It dawns on me that my purge worked in my favor when nothing but honesty rings in Brandon’s tone when he says, “I’m seeking connections between Col, Isaac, Henry, and Kirill Bobrov.”
The first three names I’ve heard a hundred times before. The latter is fairly new in my inquiries. It has only come up a handful of times the past year or two.
Although curiosity is burning me alive, I play it cool, conscious the best secrets aren’t immediately unveiled. “Vladimir will be disappointed he didn’t make the cut.”
“He’s still there.” Brandon’s short response exposes he’s endeavoring to keep more than a handful of secrets hidden. “Have you heard of Kirill before?”
I hesitate, untrusting of anyone. “It’s been a while…” What? I’m not so stupid to link myself with a current investigation, much less one as perverse as baby trafficking. “… but his name rings a bell. What’s his kink?”
Brandon shrugs. “Your guess would be as good as mine. We have an inkling perhaps he’s in the sex trafficking trade, but we’re only sitting on that theory because of one reason.”
Since he’s being honest, I do the same. “Katie Bryne?” When he lifts his chin without hesitation, I let him see a small selection of the cards I’m holding. “I knew I had heard the name before.”
I can’t hold back my smile when I gesture for Brandon to join me in an office at the back of the kitchen. He’s carrying a weapon, yet he’s still afraid of what I might do to him in a room without a camera. He isn’t any safer in the kitchen. The cameras planted throughout the restaurant are solely for looks. If it’s electronic, Smith has proven it can be hacked, so there’s no fucking chance we’d encourage for the hub of our entity to be placed under unwanted scrutiny.
With that in mind, I come to a dead stop just inside my office. Air whizzes out of Brandon’s nose when I halt his entrance by splaying my hand across his chest. He can see the demand in my eyes without a word needing to seep from my lips. It makes me wish he wasn’t so anal about following procedures. If he was a little more like his former trainer, we could have an interesting collaboration.
I wolf-whistle when he raises his shirt to show me he isn’t wired. I don’t give a fuck if he thinks I’m a freak. I just want him on the back foot, so he doesn’t reach for his gun when I run the edge of my knife down the front of his pricy outfit. I’ve been caught out by this preppy boy’s love of camera buttons once before. It won’t happen again.
“Learned my lesson the hard way,” I mutter while dumping the buttons from his business shirt and coat into a half-empty glass of whiskey on my desk. Confident they’re broadcasting nothing but the grumbles of my stomach from downing one too many whiskeys last night, I take a seat behind my desk before motioning for Brandon to sit. “If word of this gets out to anyone outside of these walls, my guests will dine on freshly minced veal this evening.”
After a quick swallow, Brandon nods, wordlessly sealing our deal. I won’t lie. My heart beats a million miles an hour when I place the eight-digit code into the safe bolted to the floor under my desk. I hate giving the Feds anything to work with, but since hardly anyone knows of Fien’s existence, I don’t see them having any luck working out the combination. It’s Fien’s birthday followed by her name, an easy combination for me to remember but almost impossible for anyone who doesn’t know me to crack. Not even my father has worked it out.
I yank out the multiple cross-references to Fien’s case from the leather-bound document before placing it onto my desk. Although Katie’s sale has nothing to do with my daughter’s captivity, I earmarked her page. Rumors were rife years ago about a rogue Russian sanction kidnapping a local girl, so when her name showed up on a Petretti ledger years after her abduction, I took notice.
I always take notice when Russians are involved.
After pushing across a handful of catering receipts, I set the handwritten ledger down in front of Brandon. “Katie Bryne…” I drag my index finger under her name in the ledger, “… was sold to K Bobrov for three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.” From what I’ve discovered the past couple of weeks before Dr. Bates bid on Roxanne, Katie’s sale was a record-breaking amount. Kirill wanted her no matter what, and he was willing to pay for the privilege.
Brandon raises his confused eyes to mine. “The date shows her sale was a little under five years ago. Katie was abducted nine years ago.”
While grumbling about his inability to do the legwork himself, I slap the ledger shut, then store it back into my safe. Once it’s locked away, I take a moment to deliberate whether I should give him the long answer or the short answer.
Not even five seconds into my pondering, Brandon tries to cut it short. “Tobias’s arrangement is still in effect, Dimitri. You’re immune from prosecution. Within reason, of course.”
Air hisses out of my nose as I balance my elbows on my desk. “It’s the men picking the reason that I’m wary of.” That was my pleasant way of saying I don’t trust him. He doesn’t want to hear my unkind response. “Hypothetically speaking…” I wait for conformation to register in his eyes before continuing, “… each sanction runs their operations differently. Some prefer underage girls. Others prefer more mature ones. Then there are ones who aren’t specifically looking for a whore. They want a wife, someone to raise children with, but they don’t have the time to seek her in a crowd of millions, so they look to someone who can give them what they’re seeking without additional training.”
Brandon’s blond brow pops up high on his face. “Training?”
Over the game, and too fucking tired to care about the ripple on effect my father’s shady dealings could cause our family name, I answer, “On being the ideal wife. They’re taught how to cook, clean, raise children, and anything else their procurer wants of them. Some take months to learn their role. Others take years.” I lower my eyes to the floor to hide the gleam they forever get when Roxanne’s feistiness pops into my head. “Some never learn.”
My eyes return front and center when Brandon stands to his feet. His eagerness isn’t shocking, but what he says next most certainly is. “IRS is planning to raid this restaurant on the eighteenth. I suggest you do some in-house cleaning before then.”
Not speaking another word, he makes a beeline for the door, scarcely missing Clover’s entrance. It’s barely noon, but he’s gloved up and ready to kill, unaware the only slaughtering he will do this afternoon is to Roxanne’s ego.
Fourteen
Roxanne
Iroll onto my opposite hip, saving my stomach the torture of my eyes drinking in the overloaded burger and fries taking up a majority of the nightstand. My ruse is stupid, and I’m doing more harm to myself than anyone, but for the life of me, I can’t give in. I’m being held against my will and persecuted for crimes I didn’t commit. A hunger-strike is the low end of the scale for how I could protest to Dimitri’s unfair ruling.
I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate other methods, but for now, I’ll continue with this one. It’s the safest of the three I thought up, and the least likely to shed blood. Even with my head delusional with hunger, I’m reasonably sure my other two ploys would kill more than my anger. Dimitri doesn’t handle his jealousy well. It makes him as unhinged as his distrust makes me.
My brows draw together when a frantic buzz overtakes the grumbles of my hungry stomach a few seconds later. It isn’t the drone of an electronic lock opening, nor the static that comes out of the speakers a second before Smith’s voice. It’s foreign yet familiar like it entered my room along with the eleventh meal I’ve refused to eat.
Too curious for my own good, I roll onto my back, prop myself onto my elbows, then stray my eyes in the direction the buzz came from. Although the black device nestled on the serving dish a scrumptious-smelling burger is resting on doesn’t appear to be a cell phone, it rings as if it is one. It vibrates and bounces across the antique wood serving tray, its shriek growing louder the longer I stare at it.
A normal captive would gobble up the first sign of life outside of these walls as if it’s the key to their captivity. As I’ve said before, I’m nothing close to ordinary. Just like each meal has become more and more enticing the longer I refuse to eat them, this is another trick in Dimitri’s vault-load of arsenal. I’m certain of it.
