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He’s promised to help me with my training and the finalization of my licensing. I’m going to take him up on it, even though I really want to do it all by myself. I can’t. Not with Thea, and she’s my priority now.
And forever.
CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR
HOUND
I haven’t asked any of these Russians’ names. I don’t need to know them. I don’t give a shit about them, and I hope like hell I’ll never see them again, even though I probably will. I watch as the last group of women is lowered from the liftgate to the ground. None of them appear any the worse for wear. In fact, they look almost as good as they did over sixteen hours ago in Nevada.
“They all appear to be in good condition. I have no qualms. Sign this, and you are free to return to your home,” the Russian murmurs.
“What’s this?” I ask, flicking my gaze down at an iPad he’s shoved in front of my face.
Skimming the screen, I realize it’s just a delivery acknowledgment. Everything seems aboveboard. He’s already signed that he’s received the shipment in good working condition, and I’m supposed to sign over any and all liability as my work here is done.
I can’t sign the fucking thing fast enough, and I’m glad I’m the one who came, because I doubt anyone else would have thought to take pictures. Hippie clears his throat before the Russian walks away, and I watch as he looks at Hippie.
“It’s not our business, but what’s going to happen to them?” he asks.
The Russian frowns before he speaks. “You are correct. It is not your business.”
Hippie crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his body forward slightly. The Russian’s body tenses, then a few of his friends close the distance behind him. This, if it goes awry, is at least ten to two, so I hope to fuck Hippie keeps his shit locked the fuck down.
“But since this is new and you’re doing this under the umbrella of Rustik, who would not have hired you if he didn’t trust you in some capacity, I will tell you that we have three businesses we operate using women who have voluntarily agreed to work for us.”
The way he says that, I have to assume he’s had to legally define their business to someone, likely in the government, before. The whole thing makes my lips twitch into a smirk, because we do the same thing about our little arson business. Can’t get mad at him for being careful with his wording.
“A third of the women will go to the elite strip club we own. It mirrors the one in Vegas, as do the others around the country. A third will go to the brothel to be trained, which is more like expensive call girls.”
“And the other third?” I ask.
I’m curious as fuck now. I knew they had hookers, I knew they had strippers, but I have no idea what this final third could be. But when he tells me, I realize that I didn’t want to know. Being part of the underbelly of society can be a very ugly business, and this is one of those times.
“The final third will be sold.”
“Sold?” Hippie asks in a growl.
“Sold,” the Russian confirms. “Some are to be kept as wives for men in power who do not wish to have the entanglements of traditional dating, engagements, and marriages. Others will be sold for the purpose of sexual pleasures only and not so much companionship. Once they are out of our hands and the money has been exchanged, it is not my fucking business what happens.”
I open my mouth to thank him so we can be on our way, but Hippie decides that he is not finished, and I hope like hell he doesn’t get us killed in the process of his questions, his voice of disgust, and anything else he’s going to throw our way.
“So a third will be sold into sexual slavery, that’s all I’m hearing,” Hippie barks.
The Russian doesn’t seem the least bit affected by his words, and I hold my breath, wondering what the fuck is going to come next. I want to go home, back to my woman and my baby. I do not want to end up in some Russian’s dungeon because Hippie somehow has decided to voice his moral compass.
“You may not like what you’re hearing, but this is the world, yes?”
Hippie lets out a whistle. “Well, fuck. It’s not what we wanted to get into as a club, the skin trade, but they all know going in?”
The Russian’s patience is astounding, and I wonder if he is always this way, or if it’s just because this is our first time. But he dips his chin in a single nod. “It is always outlined for everyone involved. Contracts are signed and agreed upon before they leave Russia and again before they are given their assignment.”
“I guess that’s all we can really ask for,” Hippie states. “No different than our clubwhores,” he murmurs.
The Russian chuckles. “Likely not. If we are finished here, we will be on our way. Unless you’d like to visit the club, maybe partake in the brothel. We would not mind and can make arrangements.”
“Not for me today,” I say.
