
Even so, Gabe had assumed a level of willingness that wasn’t reflected on any of these girls’ faces. Instead, what he found when he looked at them was fear and defeat. They were clearly being abused, threatened, most likely brought here against their will from the start. Had they been tricked somehow or just taken off the street?
Gabe glanced around the room at the men. It was lascivious smiles and anticipation all around while erections tented the fronts of otherwise nice pants. They were entirely oblivious. They were so used to using women however they saw fit—as if women existed as decorations and tools only—that they refused to look too deeply behind the facade of pretty lingerie and painted faces and long flowing hair gently curled for their aesthetic pleasure.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Griffin?” Dmitri asked.
Gabe forced all trace of disgust from his face and plastered a fake smile on top. “No. Everything’s fine.”
“Wonderful. You will get first pick. You may take more than one if you like to any room in the house you prefer to take your pleasure in.”
“Thank you.”
Gabe’s gaze roved over the girls. Despite how he routinely treated girls like his sex slaves while training them at the house, he wasn’t sure if he could stomach having even the most vanilla sex with one of these women. They didn’t want to be here. As distasteful as the whole thing was, he might have to make some half-hearted attempt in order to get out of this house alive. If he seemed in any way bothered by things, they might decide he was the liability. Funny, because he’d been thinking the opposite.
His roving gaze stopped. His heart and breath stopped as all the air and life were sucked from the room.
No. Not her.
About halfway down the line stood the girl he’d been trying to forget about for months. Julie. She wore thigh-high black leather boots, a black lace bra, and black lace mini-skirt that left nothing of her body to anyone’s imagination. Shocked hazel eyes met his, then she quickly averted her gaze and stared at the ground, silent tears moving down her cheeks.
Dmitri’s voice rose to fill the ballroom. “Mr. Griffin, if you’ll be so kind as to choose your entertainment for the evening. The girls have been given very strict instructions and told that you have some rather unconventional desires, and that they are to comply with whatever you wish.”
Keep it together. No emotion. Be cold. Be Brian. In all his time at the house, Gabe had never thought there would come a moment when he longed to be more like the house sociopath.
Gabe walked down the row of girls, pretending to consider each one. He went down the line fully twice. Every single one of these girls seemed to mentally shout Not me, not me, please not me. But none broadcast this most urgent desire more than Julie.
Finally, when he thought it appeared that he’d actually deliberated on this, he stopped in front of her. She cringed and seemed to fold in on herself as if trying to escape his notice even though she already had it. He placed a hand under her chin and raised it, but even so, she refused to meet his gaze.
“Are you sure?” Dmitri asked. “Julie is not our best. We’re thinking of retiring her.”
Gabe forced down every emotion that threatened to burst to the surface. “Yes. This is the one I want,” he said. “I’m sure she just needs a firm hand. She will give me everything I demand of her. I like it when they resist a little, then I get to teach them their place with me.” This wasn’t in any way true. That was much more Brian’s game than his, but it was a credible lie that coaxed a smile of approval from Dmitri.
A small whimper escaped Julie’s mouth.
“Very well, if you insist,” Dmitri said.
“I do insist.” Gabe resisted the urge to wipe the tears from her face, and instead touched her shoulder and let his hand gently trail down her arm to take her hand in his. It was the most reassurance he could give her with so many eyes on him, though he was sure it didn’t penetrate the cloud of fear that surrounded her. And if possible, it seemed to scare her more.
He led her from the ballroom, down the hall, and up the staircase to the second floor. He took her to a large bedroom at the end of the hallway. Quiet, private. It might not remain so as the other men came to find rooms of their own, but at least it was at the end of a hall instead of sandwiched in the middle of everything.
Inside, he shut and locked the door and took a look around. The room was gaudy and flaunted Dmitri’s wealth. Definitely trying too hard. Half the furniture had some actual real gold on it somewhere. If the clientele wasn’t so rich themselves, they’d probably take doorknobs and dresser handles with them on their way out the door. This room was decorated mostly in a rich green of varying shades. The drapes were a heavy dark green brocade. There was lighter green and cream-colored bedding. This room had its own attached bathroom and a giant window that overlooked the property, or it would have if the curtains weren’t pulled for privacy.
He sat in an overstuffed dark green chair in the far corner and loosened his tie and observed her. There seemed to be shock, fear, and shame, all directed his way in equal measure.
“If it’s a comfort, I’m very surprised to see you, too.” He’d thought maybe he could tease a smile out of her or put her at ease—let her know all that downstairs was just an act—but the easy way she’d had about her once was gone.
“Julie, tell me what they’ve done to you. I can help you. You can trust me.”
Her lip trembled and she looked at the ground, unable to meet his gaze. “I-I don’t know what you mean. I don’t need any help.” But the tremble moved from her lip, down her arms, to her hands.
He was amazed she was able to stand under her own steam. She seemed so terribly thin and frail to him.
“Julie, don’t lie to me.”
Her gaze jerked up to his. “Please, I’m not lying. I just want to please you.”
More lies. She just wanted to survive. And whatever she’d been told about him, combined with his own not so subtle hints on their one and only date some months ago, he knew she was convinced this was all some sort of trap, that he was setting her up only to betray her and watch the life go from her eyes when Dmitri sent one of his armed minions up here after her.
He’d hoped she could find it in herself to trust him though he knew there was no reason for her to. How the hell was he going to get her out of here? Because he was getting her out of here, or he’d die trying. She might not be into the things he was into, but it didn’t change how he felt about her, how she hadn’t strayed far from his thoughts for one moment since the last time he’d seen her, how every woman writhing beneath him somehow had her smile. He’d wished over and over that he could rewind time and find a way to have something more with her. To make her his.
“C-can I go to the bathroom first?” she asked. Likely anything to buy herself time. Maybe it would calm her nerves and they could speak more reasonably when she returned.
Gabe gestured to the open bathroom door. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”
Julie locked the door behind her and slid to the ground, her head dropping into her hands. She couldn’t believe he was really here. Somehow in her imagination he hadn’t been the bad guy. She wasn’t sure what was worse, that Gabe Griffin—her bad boy crush to end all crushes—had seen her like this, or that he’d turned out to be as bad as he’d implied.
She wanted to believe and cling to his offer of help. She wanted to see something good in him. Maybe his brief, passing interest in her months ago would be enough
to gain that help. She’d happily pay him with her body for the freedom so long as it was a one-time deal and not yet another prostitution ring. She was sure she could handle his unconventional desires if it was just once... if it meant getting out of here. Over the past several months she’d learned she could handle a lot of things she didn’t think she could.
She was sure if she got free of this place she’d have a breakdown, maybe stare at a wall for a few weeks straight without speaking as the full realities she’d shoved to the corners had nowhere else to hide and were forced into the stark light of day. But for now she was surviving, getting through each moment and each day. The other women who lived in Dmitri’s basement helped. Having them there made it that much easier to survive because at least someone cared. Someone understood. It wasn’t some distant counselor who wanted to make a difference but had never known any real trauma in his or her pampered, privileged existence.
Even if they couldn’t change their circumstances, at least they had each other. And somehow all the petty snipping back and forth made it all feel normal—or like they were a weird slightly dysfunctional family. When everything felt like that during the day when they were doing chores, or when they’d settled in at night, Julie could sometimes pretend she worked in a high-end brothel of her own free will. Despite this not matching any part of her personality, she would pretend she was a different type of person. Maybe imaginary Julie was into the risk and danger. Maybe she got off on fucking strange men. Maybe they were paying her really well and she lived in a penthouse overlooking a beautiful city skyline. Maybe she was living the dream.