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But I’ve never dealt withslavesbefore. I never had a taste for it. My father did, but I’d seen enough glimpses of that nightmarish world to want to avoid it in general. He tried to loop Tolya intothe business, but my brother returned from that singular outing with a churning stomach and renewed hatred toward the man.
He never told me what he saw.
“You should have been there,” Raizo says with a wolfish grin. “She was magnificent! Drove the price higher than even I anticipated, and the condition of her face only helped the bidding?—”
“What condition?” I snap.What the fuck did he just say?
Raizo lifts a brow. “Didn’t you see her before you left? She took quite the beating from those detectives. Best part is, she gave in kind. I almost called off my men from teaching them a lesson because she did half the work for us.” He chuckles and slaps a counted stack of hundreds down on the desk. “I don’t know if I’m thrilled over her sale or pissed I missed out on breaking in such a treasure myself.”
I glance around the room with feigned disinterest, but the reality of what I’ve done slams into me with all the crushing power of a freight train. These women are here because of me. Here, in this room, watching a Yakuza crime lord count the profit of their sales to strangers who believe people like them hold the same value as livestock.
Each of these women are someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Someone’s friend. Maybe even someone’s mother, like Clara is.
At one point, each and every one of these slaves were sweet little girls with the hopeful promise of starlight lulling them to sleep. Just like Willow.
And I gave Raizo and his sick fucks the perfect venue to strip away their clothes, their humanity, and sell them into the kind of slavery there’s no escape from.
“Come, have a seat,” Raizo offers with a gesture of his hand to one of the lounge chairs nearby. “Stay a while. Don’t think I forgot you’re the one to thank for such a wonderful evening.”
Don’t fucking remind me.
He stares at the money in front of him. His own eyes are almost void of any emotion at all, save for a cold gleam of satisfaction. The woman at his feet keeps sobbing.
“Sadly, not all of our lots sold tonight.” He sighs and shrugs. “This one failed to perform during the meet-and-greet. Tried to run, too. Go on—get out of my sight. I’ll deal with you later.”
The woman’s sobs slow to hollow breathing as she struggles upright and totters away. It’s like whatever fight she might’ve had in her earlier is gone, beaten from her body until she became this glassy-eyed, strung-out shell slowly walking by me. She doesn’t even look at me, even though she has to move past my chair.
She’s not Clara.
But she’s a horrifying preview of what Clara will become.
… I fucked up.
I fucked up.
I fucked upbad.
38
CLARA
The Bearded Man hasn’t said a word to me the whole way to his car.
“Where are we going?” I ask it quietly enough so he might not hear me. I don’t know what sets this guy off, so I don’t peek at him. Best to look out the window and enjoy the sights of Vegas’ midnight before I never see it again.
“I still have some business to finish up before we head home.” He talks to me like I’m just another normal passenger in his car. “We’ll spend a few days in one of my properties just outside the city.”
I’m too scared to say anything in response. So far, aside from the ass-grab, he’s been a surprisingly perfect gentleman. He even held the car door open for me.
Maybe he’s one of those people who looks terrifying and is actually decent.
Wake the hell up, idiot. No one “decent” buys another human being.
“We need to go over ground rules,” he suddenly says. His voice is deep, but it doesn’t sound angry or threatening. Just calm, casual, like we’re talking about the weather. “First, while we are here in Vegas, you will not leave the premises. Everything you need to take care of yourself is already stocked, so I don’t want to hear any whining or begging.”
“Okay.”
“Try again.”
