“DID THEY THINK THAT we wouldn’t find them?” Mika asks as we watch the three men walking out of the coffee shop ahead of us, where we sit in his black SUV.
“Probably, the cock fucks,” I murmur.
My eyes are glued to the one and only Oswald Johnson, District Attorney, and second reigning piece of shit next to Agent Wilson, who ties with Quinn’s father. He’s talking on the phone, smiling as if he doesn’t have a care in the fucking world. He won’t be smiling for long, I know that much. I’m going to cut the smile off of his face.
“You look kind of scary right now,” Mika mutters.
“I should. I’m plotting how I’m going to torture Johnson,” I admit.
“Okay,” he shrugs.
“I want them all at the warehouse; but he’s a public figure, so we can’t get caught,” I say. “Kirill would have my ass if we did.”
“The three of them deserve it all,” Mika rumbles.
“They do, but I need more information first. I want to know exactly what they’re doing. I have an idea, but I don’t know exactly who their main client is. That’s what I want to know.”
Mika nods but doesn’t say anything. Once Johnson is in his car, Mika starts the SUV, and we follow him. I have Timofei and another solider on Wilson and Quinn’s father, Johan Parker. They’re ready to haul them to the warehouse as soon as an opportunity arises.
I think back to the conversation I had with Kirill just a few days ago at Pasha’s party. Agent Wilson has had quite a run as an FBI Agent who procures women for training and sale. Every time he runs across a woman who has no familial ties, no close friends, a loner of sorts, he sends her information to Oswald.
With Quinn’s father, it was a different situation. He approached Wilson in an attempt to get in the Witness Protection program. Wilson agreed to Witness Protection, but with different stipulations. Quinn for cash, instead of immunity for tattling on the Bratva. Of course, her fat fuck, piece-of-shit father agreed. Only, I slowed their plans when I grabbed her and brought her to Denver.
Wilson went to his son, a man who enjoys breaking women, and told him of the situation. They’d been taking women and training them. Quinn was just a job to Oswald. For her father, she was a way out of debt, and a way into making a lot of cash—since he and Wilson decided to go in together and go on the run. Wilson used his contacts in the FBI to disappear. Too bad for him that my contacts are better and I found them.
Time’s up for all three of these fucks.
“Timofei texted. They’re at the warehouse,” Mika murmurs.
I lift my chin to acknowledge that I heard him. Oswald’s time is officially up. We watch as he pulls into his garage and closes the door. The neighborhood is quiet, and I have no doubt that this is going to be too easy. Mika backs into his open driveway, and we both slide out of the SUV once he turns the ignition off.
“What’s the plan?” Mika murmurs.
“We knock on the door,” I shrug.
“And?” he asks with wide eyes.
“Oh, and I shove this in his neck,” I grin, taking out the needle that Doctor Sokoloff gave me a few hours ago.
Mika chuckles as he rings the bell, taking his gun out from the waistband of his pants. The door swings open and Oswald is there, a look of shock registering on his face.
I quickly reach up, shoving the uncapped needle in his neck and injecting him with whatever kind of sedation Doc Sokoloff gave me. He doesn’t say one word as we rush inside of his house, closing the door behind us. I watch him fall to the floor, and I almost laugh.
There’s a sound upstairs. It isn’t loud, but it’s there, and I look to Mika. He lifts his chin, and we cautiously climb up Johnson’s staircase, following the noise. It sounds like an animal whining.
When we arrive at the master bedroom’s entrance, my whole body goes solid. Mika makes a noise next to me, but my focus is on the slight little thing lying naked on the floor in the bedroom.
There is a long fall of black hair off to the side of her slim body—no, she’s beyond slim. She’s malnourished. I can see every single notch on her spine as my eyes scan her naked flesh. She’s bruised beyond anything that Quinn was. There’s blood on her back, from what appears to be a whip, and there’s blood between her legs as well.
“She needs medical attention,” Mika whispers, sounding as horrified as I feel.
“You get the piece of shit loaded up in the back of the car, and I’ll wrap her up and bring her along. I’ll call Sokoloff to meet us at the warehouse. He can decide what to do with her there,” I order.
