Page 14 of Saint's Preciosa
"Very important clients tonight,” he says without preamble, his Russian accent thicker when he's excited or angry. “You wear this." He tosses a garment bag onto the desk.
I don't move to open it. "Mr. Popov, I don’t?—"
"Not asking." His smile disappears like a mask being ripped away. "Telling. You wear dress and work party or you lose job."
I wring my hands, torn between desperation and fear. I need this job.
He moves closer, backing me against the wall, invading my space until I can smell the vodka on his breath, see the yellow stains on his teeth. "I have been patient with you, Luna. Too patient. Other girls, they do what told. You? Always excuses."
His meaty hand reaches out, fingers gripping my chin so hard I know there will be bruises. "I know about you. No papers, no legal status. One phone call, ICE come take you, take sick grandmother. She die in detention, you think? Many do."
Terror washes through me, cold and paralyzing. My throat closes up and my vision narrows to pinpoints.
"Please," I whisper, hating how weak I sound. “I’ll do it.”
He releases my chin, his hand sliding down to rest heavily on my shoulder. “Good. Wear dress. Smile pretty. Do what clients want." His fingers dig into my flesh, punctuating each demand.
His smile returns, uglier now. “Be friendly. Very friendly.” Popov's eyes travel down my body in a way that makes me feel violated without being touched. "You special package. You virgin? Extra money for virgin."
The room spins, bile rising in my throat. The walls seem to close in, and I have to lock my knees to keep from collapsing. “No. I won't do that. I can't."
His hand moves lightning-fast, cracking across my cheek with enough force to make me stumble back against the wall. "You do what customers want or I call immigration,” he shouts, all pretense of civility gone.
Pain blooms across my face, and I taste blood where my teeth have cut the inside of my cheek. My ears ring from the blow as he grabs the garment bag and shoves it into my arms. "Take. Wear."
On shaky legs, I make my way out of his office, clutching the bag to my chest. In the employees' bathroom, I lock myself in a stall and slide to the floor, the full weight of my situation crashing down on me.
I don’t know if I can do what he's asking. But if I refuse, Abuela and I will be reported, separated, detained, possibly deported. If I run, where would we go? With an eviction notice on our door and Abuela too sick to move?
With trembling fingers, I unzip the garment bag, already knowing what I'll find. The "dress" inside is barely more than lingerie—red, sheer in all the wrong places, with a neckline that plunges to the navel and a hemline that would barely cover what needs covering.
I refuse to let the tears burning my eyes fall. I need to find a way out of this nightmare. But I have no idea how.
Chapter6
Saint
Cipher's fingers dance across the keyboard, hacking into the security system of the Golden Touch Day Spa with the same ease other men might tie their shoes.
"We're in," he announces, giving me a curt nod. "I've got control of their cameras and security protocols. The team can move whenever they're ready."
I check my watch—ten minutes until the raid. My body hums with the familiar pre-operation tension, muscles coiled tight, mind laser-focused. Though not as focused as it should be. Every few minutes, unbidden, Luna's face appears in my thoughts—those dark eyes, that shy smile, the softness of her lips beneath mine.
I shake my head, forcing myself back to the mission. Tonight is about wielding a massive blow to Kovalev and his trafficking operation. We've been tracking this Russian piece of shit for months, watching as he expanded from loan sharking into moving girls across state lines. We now know without a doubt that The Golden Touch is a processing center where women are broken, photographed, and prepared for "distribution."
The thought makes bile rise in my throat. I've seen a lot of ugly shit in my time, done plenty myself, but trafficking has always been a line the Shadow Reapers refuse to cross—an industry we refuse to condone. And this piece of shit thinks he can sneak into our own territory right under our noses. Naw. We're going to send Kovalev a message he won't forget.
"Team’s in position," Cipher reports, speaking into his headset. "Ghost, you're clear to move on your mark."
Through my earpiece, I hear Ghost's measured voice. "Copy that. Moving in sixty seconds."
The radio crackles with confirmation from each team—Blade leading Alpha team at the front entrance, Hawk with Bravo at the rear. My knife handle warms beneath my restless fingers as I wish I was out there instead of stuck here on comms, but Ghost insisted he needed his Sergeant at Arms coordinating from central command tonight.
"Teams moving," Cipher narrates as the monitors show black-clad figures converging on the building. "Alpha breach successful. Bravo in position."
I watch as our brothers flow into the spa like a well-oiled machine. This isn't our first rodeo, and we've drilled the operation a dozen times. Get in, secure the targets, extract the girls, plant the charges, get out. Clean and quick. Send Kovalev a message that Wraithport isn't his for the taking.
"Front desk secured," Blade's voice reports. "Moving to back offices."
