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Chapter Eighteen
Crime paid.
And the more heinous the better by the looks of it.
Nothing new there, but as she stood in the middle of Dimitris’ rolling mansion that spoke of money and power with its domed glass ceiling, priceless chandeliers, and artwork, she couldn’t help but think of all the poor souls who suffered for this immeasurable luxury.
Nothing ever came free. Sevastyan had said those words to her, so had Roman. She didn’t fully understand the weight they held until now. She couldn’t help but wonder what price she would pay for walking into their dominion.
Dimitris’ mansion sat well outside city limits away from prying eyes. It appealed to high-end buyers with exotic tastes. Not a single person stared back at her as she walked the polished floors, her stilettoes marking her progress deeper into the devil’s domain with tiny clicks.
Soft lighting hung suspended over an endless sea of black silk in the form of Kiton tuxedos and an array of equally exquisite evening gowns—all black. Except hers.
She stood out in a red piece with a low front dipping to her navel with delicate straps across the back.
More lights dotted the old, cream-colored walls and were layered with emerald and ruby crystals to create an oddly intimate setting. Her stomach pitched and bubbled with the heinous crimes that would take place within such an elegant setting.
In the far back was a large oak door that appeared to lead to another section. On either side, she recognized the thugs from the warehouse looking less than polished. Scrapes and bruises colored their faces from where they had a run-in with her new friend, Maddox.
She rubbed at her temple as the plaguing thought brought around a spike in her headache.
Sevastyan, Roman, and Matteo had stepped away, sliding into their crime lord personas as they made their presence known among people who should be behind bars, if not worse. She held back a shiver as she watched them clasp hands with a man wearing face tattoos like some wore makeup. They continued circling the room but were always attentive. They needed Dimitris’ defenses off-kilter, and she volunteered to help. Distract him with a smile while slipping the proverbial blade in, is how she liked to think of it. Not something they taught in business school or accounting.
Throngs of well-polished aristocrats mingled, admiring the high valued artwork Dimitris had situated around the vast open-style space broken up only by the occasional spiraling column. But her eyes were drawn to the platforms, four to be exact, elevated by a couple of feet from the main floor and filled with this evening’s entertainment.
Well-oiled men and women lured in the attention of potential buyers—both male and female—all thirsty for a sampling of the product Dimitris planned on auctioning off later that evening. The fully naked slaves endured curious touches and commands.
One poor woman was thrown on a settee, her body held down by shackles while being forced to give oral sex to her potential new owner.
Rhia’s stomach threatened to heave. She looked away knowing she had to pick the bigger war to win the smaller battles.
All around her sex slaves wore nothing more than jewel-studded cuffs with chains anchoring them at the wrists and ankles. Not cuffs, she corrected. Shackles.
Erotic moans carried through the club as the buyers imbibed and took part in one of the many orgies. Darkness hung over this place, shadowing it in bleakness. No one had a future here except the wealthy. Everyone else could only look forward to being used and discarded with the trash.
To her left a man three times her size sank into a bound woman who looked about her age. She couldn’t wait to leave behind this masked hellhole.
Dimitris had a perverse, sadistic taste in entertainment. Spotlights lit the occasional settee where collared and leashed submissives knelt giving fellatio to their owners as they drank from one another’s submissives.
Speaking of, where was their diabolical host?
A flick of citrine eyes met hers as she gazed out over the crowd.
“Coming at you from your five ‘o’clock, sweetness,” Roman warned through the comms in her ear.
“Just breathe and let him do the talking,” Sevastyan softly instructed. “I don’t know why we let you do this.”
“Because we want to find the black-haired girl alive and I decided to do this.” She quickly recalled the pictures and the information about the police chief’s missing daughter.
“We’ll talk about your stubbornness later. For now, focus.”
She felt the reassurance of Sevastyan’s gaze land on her and his steady energy reach for her from across the room. It helped keep her heart from pounding a hole through her chest as the darkness she sensed hanging over this place zeroed in on her.
Great.
She gripped her clutch, the sequined exterior catching the brilliant lights of the chandeliers and the attention of a few hungry-eyed men.
Displayed in the middle of the vast room was a large ice sculpture stretched across the center. She focused on that. In another setting maybe she could have even appreciated the frozen beauty.