“Yeah, boss,” Mika murmurs before he turns and jogs down the stairs toward Johnson’s body.
I wish the fucker was already dead, but I’m going to have fun extracting information from him.
I grab a sheet from the bed and wrap the poor girl up in it, carrying her like a child down the stairs. She makes a few noises, a few painful grunts, but otherwise doesn’t move or try to speak at all.
I walk through the garage and see that Mika is just finishing up loading Johnson’s body into the back. He nods, opening the back door to shield what I’m about to do to any nosey neighbors.
Once I slide the girl into the backseat, he closes the door, we climb into the front seat, and he shuts the garage door with the opener he swiped from Johnson’s car.
We leave the house—not a single fingerprint left behind. Johnson will be found; he’ll be found in a very public way, but he won’t be tied to us.
“Sokoloff,” he grunts into the phone after the third ring.
“Need you at the warehouse,” I announce. “Bring your supplies.”
I hang up without waiting for a response. He’ll be there. If he wants to live to see another day, he’ll fucking be there. The drive to the warehouse is silent.
Mika and I are both lost in our own thoughts. No doubt, he’s just as worried for this poor girl as I am. Except, I don’t see her black hair when I close my eyes and envision her. It’s not the black hair, it’s actually horribly dyed red, and it’s Quinn I see, bruised and beaten on the floor.
I’m going to tear that fucking piece of shit apart—piece—by—piece.
Mika pulls up to the warehouse, and I text Timofei to open the side rolling door so that he can back the SUV inside. Nobody should be around the warehouses, but that doesn’t mean that we should get lazy.
That’s when mistakes happen. When someone actually does come around, when nobody is supposed to be there, that’s when people go down. I have a wife, I’m a Pakhan now, and someday I hope to become a father—so there’s no way in fuck I’m going to go down over these three assholes.
“Welcome to the party,” Timfoei calls out as the rolling door closes.
“Sokoloff will be here; keep an eye out,” I say, calling out to one of the men. He lifts his chin and walks over to the door, stepping outside.
“Mika, get that piece of shit out of the back and tie him to a chair like his little friends,” I order as anger courses through my body.
I watch as Mika unloads Johnson and then plops his ass down in a chair before one of the other men ties him up. Ankles to legs of the chair, and wrists tied to the back of the chair.
The door opens and Sokoloff walks in, his face etched with concern. I motion for him to come to me and open the backdoor of the SUV.
“She’s beat up, malnourished, and bleeding in several different places, including lash marks on her back,” I murmur.
“She’s breathing?” he asks.
“She is,” I confirm.
“I’ll take her with me to my home. I’ll be able to better care for her there, and without having to explain anything,” he mutters.
“You need a man with you?”
“Nyet. My son and daughter are at home. They will help,” he says with a nod. “Oh, how is your Quinn?”
“She’s good. No bruises, and gaining weight every day. We married just a few weeks ago,” I smile.
“I heard. Congratulations, Pakhan. If she’d like to continue on with her birth control, she needs to see me,” he murmurs quietly.
“She doesn’t,” I state.
“Ziven, she’s been through a lot,” he says with worry in his eyes.
“I’m her husband. It’s not your concern.”
“Yes, boss,” he grinds out before turning to gently take the girl from the car.
She lets out a long pained moan, and he shakes his head, his eyes swimming with sadness.
“Thanks, Doc,” I say, lifting my chin.
“Not something I say that I like doing, but I’m glad to help her out of this mess,” he whispers before he turns and walks away from me.
“Now, let’s get down to business.”
There’s a knock on the condo door, and I’m a bit surprised. I’m alone today, and Ziven asked me not to leave the building, so I’m heeding his advice. Not that it’s difficult, I still don’t want to go outside, and definitely not alone, probably ever.
I look through the peephole to see Kristy standing on the other side, a smile on her face. I open the door, returning her smile, and let her inside.
“It’s been forever, and I need to touch up your hair, plus you got married. I want to hear—everything,” she rattles as she walks through the front door, rolling her suitcase behind her. I close it and flip the lock.
