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The old bastard was a fucking psycho, but there were a few select lessons I’m grateful for. That being one of them.
Kris may be my brother, but if he’s starting to crack, he'll get the same treatment as everyone else. Cutting loose the weak links is the only way I’ve managed to maintain this place, and even family ties won’t fuck that up now.
Placing my cell on the table, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Hannah will be here soon, and until then, a moment of rest sounds perfect.
* * *
“How many more?”I ask through bleary eyes. I slept maybe three hours last night, and that was before the incident. Dogs will forever and always get under my skin, and the sight of the mother and son torn to pieces haunted my mind all night. Now that it's almost dinnertime, I feel myself fading quickly.
“Seven or so,” Hannah replies, quickly counting the folders in front of her.
“Okay,” I say through a yawn. “Let’s just get this done. Pass me another.”
She hands me a folder, and I flip it open, leaning my chin against my hand as I read.
Stacey Woods
Age: 36
Morality: innocent
Occupation: data analyst
City: Los Angeles
I look through the file,noting the ex-husband who put out the call for poor Stacey. Sucks to be her. If she had money, I may have contacted her with a counteroffer and grabbed her ex instead. As it stands, the hundred thousand dollars for her is not a sum any single-mom, data analyst would be able to come up with.
I don’t hesitate to stampApprovedon the file then toss it along with the others for Kris and his team to acquire.
“Are you okay?” Hannah asks. I blink before looking up at her, my eyes burning with fatigue.
“What do you mean?”
“You seem a bit off today. Anything I can do?”
I give her a small but grateful smile. “Just exhausted after last night,” I tell her, and she nods, turning back to her pages. I watch her a moment longer before grabbing another folder.
Almost done.
Then it’s time to drug myself enough so I can actually sleep.
Name Fenty Bottega
Age 41
Morality: not innocent
Occupation: sex worker/dancer
City: Rio de Janeiro
Chapter 9
Ginger
“Doyou think we’ll ever get out of here?” I ask, my voice shaking as Dmitri prepares the strips of cloth. Steam rises off the fabric, and I hiss through my teeth when he places them on my back.
“Sshh, hold still,” he scolds, ignoring my question completely. I do as I’m told and keep still, even though my back stings where he places the bands. At least these are welts and not cuts. The cuts take much longer to heal, though the welts tend to hurt for just as long anyway.
