Talk to me,” Renzo whispered into the ear piece.

Fucked up that he’d worked so hard on this auction thing and he was out of commission, trapped on a goddamn couch and listening to it all go down over an ear piece.

“Lots of familiar faces in here.” Seraphina’s voice came through low and muffled in his ear. “Everybody’s just waiting for the festivities to start.”

He wished the video she was recording was live so he’d be able to watch it all unfold in real time. A loud murmur rose over the audio feed and he tensed. “What’s that?”

“Sounds like the man of the hour is about to walk—” She chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned. You were right, Vega. It is Groves.”

Renzo settled back against the pillows with a heavy sigh. Having the confirmation didn’t make him feel any better. Timothy’s father had owned the club before Renzo bought it out from under him. Back then it had been named club Bliss, and Renzo hadn’t bought it so much as he’d blackmailed the elder Groves into parting with the club he’d owned for more than ten years. The old man had a gambling problem that ate into the club’s profits. He couldn’t pay his debts and bill collectors had been circling.

Renzo made him an offer. The man took it. His son, on the other hand, blamed Renzo for his father’s downfall, something Renzo had nothing to do with. When the old man offed himself a year later, the son blamed Renzo for that too.

He didn’t know if he had a hand in the old man’s decision to take his own life. He also didn’t know how or when Timothy got into the business of selling off women, but Renzo didn’t care. That sonofabitch had to be stopped, and bullet wound or no, Renzo would be there to stop him.

“Tek,” he spoke into the ear piece. “Your people ready?”

“We are.”

Renzo waited because they needed something more than just Groves’ appearance. So he listened as Timothy greeted the crowd then began the bidding. Once the first woman had been officially handed over and money changed hands, Renzo gave the signal.

“Hit ’em,” he barked to his men. “Now.”

Seconds later chaos broke out. He couldn’t hear anything over the shouting and screaming. He picked up his phone and called Atta. “You’re ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

The victims would be held first at Atta’s place since no one knew about her connection to Renzo. They’d be cleaned, fed and debriefed before given their options. Some would have family and loved ones waiting for them. They’d have homes and lives and jobs to return to. Others wouldn’t be that lucky.

Renzo would give them options. Resources to start a new life, or a job working for him in one of his five clubs or at any of his numerous businesses spread out around the country. Restaurants. Bars. Gyms. No matter what they chose, those women would need more than just new clothes and new names. The psychological help they’d need, he would also do his best to provide. It was the least he could do.

It was also less than what had been offered to him when he’d been in that position.

“Update,” he barked. “Somebody tell me what the fuck is happening.”

“We’ve got most of them,” Tek answered calmly. “The women are safe.”

“Most?” He lurched upright. The pain in his shoulder yanked his breath away. Renzo closed his eyes and counted to ten, feeling Dax’s eyes on him. “Most?”

“Some were able to escape in the fray.” Tek’s tone was one big fucking shrug. “About a handful or so.”

Fuck. “At least tell me—”

“Groves got away.”

“Shit!” He tore off the ear piece and tossed it to the floor. “Fuck.”

“Hey, calm down.” Dax was at his side in a heartbeat with a glass of water, palm turned upward to reveal one single white pill. “You need to take this.”

“Not now.”

“Renzo, you need it,” Dax hissed. “You haven’t been sleeping.” He put down the water to cup Renzo’s face. “You’re dealing with a bullet wound. You need to heal.”

“He got away. Did you hear that shit?” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the ear piece. “That son of a fucking bitch got away.” Wouldn’t have happened if Renzo had been there.

“He got away, yeah, but you’ll find him.” Dax was like a parent placating a child. “You can’t do that if you’re not well.”

Renzo stared at him, at the worry in Dax’s eyes. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll take the antibiotic. Not the sleeping pill.”

“Damn it, Renzo—”

“Don’t push me,” Renzo said calmly. “I need to be there. I need to be at Atta’s place when the women come in.”

Dax’s jaw ticked. He got on his knees and wrapped a hand gingerly around Renzo’s neck, brushing his lips to Renzo’s temple. “You’re going to push yourself until you fall,” he said softly. “And I’m terrified that you won’t get back up.”

He patted his friend’s hand. “I’m stronger than I look, Dax. You know this.” But Dax didn’t look the least bit convinced, and honestly? Renzo didn’t feel all that strong, not right then. He’d been ambushed and shot, his club destroyed. Low walked away from him, likely for good. Now, he had to stay at home instead of being a part of the OP he’d put together. “Help me get dressed.”

* * *

What’s your choice?” Renzo asked the tiny dark-skinned woman with the busted lip and bruises on her upper arms. She was barely a woman. Twenty-one and grabbed from her college campus in Boston. She was the fifth one he’d spoken to so far and nearly all of their stories were the same.

She gazed at him with big brown eyes dulled with shock. At what she’d seen. What she’d experienced. He knew that emotion all too well.

“Amiya,” he spoke her name gently. Letting her know he saw her, giving her back the identity they stole when they labeled her ATL: 205. “Tell me what you choose, Amiya. And I’ll make it happen, I promise.”

“Tell him, honey.”

Atta sat next to him. He did this with her, her presence and attitude serving to help the women feel at home. Most of them froze up when they entered the room and saw him. Atta was his buffer, but she was also his partner in this. He couldn’t do it without her.

Amiya glanced from Renzo to Atta where her gaze stayed as she whispered brokenly, “My-my mom. I want—” Her chest started heaving before the tears came rolling down her cheeks in fat drops. “I want my mom.”

“Oh, my child.” Atta was the one to move toward her, the one to wrap her arms around the young lady and pat her back. Smooth her hair from her face.