“I do need a touch-up. I was planning on calling you. I’m sorry I had to cancel my appointment,” I say.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I’m here now. Let’s get down to business,” she grins.
I walk into the master bathroom as she follows me, and I tell her all about my past couple of weeks while she touches up my roots. My hair isn’t growing in quite as light as it used to, which Kristy informs me is probably because I haven’t seen the sunshine in weeks.
“How are you doing? The last time, it was awful,” she whispers while we wait for the dye to work its magic.
“I was a mess, but I’m so much better. I’m so happy now,” I say, biting my bottom lip.
“Good, I’m glad. Kids?” she asks, raising a brow.
“I don’t know. One day,” I shrug.
Once my hair is washed, trimmed, dried and styled, Kristy and I make our way to the sofa to talk. It’s nice, talking with someone and just being relaxed.
It feels like a few days ago, when we were at Yakov and Ashley’s, eating dinner and just talking. It was lovely, and not only because I was able to hold and cuddle baby Yurik the whole time. He was an absolute doll, so sweet and calm. He definitely has the temperament of his mother.
Kristy is oohing and awing over my ring when there’s another knock on the door. I jump slightly, and with shaky legs, I walk over to the door. I can honestly say that I have no idea who is on the other side. A woman with dark hair and green eyes stares back at me. I probably shouldn’t answer the door, but I do.
“Can I help you?” I ask as I open it, only slightly.
“So you’re why I haven’t heard from him?” she asks, arching a brow.
“Excuse me?”
“Ziven. You’re the reason I haven’t heard from him lately. I was in the building with another client, and I thought I’d check up on him, see why he hadn’t called me,” she explains.
She’s pretty—long, dark hair, perfectly shaped body, and long, lean legs. She’s dressed in a short, club style, skimpy dress with a thick coat draped over her arm, and extremely high heels on her feet.
“This is his wife, Quinn,” Kristy announces from behind me as she opens the door a bit wider.
“Wife?” the girl breathes as she looks me up and down. “Well—not that he’ll remember my name, but tell him I stopped by anyway,” she grins, looking back at Kristy. She then looks at me and smiles even wider.
Kristy pushes me back slightly and slams the door in her face. I hear her laughing from the other side, and then it’s silent.
“Who was that?” I ask on a whisper.
“You don’t want to know,” she grinds out.
“Kristy,” I practically beg.
Kristy walks over to the sofa and sits down. I have no choice but to follow her. She inhales deeply before she lets out the breath and then she turns to me, a look of pity swimming in her eyes.
“That was a call girl,” she says. I nod.
“A call girl,” I repeat, letting the words sink in.
“A hooker.”
“A… hooker,” I repeat, widening my eyes. “She knew his name and where he lived,” I say, stating the obvious.
“She did,” Kristy agrees.
“There’s only one way for her to have known that information,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
“It was probably weeks ago. She said herself she hadn’t heard from him in a while,” Kristy says, taking my hand in hers and gently squeezing it to comfort me.
“It’s fine, it is. The past is the past,” I say, plastering on a big fake as hell smile.
“Okay,” Kristy whispers.
She doesn’t stay much longer, maybe another thirty minutes, and I have a feeling that it’s only to make sure I’m not going to go insane, or cry, or break something.
When she leaves, I sit on the sofa for a while. I look out of the big sliding glass windows, for I don’t know how long, before realizing that it’s dark. I’ve been sitting, staring at the wall, and I’m shocked to find that its well past midnight.
I don’t know where Ziven is, and for the first night since I’ve been home, I go to bed alone. I’m glad for it.
I don’t think that Ziven cheated on me. He loves me, and I’m secure in that love; but this was a surprise. Finding out that my husband used a prostitute while I was gone, something he never once shared with me, it’s a shock.
I can’t be angry with him about it. Not when I left him to be with another man.
Not when I came back to him battered and bruised.
Not when he took me back and loved me, when he didn’t have to.
I close my eyes and decide immediately that there’s no reason to be surprised, no reason to be upset, or even hurt about it.
Not when I hurt him tenfold.