Renzo looked away from the sight. These women were the lucky ones. The ones they found and rescued before the worst kind of faith stole them away forever. He hadn’t been that lucky. He hadn’t been rescued. He’d been stolen, sold and owned.

Never rescued.

So he spent his life rescuing. He was good at this. He didn’t sleep for shit, and his fucking nightmares made any kind of darkness unbearable. But he could do this. He’d gotten word that the task force would lose its funding and disband in a few months. Renzo wasn’t sure if he’d continue on as an agent, but he wasn’t giving any of this up. All the criminal activities he’d had to do to maintain his cover? That would continue.

All for the greater good.

“Renzo.”

He turned to find Atta by herself. “Where is she?”

“With Dr. Neil.” Atta’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look good, Renzo.”

He chuckled. “Thanks.”

“You should rest,” Atta said. “I have this.”

She did. He’d never doubt that. His head was throbbing. His injured shoulder was aching, every time he moved it felt as if someone was poking at his thigh with an ice pick. “Thank you, Atta.” He caught her hands in his. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, aye.” He imagined he could see her dark skin blushing. “Is me job, you know. You pay me to do it.”

He did, a ridiculous amount of money. But they both knew that wasn’t the reason she was waist deep in this shit with him.

“Thanks anyway.”

He made Dax take him home. Not to the safe house he’d been camped out at healing up, but the place he actually called home in North Druid Hills. He sent Dax back out to handle some issues Shay had with getting the club back up and running. His friend didn’t want to leave him, but in the end he left after suggesting Renzo get some rest.

How was he supposed to do that? He didn’t mind so much someone out there trying to kill him, but he’d at least like to know that person’s identity. Timothy Groves was out there still, fully capable of picking himself up and continuing his fucked up auctions in another city or state. While the women…

The women.

He saw himself in every pair of shell-shocked eyes. In the bruises. The way they flinched when making eye contact. He saw himself.

Wearing nothing but underwear and a bathrobe, he hobbled through the house, flipping on lights. He damn sure shouldn’t be moving. His wounded leg was stiff, shoulder, too, and both ached something fierce, but he welcomed the pain.

It kept his brain occupied.

12:22 at night, and he couldn’t sleep. He’d never be able to sleep, at least not without the pills. They were last resort. A flash of pain shot through his shoulder, making him sweat. His footsteps faltered and he grabbed on to the desk inside his home office before sinking into the brown leather chair.

So much lights, they blinded him. Too bright, but he couldn’t close his eyes. His vision swam. He was pushing himself, he knew that much. But sitting back and doing nothing would never be an option. Not where the women were concerned.

They triggered him every single time, but that didn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done. Most of them only had him. Those he rescued didn’t even make a dent in the larger scheme of things. But he had to try.

He didn’t even think they looked for him, his parents. At ten he didn’t know what was happening when the nice man held out a hand, urging him to take it. He did. And he was never the same. When he’d finally managed to free himself of the chains—physical and mental—that kept him immobile for years, he went in search of his family. They’d still been alive, his parents and younger sister. Still living in the Rocinha favela in Rio de Janiero’s South Zone. Standing outside in the pouring rain, staring at that shocking sight of his face plastered on decades-old missing posters, he’d cried.

The first time he’d shed a tear since escaping Monster.

He like to think they remained in that house in hopes their son would one day make his way home. Well, he did. But he was no longer their Mauricio. That was the reason why he didn’t walk up to the door. Didn’t knock. He didn’t fall into their arms and ask why. But he saw himself doing it.

He left and never returned. Instead he used his body one last time, collateral for a new name and a brand new life. Now he entrenched himself in the darkness he hated, the same darkness that left him shattered, in order to bring some light to those who needed it.

He’d promised to build himself a new family to take the place of the one he lost. Belonging. He wanted to know what that felt like when he was the one making the choice. How would it feel to wake up in the bed of someone you didn’t want to run from? After all these years, all the lovers he’d willingly shared his body with, he still didn’t know.

He suspected Lowell Scott could be the one to finally help him answer that question. If only he didn’t hate Renzo. The persona he’d cultivated so flawlessly now made it impossible to have Low. Renzo wanted him.

Desperately.

There was no way getting involved with Low wouldn’t wreak havoc on everything Renzo built. Despite having shared only one kiss, they were so intimately connected and Low had no clue. He blamed Renzo for his cousin’s death, as he should, but there were so many more things he could hate Renzo for. But how would that help him get and keep Low?

Because he’d be keeping that man. In Low’s presence, Renzo didn’t fear the shadows. Low’s touch only made him yearn for more and more. He couldn’t stop chasing that blaze even knowing they’d end up caught in an inferno.

Sleep tugged on his ear, whispering words he couldn’t understand. Words that haunted. He was so tired. He made himself move again, leaving his office and entering the piano room. He dropped onto the piano bench, eyes barely open as he stroked the keys.

Not music.

Noise.

Within these walls he regressed to scared, traumatized Mauricio Costa, begging for his mother and father, begging for a light inside the pitch black cell, bargaining for a flashlight, only to come up off his aching knees and be disappointed.

Twice Monster did that to him before he understood, he’d be getting no flashlight. But by then Monster had gotten his body, his screams and his tears. Took a while before the tears stopped. The screams, too.

Every time he spoke to the survivors of sex trafficking, the screams came back. The tears, too.

He pounded the piano until his fingers hurt. Until the sounds echoed through the house and his ears. When he could barely lift his head, Renzo picked up the pills Dax left for him and swallowed it dry. Then he made his way to the couch in the other room, body stiff and aching.

The memories played out behind his closed eyelids, they always did. But if the nightmares came, thankfully this time he wasn’t aware.